A tiny blip in the continuum

The draughting tables were gone, replaced with digital desktops. Every one had been made part of the march into the digital revolution, either voluntarily or by force. The conversion had not entirely painless; while the younger staff – having a natural affinity with computing – adopted these tools quickly, some of the old-timers struggled.

I took to computing like a fish to water, and found myself distracted with interactive media authoring and digital graphics creation. In my free time, I explored and absorbed, and applied whatever I was learning to the work, creating new looks and trying new techniques.

In a repeat of history, those new directions garnered the attention from the top. Perhaps these middle-aged folks saw in me what they used to possess and found my thirst of reinvention infectious. Whatever I was doing was refreshing to them, it seemed.

But the youth in me wanted more. Or wanted different, perhaps. I had pursued architecture at my parents' urging, when I had the chance and could have gone to film school instead. It was also partly about the money; I had done all that whilst on a draughtperson's salary, a figure which barely scraped past the executive level, but to which I had agreed to because I needed to break in then. But now I deserved more.

More so, in the course of the year, I felt that there were only so many ways I could try and marry what I would love to do with what was required of me, which was to present the body of work of the company within certain corporate boundaries. Red tape. We were too straight-laced. We did not dare.

And I longed for a changing of the guards.

One Friday evening, just before knock-off time, I went into the director's office and handled him my resignation letter. He was very shocked. I stressed that I felt I had nothing more to explore, and more importantly, that I wanted a career change.

"Has someone else made you an offer?" he asked.

"No." Indeed. I made the decision to resign. Simply. Because.

The director tapped the folded letter on the glass desktop and frowned; it was a familiar gesture of his.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't get this letter," he said as he slid the letter across. "I have a meeting to attend. We'll talk on Monday."

I returned to my desk and stayed for a while to clear some work. Occasionally I glanced at the rejected envelope, and wondered why the heck it was still with me. At 7:30pm, the secretary summoned me to her boss's room. The director was waiting.

Even before I could sit, he said: "I had an emergency meeting with the other directors earlier, after our talk, and we have decided to make you an offer."

I looked at him, but did not say anything. He began with an almost perfunctory speech about how the company valued employees of contribution. Then the speech grew personal.

"I took a chance with you when you first came here," he said. "And I'm glad I made the right choice. The talents you have will take you a long way. I understand the frustrations you are facing."

"I want to try new things," I said. "I want to do because I want to, not because I have to. I have to love what I do."

"You wanted more challenges," he said. "Now I'll give you an offer you cannot refuse. You will be solely responsible to dream up of new ways to revamp the company's entire media communication, be it publications, the website, or whatever."

My interest piqued immediately.

"Also," he continued. "I brought this up to the directors, and they agreed unanimously: we're offering you $2,500 if you stay."

A beat. Then I nodded, and said: "I'll think about it over the weekend."

The director slumped his shoulders and threw me an exasperated look.

"Think about what?!" he asked, incredulous. "I'm offering you what I would give to a fresh graduate! That is a 56-percent increment!"

His tone and look was morbidly funny. The director was someone I had worked with for a year, and we have formed a comfortable working relationship, one without a trace of superior-subordinate protocol. Right then, he was not my superior; he was a fellow colleague.

I laughed. So did he.

"You know you don't have to consider," he said. "You wanted to change the system. Now is your chance."

I drew a deep breath, and nodded absently.

"You do realize that never in the history of this company has such an salary offer been made."

I was lifted off the graphics team and given autonomy. I reported to the company directors and no one else in between. For a 23-year-old who had just embarked on his career proper, it was liberating, and the year that followed was an exhilarating one.

Because I had my voice heard. Because people sat up and listened, and made me important.