When You Want to Fire Someone (and that someone is you)

I’m not gonna lie: there are many times we here at BIVIO Milano have really dropped the ball. We work in the retail industry and our business model requires making a bazillion subjective decisions a day – on the spot – right in front of our customers (“Is this yes or a no? And if it’s a yes then for how much?”). Our software can be glitchy, we’re open 7 days a week, working with the public can be exhausting, blah blah, blah. I generally operate under the philosophy that humans are imperfect by design but that the alternative is worse. 

Since random or sporadic faff-ups don’t result in the losing of jobs, many of these incidents often become (once some time has passed and heads have cooled) – BIVIO Folklore, exhilarating anecdotes that get woven into to the Psychotic Mental Mishmash of our Company Culture. It’s what makes our workplace not only fun (at times), but, like, funny.

There was that time that someone didn’t lock one of the shops but just closed the door and went home all la-di-da on a Friday night so the next day when the cleaner arrived at 7am she found the door ajar and had a panic attack thinking there had been a break-in (there hadn’t). That was bad. Or the time when someone who should really know better gave a client hundreds of €€€ in cash for a Chanel necklace that was so fake even I could tell straight away. Or when an over-zealous (but not particularly au courant) staff member mistook a Famous Film Actor – who was browsing the racks in a baseball cap and sunglasses in the hopes of peaceful anonymity – for a thief and insisted he check his tote bag in one of our lockers. (The offended Film Star left in a huff and has never returned but thankfully did not leave a 1-star Google Review). Or when two people from my team literally fell asleep – like head-down-and-drooling-on-a-desk asleep – during the mandatory Fire Safety Class everyone is required to attend by law and the instructor sent me a scathing email about the unprofessionalism of my staff. Or when one of my employees drove the BIVIO company van into a streetcar. On Christmas eve. 

I mean, I could go on. 

As the Head Weirdo of an improbably expansive and varied team of loveable weirdos, I am a great believer in making any aggrieved customer feel heard, giving my staff the benefit of the doubt and then simply moving on with our lives. Sure, I mean, there might be a little sit-down with me and Marco and a voice has been known to be raised at times (ahem). But nobody’s perfect and if I went around firing people for every mistake they made I’m not sure I’d have anyone left on my team (and besides, Italy makes firing employees nearly impossible to do, but that’s the subject for another day – perhaps).

Last week, however, I was the architect of a Category 5 Dumpster Fire. This was not only mortifying, of course, but also inconvenient. Because when it’s the Big Boss who pours the gasoline AND lights the match there is – technically speaking –  nobody next in line with a water bucket. (But I suspect I may need to upgrade Marco’s iPhone very soon).

Here was the burning hot ember that set a blaze across multiple channels [email, then Slack, then WhatsApp, then phone, and then more phone and then more emails]  like they’d been fueled by the Santa Anna Winds. See if you can guess the punchline. 

Re: Re: R: Re: Re: Re: Private Individual Seeking an Appointment 

“Guys, if you don’t want to see this “Private Individual” anymore could u make it clear to him so he stops writing to “info” and asking for appointments? This is like the 12th email he’s sent and it’s SUPER ANNOYING and I don’t know how to explain to this “PRIVATE INDIVIDUAL” to make AN APPOINTMENT ONLINE? MAKE THESE EMAILS STOP I BEG U!

Of course you know the punchline here. We’ve all sent an email to multiple recipients in “reply to all”  and if your nervous system is operating correctly, it is usually followed by the 21st Century version of the “Fight or Flight” instinct telling you that someone was in “cc” who shouldn’t be. That’s literally what the “undo send” button was invented for. 

And yet, despite operating in a near constant state of Low-Grade Anxiety (among business owners it’s known as making a living), oddly enough, I didn’t even double check who was in copy before sending. Or after sending. I think I just went on to another task, which was making my kid an after school snack.

On the other end is Francesca, one of my store managers who is clearly uncomfortable with the task before her. 

“Uh…Boss?…I think maybe you didn’t check…”. My hand begins sweating so hard I have to wipe it on my skirt as I scan the Slack and WhatsApp and the sprinkling of laughing and crying emojis under every message.

“Oh. Ok. I see what I did,” I say, opening the Sent email and closing it again immediately as if it contained a virus. “And here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to…you need to…Just give me a minute. I’m sure I can figure this…”and then I just stop, mid-sentence, the loading icon of my brain spinning to no effect. After a long pause, I hear Francesca take a deep breath.

“…But, I, uh, shouldn’t write anything, right?” She asks, cautiously. “Like, to the client? Because, mmm, I was in cc. Along with… well, the whole staff of Corso Lodi…and like, the back office… And…him.”

“No no,” I answer. “This is not your mess to clean up. Just tell me one thing. How old is this man? He’s old, right? Like, did I just totally ruin the life of a nice old man?”

My daughter runs into the kitchen from her room, colored pens in hand.

“Mother!!! What??” I wave her quiet while pacing around the kitchen. 

“…BUT…” Francesca continues… “He’s not nice. At all. He never wants to deal with me even though I’m the Store Manager. He always asks to speak to un responsabile because… well, he’s that kind of man. He only respects Marco and we all know why.”

“Oooooh. So he’s an old misogynist widow?”

“Totally,” she says. “And arrogant. And his dead wife mainly had tube skirts and cardigans. We’d all be happy to never see him again. Which, at this point…it looks like you’ve accomplished?” And she giggles nervously.

I clear my throat. “So…uh…seeing as he likes Marco so much…do you think…?” I don’t even need to finish my thought.

“Yes,” answers Francesca. “…That’s probably for the best. It’s his day off though.” Pause. “Do you…I mean, should I call him?” she asks, again hoping for a two-letter answer.

“No. No, of course not. I will. Just… go on about your day. And uh…Tell everyone there I’m really sorry.”

I hang up, bend at the waist and put my hands over my head on the counter as if during an earthquake drill. My daughter is still standing there, eyes wide, pens in hand. I wasn’t even this upset when the company car got crashed on Christmas Eve so she’s wondering what in the world could be worse than that.

“Mother…? What happened?” She asks.

“Nothing much except I just sent the rudest email about a client and by mistake I SENT IT TO THE ACTUAL CLIENT. Like, he’s reading it now. Or maybe later tonight. And nobody can do a single thing about it.” I can feel my daughter absorbing this information.

“Oh…Jeez. That’s really bad. Do you like this client?”

I sigh. “No, nobody likes this client. But that’s not the point. I messed up big time. Like, in lots of companies, this is something someone could get fired for.”

I open the refrigerator, take an apple and some cheese and start making a snack. I try to regulate my breathing. My daughter sits down, considering the situation.

“So how does that work, exactly?”

“What, honey?”

“Like, who can fire the boss?” Diletta asks me questions about my job all the time, and they are usually super intelligent questions. She seems genuinely interested in BIVIO and since she knows all the characters and set locations I think she follows my job as if it were a Reality TV show.

“In this kind of company, nobody can,” I say. “In some companies the Boss isn’t the owner, but if the Boss and the Owner are the same person…then, nobody.”

“And so, if you can’t fire yourself…then what are you going to do?”

“Riiiight,” she says. “A maaaajor apology. But he’ll never come back, that’s for sure.”

“Nope,” I agree. “At least, we hope not. Nobody liked him anyway. He was disrespectful to Francesca.”

Then she breaks into a little smile sipping her water. “But…this is kind of funny, in a way…isn’t it? Sort of?”

I tell her that it isn’t yet. But sooner  – or probably  later – it would be.