In my 20s, I moved from an entirely rural life to a large city. I hadn’t finished high school, but I had worked in art departments for several newspapers and had fairly good skills. I was hired into an art department because the owner liked my last name. My surname is that of a small northern city where the owner met and married his wife. There were five of us in that art department feeding work to a large printing department. Things were fine until we got a new art director.

He made jokes about my clothing, my hair, and my lack of style. He made Jewish jokes because one of us was Jewish. Her parents had both been in concentration camps and bore tattoos. The best artist was aloof, so he made brain teaser jokes about him. One guy had high anxiety, so the art director would increase the artists’s stress for the fun of it.

Later we all moved on. I worked for a publisher when the art director arrived for an interview for a responsible position. He was perfect for that job. I looked around at the multicultural makeup of my coworkers and made a decision.

I made an apointment with the owner and HR and told them about this guy. I recall holding my own hands because they were trembling during that conversation.

I was there at the end of the hall when that art director dropped by to see if they had made a decision. The company declined to hire him. He had to pass me to leave. After a moment he recognized me. I said nothing. ‘Fuck’ was all he said.

That was decades ago. It is still satisfying.