The corporate world is a fluid, amorphous place. The constant is that it is driven by youth, image, current demand and, worst of all, politics. More often than not, it seems, productivity is incidental.

What I would give to work in an office that placed drive, ability and adaptability at the top of its business model. Then again, when I was 8, I wished Christmas lasted a week.

I have never worked for Apple, Microsoft, Google or other such forward-thinking organizations, but from what I’ve heard and read, they seem to have turned the corporate model on its head with crystal results.

What I would give to work in an office that placed drive, ability and adaptability at the top of its business model. Then again, when I was 8, I wished Christmas lasted a week.

I held my last full-time job for just over 10 years. My motive to succeed was uncomplicated; I had a family and I wanted to provide for them. It didn’t hurt that I have a knack for learning, using and modifying all manner of software.

Over time, I developed communication skills. This distinguishes me from many tech savvy folks who might be more comfortable in a room full of servers rather than people.

As if these favorable conditions weren’t enough, I worked under management that appreciated my skill set. I flourished.

No office is free of politics. As hard as I worked to not get involved, when things deteriorated in my personal life, enemies I didn’t even know I had began to stockpile weapons against me.

Nine years of innovation, nearly peak performance, satisfied clients, pitching in whenever and however I was asked and stellar reviews evaporated over a single year of turmoil.

Growing up in the South Bronx has its benefits. I learned early how quickly loyalties and alliances can shift, although in the context of an office, this is less likely to result in death or imprisonment. The worst they could do was fire me.

They fired me. Over the telephone, even. I was driving at the time. I said “OK” and didn’t bother to pull over. I was overcome with relief.

They may have grown dissatisfied with me, but after thinking about it, I realized the feeling was mutual. Opportunities for me with them had dried up. I had become kind of a Donald Draper trapped in the mail room. My aspirations had long since outgrown anything my job could offer. The travails of divorce, my grandmother’s death, separation from my children and a number of related circumstances obscured that reality.

Yes, I was relieved that I didn’t have to go back to that cubicle, ultimately a cell without bars, and deal with the same office inanity for a single second more.

I took some time to recover from absolutely the worst year of my life. There were emotional ups and downs to be sure, but I have developed and continue to develop the coping skills to reconstruct my life. Family and friends tell me I’m doing well. My kids enjoy spending time with me. I can think of no greater compliments.

After my blog and book, finding work is a priority. I have distributed my resume and followed up on some referrals from friends. To that end, I went to meet a recruiter in Manhattan several days ago.

The subway is vital to getting around New York City. I’ve been a regular rider for most of my life. Suddenly, the grime and oppressiveness of the stations, cars and crowds were the first things to catch my attention. I couldn’t get out of the subway quickly enough.

The streets above ground seemed alien. Which way was west? Were the building numbers going up or down? The crowds!

I found the building. I knew the drill. I sat in the waiting room waiting to have the standard talk. The agency lady was pleasant enough. The opportunities she spoke of didn’t seem much like opportunities. It all sounded like more of what I had already escaped. I felt the nausea well up in the pit of my stomach. Only the thought of the children stalled the cold sweat that was sure to follow the nausea. I was there to resume my role of provider.

The introductory discussion ended and I was handed a 15-page application. Fif-teeeeen pages. By page 3, my hand stopped writing, my body stood up and my feet walked me right out the door.

Witness the death of an anonymous corporate drone…and the rebirth of a devoted dad, activist and writer.