It looks like I’ll reach the end of the year and still be employed at the young start-up that I joined in August, which is more than I expected when I quit my cushy corporate job. I’m learning a lot, making more money, and enjoying myriad responsibilities, yet I have found that the primitive start-up environment is a bad influence on my character.
Loud, unrestrained spewing of vile expletives is acceptable in the office. To rebuke a swearer by asking “Is vulgarity your only condolement for anger?” would not be befitting of the laid-back spirit that draws so many corporate refugees to start-ups in the first place.
One day, a co-worker was dropping the F bomb so frequently that finally his boss said something: “Cut it out, or someone who’s walking by might think it’s the name of the company.”
I’ve always been the highly-suggestible type, so I’ve developed quite a potty mouth as a result. “You shitting me?” I said at dinner tonight to a startled Mr. Pinault. (Incidentally, he has also picked up slang from his company, as evident from his inordinate use of the word “sucker.” “Let’s finish this sucker,” he likes to say, his French accent smoothing the hard “ck” into something docile.)
My job is also affecting what goes into my mouth. The company Christmas party was last week. With an eye on the budget, they could choose between a sit-down dinner at a fine restaurant, or hors devours with a three-hour open bar. They choose the open bar. With little more than shrimp and carrot sticks to soak up endless glasses of wine and some concoction called Pink Cement, I still managed to be the most sober mothereffer in the room.
