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Why I Quit My 6-Figure Job I went broke and found mental, marital, and financial stability By: Steve Belanger
What happened?" My accountant asked last April. He'd been doing my taxes for more than a decade and had seen my annual income rise well into the six figures. "It looks like you took a . . . "--he worked over his calculator--"98 percent pay cut." "Yep, that sounds about right." "How did this happen?" It was quite simple, actually. I went into my boss's office one day and quit. No severance. No other job. No interest in a counteroffer. I simply walked away. At age 38, I'd decided to become an actor. I must admit, my life had been pretty comfortable. I was a vice president--one of hundreds, but still--at one of the largest corporations in the world. There was a lot of room for advancement. I had a nice office, an enormous expense account, and plenty of perks. I played more free golf on the country's top courses than my 19 handicap deserved. And I don't need to tell you how tough it is to become an actor. There are just shy of a gazillion actors in America trying out for seven roles. I know because they all cram into small, windowless waiting rooms every time I go out for an audition. And screen-writing, my backup dream, is even harder to break into. Walk into any Starbucks in New York or L.A. and ask for a script, and you'll have baristas coming at you as if you're an unclaimed acre in Sooner territory. So why would I, by all accounts a reasonably intelligent person, take such a huge risk? I wasn't happy. Never had been, really. After I graduated college, I dreamed of writing for a magazine. I found a job at a small publishing company, but as a financial analyst. I didn't really have a numbers background, but at a time when computers were just starting to take over the workplace, my ability to drive around an Excel document served me well. My path was chosen. I bought a couple of suits and settled into a comfy chair. Maybe I'd never be happy, but I'd be wealthy. I was okay with that. The next 16 years were a blur. Raises, promotions, new titles, bigger cubicles, a real office, and more ass-kissing than I care to admit. In my late 20s and early 30s, I had plenty of distractions from my workaday horror. I married, bought a house, redid the basement--stuff grown-ups are supposed to do. Besides, didn't everybody hate his job? I figured I'd carry on until retirement. But as I reached my mid-30s, it was becoming harder to ignore the fact that I was becoming a real asshole. My wife, sadly, bore the brunt. Let me tell you about my wife. she truly loves me unconditionally, or pretends really well, and all that dorky stuff about soul mates seems to actually apply to our situation. It was my wife who encouraged me to pursue my dreams, mostly because she was sick of listening to me complain. About a year before I made The Decision, and at her prodding, I signed up for a class at one of New York City's many wannabe-actor farms, wherein people who didn't make it as actors teach other people how not to make it as actors. For me, acting was like crack. By the third class, I was hooked. Acting classes led to improv classes, which led to an open-mike night at a comedy club, which led to paying gigs as a stand-up comedian. An agent saw me and started sending me on auditions. About once a week, I'd grab my clipboard and calculator at the office and pretend I was off to an important meeting. At my destination, I'd leave my corporate trappings with the security guard in the lobby, take the head shot out of my back pocket, and head upstairs to the casting office. I went on more than 50 auditions that year, but booked only one role. I was cast in a Noggin commercial as a business executive (damn typecasting!). So I kept plugging away. Then, one day at work, something interesting happened. The higher powers decided to create a television show and pitch it to PBS and the BBC. I finagled myself onto the creative team and persuaded them to let me cohost the pilot. Finally, I thought, my 16-year enslavement was going to pay off. It wasn't to be. Both networks turned us down. But a BBC producer issued a report that eventually landed on my desk. The only thing she found positive about the show was the male cohost: I was apparently "very engaging" and "at ease on camera," and she could see me "moving on to bigger things." I invited her to lunch. After I explained my situation, she said, "Stephen"--the British are so proper--"why don't you quit your job?" "Ah, because that would be crazy." "Why?" "I can't. I need the money. I don't know. . . . " "Stephen, look at yourself. You're all hunched over. Your face is twisted into a bitter knot. You're miserable!" "Nice to meet you, too. . . . " This was going nowhere. She made me promise to think about it. That night in bed, my wife asked how lunch had gone. I told her about the producer's advice. She said, "Well, why don't you quit?" We turned on the lights and talked about it, real adultlike. The scariest part, for me, was that I didn't know how long it'd take. I knew we could survive for a few years with–out my salary, but set for life we weren't. My wife never wavered from her position--that I might actually be talented enough to make it. The next morning, she was still in favor of turning our lives upside down. I was even more terrified. I barely slept for the next 2 weeks. Which brings me to the final person responsible for The Decision: Warren Zevon. For those of you who are unfamiliar (shame on you!), Zevon was a successful musician in the mid-'70s, but his career was plagued by alcohol and drug abuse. In 2002, he was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. He decided to record one final album. The making of that album was captured in a VH1 documentary, which I watched one night to distract me from the most important decision of my life. Not long before Zevon died, he appeared on the Late Show with David Letterman. He was candid about his prognosis, and Letterman asked if he had any parting words. Zevon thought about it for a moment, then said, "Enjoy every sandwich." Those three words shook me. What better philosophy of life? That was the clincher. The next day, I quit my job. That was nearly 2 years ago. Am I a successful actor yet? Uh, not quite. But my Noggin commercial is still in heavy rotation, I've appeared in several short films, and last fall I landed a speaking role on NBC's Kidnapped (network prime time, baby). It was only one short scene for a series that's already been canceled, but it earned me membership in the Screen Actors Guild. Plus, I was paid for 3 days of work and was treated like royalty. I had my own trailer and a team of stylists. Each day at lunch, I'd gorge myself on prime rib and lobster. As I was leaving the set on my last day, I noticed Emmy-winning actress Dana Delany walking toward me. I smiled and gave her a nod--you know, actor to actor. She stared right through me. Maybe she didn't see me. Maybe she knew I was a relative beginner. Maybe she was mad that I ate all the lobster tails. Whatever. It didn't matter. For that brief moment, we were peers. Now, I'm back home, sitting at my desk, chugging coffee, and looking for work again. My quest continues, and, as with most adventures, the journey is riveting. I'm doing what I want to be doing, loving my life, and enjoying every sandwich. Men’s Health magazine March 2007 |
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