Nationwide, our company laid off at least 300 full-time employees Thursday.

I was not among them. But trauma such as this hits with bomb-like effect, impacting those at its center most dramatically, then pulsing outward to touch everyone within its radius.

I didn't even particularly like Julie. Most days, I felt her face could have served as a vivid illustration for the word 'sourpuss.' She spoke to me according to her mood and traveled in a very tight circle, one that through glances and silence suggested its members had reached conclusions about each employee, and that I was not among the favored few. I wasn't in the office consistently enough to care about that.

But on the more-important professional level, Julie also fell short for me. Our boss repeatedly suggested I travel with her on a ride-along to witness her role in the company so that I could better promote it as a service to our members. Julie always said OK. Julie never found time or space for me in her car. Lacking a clear understanding of what she did, I avoided talking about that feature of our plan. This to me represented a serious gaffe on Julie's part.

But Julie also had a quick mind, a hearty laugh and a casual, tomboy style. I suspect that once the crusty surface broke, she was fairly good company.

This week, our company cut the service and all those who provided it.

I'll never know for sure whether I was right or wrong about any of those things about Julie.

Thursday, it didn't matter.

Julie stood in the hallway when the rest of us emerged from a required all-staff meeting during which we'd repeatedly heard words and phrases like "streamlining," "efficiency," "opportunity," and "changing with the times." Faces typically lit with smiles were tight with fear. Since the receipt two weeks ago of an ominously worded e-mail that stated our Fortune 50 company was "not performing well," rumors had raged. I'd felt ridiculously safe and warm; my boss had reminded me we were "pretty tight already," and said that my position was safe. Belatedly, I realized she'd surely told everyone else the same.

I realized, too, this was not just a meeting, but a carefully planned and executed production.

Our local president, a nattily attired, graying-at-the-temples 40-year-old possessed of an eerily unwavering calm and a flawless command of the corporate American language, (a co-worker and I speculated he made love with the same precision and lack of imagination, perhaps even donning white gloves for the required act), spoke from notes neatly typed on a small sheaf of papers. Ten or 12 lines among the many on each page were highlighted yellow. With never an 'um' or other sign of human imperfection, he read from the sheets, looking up regularly to meet and hold every employee's gaze.
The performance was smooth, appropriately void of emotion and overall impressive. Had the venue been different, I'd have been moved to applause.

Earlier in the day, in a smaller meeting, an employee had stated her opinion about the pending changes. "I agree," he said, then gave a rare smile, this one slightly embarrassed. "I'm off script," he apologized, then went on, "I hear what you're saying."

He was good. And I stood in constant awe of the fact that the man was not just my age, but four years younger. How had he become what he was? How could we possibly have lived in the same world all these years? While I was puking in the bushes in the 2 a.m. darkness of a Wisconsin campus university, his surely was the study light shining in the figurative dorm seven states and an Ivy League beyond me. The family photos in his office were black-and-whites of young girls in elegant dresses loosely clasping flower bouquets. My most recent favorite Robby photo depicted him, mouth open and hair askew, hanging upside down from a swing at the park. And why was I, at the heart of it, so incredibly uninterested in Bror's life?

But this is the stuff of another blog. I digress.

Suffice to say the meeting was tough and surreal.

While I said I was not among those laid off, that was only partially true. A co-worker and I were instead transferred to another department, added to another payroll, handed a new job description and a pay increase. I heard news of the salary bump with tinged joy. Based on the job description and the brief welcome-aboard from our new boss -- "Expectations will be quite high" -- I do not know how long I will be able to hold onto this fatter check.

The worst news of all Thursday was that the woman -- the single best role model of my life -- is leaving the company. This, too, is the stuff of another blog.

The shock and surprise of the morning, the break to that long-held tension, all spun like a tomahawk into Julie. She was not just a woman who'd lost a job, she was the visible symbol of all those emotions.

I walked out of the meeting room behind a wave of other people and found myself in a line.

I heard sobs, muffled words, the sounds of bodies meeting in a firm hug. I saw Julie at the front of the line. Three people stood around her, faces somber, words soft. One by one, the employees in line merged into this small gathering, enfolding Julie in a hug.

Julie had never bothered much with makeup or her appearance in general. But now her face was raw. Red, blotchy, nose running, tears shining in the lines beneath her eyes. Her mouth was open in a struggle to breath. Julie was, at that moment, misery defined. Unapologetic, vulnerable, naked misery.

No one could see that much pain and be unaffected.

I stepped out of line because I could not move closer. The intensity of her emotion was a wall of fire. Its heat drove me back.

"Are you OK?" someone asked me.

The question took me by surprise. I was economically safe. My new position had almost nothing to do with the service we'd lost. I didn't even know Julie well. And my boss, who had accepted a job with our competitor, seemed happy about the impending change.

But my face must have said something different. I looked at the co-worker who'd queried me and saw that her face didn't look right either. In fact, everyone's expression appeared slightly twisted.

Eventually, I moved close enough to give Julie an awkward hug and to tell her I knew she would land on her feet. The words sounded trite the moment I said them, but they were genuine. A statement more than an opinion.

These moments aside, Julie was of strong stock, with vast knowledge in a specialized field.

And while I had never much admired her before, I did so fiercely Thursday. Because while everyone else who played out that morning's events gave flawless, politically correct performances, Julie broke the mold. Julie reacted genuinely, with an emotional abandon rarely seen in the corporate world. Julie, in short, was human.