I have. Once. Unfortunately, I most certainly deserved it.
At the time I was playing with the workingest band I ever played with. We played somewhere every weekend night. I also had two part-time floral delivery driver jobs, one on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, the other on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. I worked two evening shifts a week in a restaurant, which I opened and managed during the day on Sundays. In a normal week, the band met for practice three weeknights. I was a busy lad.
So we got a week long gig, Friday through Thursday, in Victoria, which is about 125 miles from Houston. It wasn’t too hard to arrange subs on the restaurant schedule, and one other band member and I just decided we’d make the daily commute to work our day jobs.
After a week of playing until almost 2:00 AM and then driving back to Houston to show for work at 8:00, I was a little tired. That had been when we could just leave everything in place. The last night, though, we had to tear down and load equipment, settle up with the bar, etc. We wound up getting back to Houston with just time enough for me to proceed straight to my floral delivery job.
Man, was I beat! I loaded up my first delivery run, left the shop and stopped by my apartment. I was still wearing stage clothes, including knee-high leather boots that I didn’t want to suffer through an already sure to be miserable Houston summer day in.
I sat down in a chair and leaned over to take off one of my boots and…, suddenly it was 3:00 PM! Yikes! I jumped up and proceeded to haul ass through my deliveries. By the time I got back to the shop, Mack, the owner, who was already curious about my long absence, had begun receiving calls about the quality of cut flower arrangements that had spent the better part of a Houston summer day in a closed van.
Mack, who, as an aside, I’ll mention was rather flamingly gay, opened up on me with, “You lousy two-timing bitch!” It was over in seconds.
I felt bad about it. It was entirely my own fault, and I had let Mack down.
As a postscript, I’ll add that Mack asked me to come back to work for him several weeks later (I had no idea floral delivery drivers were hard to come by), which I did, and at last parting we were on good terms.
So, that’s my fuck-up - no downsizing, layoff, buyout - I just out and out screwed the pooch and got fired for it.