He had left home this morning happy as ever.
Lunch with co-workers was inconsequential. He ravaged the memories from
previous days with no discoveries. He had never left a job involuntarily, so
the ego was badly bruised.
"Today will be your last day, and I shall escort you from the building." George said in a matter of fact tone.
An uneasy silence formed in the small office. Each waited for the other to speak.
"Do you have any questions?" George finally spoke with a quick glance at his watch.
"No." The response was less than poetic.
"This is never easy." George apologetically confessed.
Mike wondered who he was apologizing too, and how many times had he done this? The questions queued in his brain, but in the end nothing was said.
George remained by his side as he returned to his desk, collected his belongings (box provided), removed personal items from his computer, and exchanged farewells and glances with co-workers. Oddly, he had never felt any attachment with anyone in the office but he would miss them. Yes, familiarity breeds comfort.
His heart sank as the lobby door closed behind him. He stood on the curb shooting a final glance at George. A rude gesture or comment was briefly contemplated, but sanity reigned. They both knew it was not George's fault.
Nothing punctures a person’s pride as much a job loss. Personal identity and self-worth are derived from work. An unemployed man is especially disheartening.
He loosened and removed the tie, stuffing it in the box with one motion. Small talk was exchanged with the parking lot attendant as the car sat nearby. He said nothing when the attendant told him to have a nice weekend and the familiar "see you next week." He did want to see the old guy next week, he had always wondered if sitting in a parking structure while breathing car fumes shortened a man's life. On the other hand, the parking attendant had a job and title while he had nothing. The box was landing in the trunk with a loud thud. He slammed the trunk lid and rested on the bumper. Luckily it was all his – no more car payments.
Thoughts raced as he lowered his bulky, six-foot frame behind the wheel. He loved smaller cars, so the discomfort was okay. The thought of telling his wife filled him with dread. She was three months pregnant and planning an early maternity leave, so he would be (or would have) the sole breadwinner. His shoulders did not seem as broad as the day the decision was made.
He wondered what Ward from “Leave It To Beaver” would do. He smiled while thinking of a WWWD bumper sticker. Television husbands always had the answers. He wanted a script, but real world problems could not be solved within thirty minutes. He hated surprises.
The next wave to hit was panic; he had to get a job and now. The current job market was a mystery. It had been eight years since the last job search or interview. He had always proclaimed he had a career not a job, but the last hour had proved that wrong. The anxiety quickly rose. The shortness of breath was alarming. He pulled into the emergency lane along the highway and rested his head on the steering wheel.
It dawned on him that the last few minutes were a blur - he had no recollection of ever leaving the parking garage or getting on the freeway. It is strange how you can drive a familiar route in a daze, but it would be the last time along a familiar path. The freeway traffic race by as he glanced out the window. Every car seemed to have a purpose. They mocked him as he was suddenly an outcast.
Suddenly, his Rolodex entered his mind. He flung the door open and raced to the back of the car. Horns sounded as the thick traffic whizzed by. He rescued the Rolodex from the trunk and leaned against the trunk while flipping through the coffee stained cards. Everyone made fun of the old fashion system, but he fondly remembered receiving it from his niece upon college graduation. She was now nearing graduation herself. He didn’t think a Rolodex was a suitable gift for today’s graduate, a handheld gadget would be more appropriate.
The familiar cell phone ring interrupted the stroll down memory lane. He turned to retrieve from the front seat. The screeching of tires flung him in another direction just in time to see the red SUV barreling in his direction. His mouth and Rolodex dropped simultaneously with the oncoming car drowning out the cell phone.
Melissa’s body ached; she wondered why it was called morning sickness. She had heard pregnancy horror stories, but now she had her own. There was no answer, so she hung up. Odd, his boss said he had left early. She was anxious to relay the ultrasound results. He had always wanted a little girl – and twins!
Car lights shone brightly on the wall of the den, but they quickly faded. Her hopes followed each ray of light. She rested on the couch and habit made her reach for the remote. A quick scan of the channels returned her to the local news. The remote fell from her hand as she recognized the crumpled pile of metal on the screen.
"Today will be your last day, and I shall escort you from the building." George said in a matter of fact tone.
An uneasy silence formed in the small office. Each waited for the other to speak.
"Do you have any questions?" George finally spoke with a quick glance at his watch.
"No." The response was less than poetic.
"This is never easy." George apologetically confessed.
Mike wondered who he was apologizing too, and how many times had he done this? The questions queued in his brain, but in the end nothing was said.
George remained by his side as he returned to his desk, collected his belongings (box provided), removed personal items from his computer, and exchanged farewells and glances with co-workers. Oddly, he had never felt any attachment with anyone in the office but he would miss them. Yes, familiarity breeds comfort.
His heart sank as the lobby door closed behind him. He stood on the curb shooting a final glance at George. A rude gesture or comment was briefly contemplated, but sanity reigned. They both knew it was not George's fault.
Nothing punctures a person’s pride as much a job loss. Personal identity and self-worth are derived from work. An unemployed man is especially disheartening.
He loosened and removed the tie, stuffing it in the box with one motion. Small talk was exchanged with the parking lot attendant as the car sat nearby. He said nothing when the attendant told him to have a nice weekend and the familiar "see you next week." He did want to see the old guy next week, he had always wondered if sitting in a parking structure while breathing car fumes shortened a man's life. On the other hand, the parking attendant had a job and title while he had nothing. The box was landing in the trunk with a loud thud. He slammed the trunk lid and rested on the bumper. Luckily it was all his – no more car payments.
Thoughts raced as he lowered his bulky, six-foot frame behind the wheel. He loved smaller cars, so the discomfort was okay. The thought of telling his wife filled him with dread. She was three months pregnant and planning an early maternity leave, so he would be (or would have) the sole breadwinner. His shoulders did not seem as broad as the day the decision was made.
He wondered what Ward from “Leave It To Beaver” would do. He smiled while thinking of a WWWD bumper sticker. Television husbands always had the answers. He wanted a script, but real world problems could not be solved within thirty minutes. He hated surprises.
The next wave to hit was panic; he had to get a job and now. The current job market was a mystery. It had been eight years since the last job search or interview. He had always proclaimed he had a career not a job, but the last hour had proved that wrong. The anxiety quickly rose. The shortness of breath was alarming. He pulled into the emergency lane along the highway and rested his head on the steering wheel.
It dawned on him that the last few minutes were a blur - he had no recollection of ever leaving the parking garage or getting on the freeway. It is strange how you can drive a familiar route in a daze, but it would be the last time along a familiar path. The freeway traffic race by as he glanced out the window. Every car seemed to have a purpose. They mocked him as he was suddenly an outcast.
Suddenly, his Rolodex entered his mind. He flung the door open and raced to the back of the car. Horns sounded as the thick traffic whizzed by. He rescued the Rolodex from the trunk and leaned against the trunk while flipping through the coffee stained cards. Everyone made fun of the old fashion system, but he fondly remembered receiving it from his niece upon college graduation. She was now nearing graduation herself. He didn’t think a Rolodex was a suitable gift for today’s graduate, a handheld gadget would be more appropriate.
The familiar cell phone ring interrupted the stroll down memory lane. He turned to retrieve from the front seat. The screeching of tires flung him in another direction just in time to see the red SUV barreling in his direction. His mouth and Rolodex dropped simultaneously with the oncoming car drowning out the cell phone.
Melissa’s body ached; she wondered why it was called morning sickness. She had heard pregnancy horror stories, but now she had her own. There was no answer, so she hung up. Odd, his boss said he had left early. She was anxious to relay the ultrasound results. He had always wanted a little girl – and twins!
Car lights shone brightly on the wall of the den, but they quickly faded. Her hopes followed each ray of light. She rested on the couch and habit made her reach for the remote. A quick scan of the channels returned her to the local news. The remote fell from her hand as she recognized the crumpled pile of metal on the screen.
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