Today was my last day at McGlothlin-Zilch. Yes, that's the real actual name of the company I've been employed by for the last eight years and four months. I no longer fear getting fired for identifying it, as I've already been kicked to the curb. The separation agreement I signed prohibits me from "disparaging or holding up to ridicule the name of the Company, its current and former officers, agents, and employees." Reporting that I was laid off does not violate that clause. (Also, I don't think making fun of the name "Zilch" is what they mean by "holding up to ridicule," but since I'm not a lawyer, I'll let you make up your own Zilch jokes and I'll leave that one alone. Though don't imagine for a minute that you'll hit on any my co-workers haven't already shared.)
And share they did this afternoon. All afternoon. We were walked out, one by one (there are only two security officers in our building and one had to man the front desk), starting at 10:30. Which would have been a long time already to sit around doing nothing if I had arrived at 8:30 like usual, but my boss (a true humanitarian, and I don't mean that in any sarcastic, severance-agreement-defying way) told us all to not bother coming in until 10:00.
So one-by-one the Unlucky 7 were debriefed in the most perfunctory and pointless of exit interviews (actual question: "Would you recommend McGlothlin-Zilch as an employer to a friend?") then relieved of our employee ID badges and marched to the front door. One-by-one we gathered in the Four Norsemen down the street. Sunil and Courtney got there first. I was third. The others trickled in as I nursed my ginger ale. I was the only non-drinker, which is why I never made a habit out of joining them on post-work outings. I do go to bars, but usually to see a band or for some other specific reason.
I know the handful of you who have read the book are probably going, wait a minute. What happened to the kid who was swiping beer out of his dad's garage stash, etc.? Well, long story short, I gave it up in college. A week after I turned 21, actually. I only ever drank about a dozen legal beers. Most of the alcohol I ever consumed, I did so illegally, before I was of age. But there was an incident, involving a taxi driver, a dickhead bouncer, and a creepy English professor (who was the unlikely hero of the story, if there was one), and when I woke up the next morning I vowed I wouldn't turn out like Rob and I swore it off for all eternity. I'm fine if you want to drink around me. It's not one of those deals where I'll fall off the wagon or whatever. I have no urges. I don't miss it. But sometimes I do find it annoying when people I'm with turn into obnoxious morons.
I'll give my fellow "choppeds" a pass today on the obnoxious moronism. It's natural to be bitter given the circumstances. It's also within expectations to tell and re-tell stories that have been shared numerous times previously. And I'll overlook the rise in volume with each passing round. Still, I probably would have left shortly after lunch if not for Laurel. In the six years from when she started until we were laid off, she had hardly said more than good morning to me. Which is only fair, because I never said much more than that to her. Turns out she has a lot to say. On a lot of different subjects, work-related and otherwise.
After three drinks, she confided that for a long time she thought I was stuck up, because I didn't talk to most of my co-workers unless I had to. I just never figured most of them wanted to talk to me. That on top of me declining most of their happy hour invites earned me a reputation I didn't realize I had. Once she illuminated me on all that, I was determined to ride it out. Just as well, as I wound up driving three of them home--in Sunil's car. I didn't drive in this morning. I took the bus, as usual. I didn't plan on being the designated driver. But life is full of surprises.
Another surprise: Laurel is a classic movie buff. Her favorite cinema is the Grand Illusion. Once we hit on that, we never ran out of things to talk about. And we have a date to go see Searching for Ingmar Bergman next weekend. Or the weekend after. We haven't nailed down the date yet. But I'm confident we'll get there. She wrote her number in ink on my palm shortly before I drove her home. Outlined with a heart. I'll allow for some drink inflation on the heart, but she was reasonably sober when we first talked about going to see the Bergman documentary, so I believe she legitimately meant that bit.
Maybe the heart as well. Stay tuned.
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