A Corrugated Dismissal

I wonder if I should take the stapler or is it theirs? After near twenty years, I am not sure where the laws of personal property delineate between ownership through purchase and ownership through usage. And paperclips. Are they inventoried? Will they come after me if the wire basket is short a few? I have never been fired before so I am not exactly sure what is the proper protocol for packing up my desk.

“Laid off due to downsizing” is what Alissa the messenger said as I flipped the fifteen pages of the severance package. Whether they were paying me or not, they no longer needed my butt in a chair or my knowledge for the customers. 

“Automation and more cross-functional roles” she told me. I did not understand exactly what that meant in relation to my once-needed functioning in the organization, but I had to give it to her that it sounded impressive. 

Then she handed me the box.

When I started here, orientation laid out the policies for work and pay. And I abided by them. Through my promotions and space changes. Through the wart-nosed boss who had me prepare her executive meeting speeches to Carol the kind-hearted CFO who lasted less than a year with her flexible definition of finances. I am the only one left from my orientation generation. The others left for more lucrative, flashy companies. I preferred the stability of a long-haul organization who products and processes hadn’t changed much since it started selling plastic moldings four decades ago.

I had thought those leaving for the newly planted sod elsewhere had no idea what they were giving up here. A mature field with its annual wildflowers and shade trees. I never once considered these shade trees would provide anything but relief from the pressures of sales and spreadsheets. A canopy for when it poured during the economic crisis of ’08. Or cover when our line of recyclable plastic skyrocketed after a professional tennis player commented on how her water bottle kept her hydration cold and would never end up in a landfill.

My “Sales Never Sleeps” mug of pens I gathered by scouring tradeshows belongs to me as do pastel notebooks I bought – anything other than yellow legal paper was out of the budget. I have the philodendron I bought last year when I finally earned a desk by a window.

The entire seating selection process seemed to favor others with less tenure than me, but I was third in seniority for vacation approvals. I worked a total of five days last December and had no problem getting extended weekends around the Fourth of July or Labor Day. Perks. I earned my premiere parking spot when a clerk in accounting passed away. I travelled because the company needed a voice and a body who could speak in cohesive words, stay on target about value and mission and carry-on robust conversations over drinks, weaving business and personal like they belonged together.

“We will provide you will a stellar letter of recommendation,” Alissa added as I escorted the box out of her office. “Mr. Diggins will sign it too.” The CEO’s signature on a letter verifying I am an asset to any company. I am unsure if this is a perk, part of the severance package, or one way for everyone to make themselves feel better about letting a long-time, loved employee out to pasture.

I can say loved because I know I will be missed.

Stan and his five years less of service shook his head in disbelief as I walked through the department with my new object of interest. Donna looked down. Diane sighed and waved. Marcus, the newest member of the sales support staff, took out his earbuds for an acknowledgement, a rarity to interrupt his work survival playlist.

I contour and fold my Butch and Tess’s photo frames. They will be glad to see me when I unlock the deadbolt, not knowing today is any different than yesterday. They could care less about what I do as long as they get their kibble twice a day.

I want to email my customers to let them know someone else will be the voice on the phone, but Alissa said they would arrange the transfer of accounts in a way that would meet my standards. If they knew my standards, they would know whatever generic message they would send would fall flat with the customers. Many will be upset; some even to the point of pissed. I grab my three top performer acrylic recognition awards for my shelf at home. When Alissa calls begging me to help win back the lost souls, these symbols will remind me why I will do what they ask. Care is an inclusive word with my customers.

I look at the piles of papers waiting to be touched and reviewed. I see forty-seven emails arrived in my inbox since I was called away for my unplanned meeting. By the titles, I know I could quickly resolve issues before I go and yet my instructions were clear. Pack up my desk and leave the building by five o’clock.

I pack the sleeve of my newly minted business cards that have decreased drastically in value today and my dictionary. I have used this antique more times than searching how to spell words on Google. Over the years, I have underlined random words that stood out to me. My hands scan the pages as if they are searching for meaning. My fingers land on dichotomy. Then earnest. Then ardent. I think my unconscious is trying to remind me none of this is my fault. Was I more of a relic than my dictionary?

I remove my ramen noodles and two cans of chicken soup from the bottom drawer as well as my stash of individual chocolates. Everyone in the office knows I am the one they can count on for their afternoon sugar needs. I stock up on the after-any-holiday candy sales. No one cares if they eat Halloween-labeled candy in January or Christmas candy in May. I cover the spread of options from nougat to crispies. Dark, milk, and white. The Sugar Queen they call me. I hope this responsibility is added to the next person’s job description.

I survey my project folders and binders and know that while it is my work none of it will matter once I leave the building. I am not devious enough to try to prosper from my customer list by selling it to a competitor. Or even know who to show financial reports to for revenge. I do not want any of that. I want my job. The one now deleted from the organizational chart.

I look up and see the usual slow trickle of bodies heading for the door as the big hand toggles between ten and eleven. Rarely does anyone wait until straight on five o’clock to leave. And no one seems to care. A few motion for me to hurry and follow them, but I want my time today. My last daily exit.

I know more ugly emotions from the termination will creep over me as soon as I start my car. In this moment, I need to savor the view of the pond and the lingering burnt candle smell that drifts into the office from the production floor. I had not found these environmental factors interesting in the past. Part of the routine that is work. I know I will be craving this routine come Monday morning,

The box is only half full. This is disappointing. After so many years, I should have a collection of. Of what? I realize I am the one who chose to be dedicated and loyal and considerate. Showing up and sacrificing at times. If I had all of my paycheck stubs and stellar performance reviews, I could fill the box. If I printed out all my customers thank you emails, I could bring them home and line my walls with reminders. The tangibles would help override my shame and prop my chin up when I let the door close behind me.

I decide the stapler is mine. As are the paperclips and their companion basket. I take the tape dispenser with its sand-filled based though I don’t know why. With a tally list of contents complete, I prepare for my departure. The weight of the box feels more substantial.