Prologue- Getting "Let Go"

                They say that when you lose your job, you go through the stages of grief, kind of like when someone dies.  I don’t know who says it, but someone does.  I’ve heard it.  Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, the whole nine yards.

                My name is Samantha Green, and I have been “let go,” as they so kindly put it.  As I cleaned out my desk, I looked at my mementos and remembrances of five years of working for a company that had taken over my life.

                My Garfield coffee cup from last year’s Secret Santa filled with freebie pens from all of our vendors stared back at me as I struggle not to cry.  Oh, Garfield!  When will you ever stop trying to kick Odie off of the table?

                Some of my soon to be former coworkers kept walking past my cubicle, diverting their eyes so as not to catch my leprosy or whatever fatal, extremely contagious disease that caused me to lose my job.

                In reality, I was let go because of cutbacks, deep, soul-sucking cutbacks.

                I sighed deeply, looking at the ceiling to hold back a tear.  Cut backs were supposed to be for switching to generic coffee in the break room or putting one-ply toilet paper in the bathroom or maybe even asking the cleaning crew to come twice a week instead of everyday.  Why would they “let go” one of the most devoted employees who ever worked for the company?  Someone who stayed late most evenings and had even worked an occasional Saturday?  Someone who even slept in an oversized t-shirt with the company logo emblazoned on the chest?

                Why would they give said employee, who defended certain policies that other employees didn’t like, a packet explaining how to cope with job loss, as if it would really help?  They should be thanking said employee for her tireless work, throwing her a tickertape parade even.  Well, maybe not the parade because of the “cut backs,” but at least a pat on the back, maybe a nice little certificate, and definitely not “letting her go.”

                I looked up as someone poked his head through the entrance to my cubicle.

                Was it the warden coming to give me a reprieve?  Was it my supervisor coming to tell me it was all a joke so that he could get me to take a long deserved vacation?  “Ha-ha,” he would laugh.  “I thought you needed a break after all of your hard work.”

                It was James, a coworker who had transferred to my department about six months before and still had the shine of a new employee and the attitude of a twenty-something who could do no wrong.

“Hey,” James said in way of greeting.  “I heard what happened.”  James stepped through the would-be doorway of my cubical and scanned the half empty area as I packed Garfield away in my box.

“Thanks for your concern,” I said brightly.  “I’ve been meaning to take a vacation anyway.  I have housework to catch up on, and I need to visit my parents.  I haven’t seen them in a month.”

“It’s good to hear that you have a plan,” James said, reaching over to give me a quick hug.  “Can I take your stapler, since you’re not going to need it?”

His hand was already on my stapler, a stapler with MY name labeled on the bottom.  “Sure,” I said grudgingly, but he was already stepping away, his back turned and my stapler in his hands.   “I’ll see you around!” I called after him, but he was gone and so was my stapler.

I un-tacked a couple of awards (perfect customer service and perfect attendance) from the padded walls, leaving behind squares slightly brighter in coloring than the surrounding sun-bleached fabric.  One more glance around and I was done.  No more traces of Samantha Green remained.  It was as if I had never rested my purple cheetah print handbag in the lower right hand drawer of the big metal desk.  No more company Christmas parties.  No more chats with Gillian in accounting about her parakeet Scooter.

I picked up my box containing five years of my life, straightened my shoulders, and headed for the elevator.

I pressed the down elevator button which usually stuck, and as I stood there waiting for the elevator, I felt eyes on my back.  I adjusted the weight of the box in my arms and stood straighter.  No one approached me.  No one wished me luck.

Finally, the elevator arrived with a ding, and I got on, leaving it all behind.