Last day at work
Walked into the office today for the last time. I checked my mailbox and found a typewritten letter from one of the clerks. Hers is the first face you see when you walk into the newsroom. She said that I was one of her favorite reporters because I didn't look right past her when I came in every day, that I always said "hello" to her when few others did. And she said she would miss me.
I went over to her desk and hugged her. That was the first time I cried. I would break down three more times after that. Ironically, I didn't cry during my exit interview. Human Resources is a pretty sterile place. It's quiet and neat, and everyone has his own office. I told the big guy across the desk that it's been a great six years. I also asked whether he'd be the one to stay in touch with should I decide I want back in. (My bosses have assured me they'd take me back in a heartbeat). I know it's an unusual thing to ask on leaving a place, but I had to know.
That serenity wouldn't last. As I packed the last steno pad into the box of stuff I was taking home, it hit me: this is really it. I'm walking out that door and not coming back here Monday morning.
I wanted to slip out quietly so people wouldn't make a fuss and launch me into another crying fit. Told one of my pod-mates goodbye, barely above a whisper, though we often use our "outside voices" in the newsroom. She asked for a hug and I said no, because I didn't want to cry again.
Then my boss stood up and hugged me, and thus began the downward spiral. I started sobbing and the other clerk came over to hug. I cried more, then more people crowded around. More hugs. More crying. Someone thrust tissues my way, but it was like waking up after being knocked unconscious at a football game. You see all these people hovered around you, and there's this din but you can't make out everything they're saying. I remember one of my editors, a woman I'd often vent with about mom stress, assuring me we'd go out to lunch together. One of our columnists, a 40-ish cynical type who occassionaly wears a wry grin, yelled out "It was nice to know you." And he was sincere.
It was a big scene, and I had intended the opposite. The ones who didn't follow me to the elevator waved slow, sad waves from their desks. And I felt like a giant cruise ship that had just set sail, when what I really wanted was to be standing ashore with everyone else.
I went over to her desk and hugged her. That was the first time I cried. I would break down three more times after that. Ironically, I didn't cry during my exit interview. Human Resources is a pretty sterile place. It's quiet and neat, and everyone has his own office. I told the big guy across the desk that it's been a great six years. I also asked whether he'd be the one to stay in touch with should I decide I want back in. (My bosses have assured me they'd take me back in a heartbeat). I know it's an unusual thing to ask on leaving a place, but I had to know.
That serenity wouldn't last. As I packed the last steno pad into the box of stuff I was taking home, it hit me: this is really it. I'm walking out that door and not coming back here Monday morning.
I wanted to slip out quietly so people wouldn't make a fuss and launch me into another crying fit. Told one of my pod-mates goodbye, barely above a whisper, though we often use our "outside voices" in the newsroom. She asked for a hug and I said no, because I didn't want to cry again.
Then my boss stood up and hugged me, and thus began the downward spiral. I started sobbing and the other clerk came over to hug. I cried more, then more people crowded around. More hugs. More crying. Someone thrust tissues my way, but it was like waking up after being knocked unconscious at a football game. You see all these people hovered around you, and there's this din but you can't make out everything they're saying. I remember one of my editors, a woman I'd often vent with about mom stress, assuring me we'd go out to lunch together. One of our columnists, a 40-ish cynical type who occassionaly wears a wry grin, yelled out "It was nice to know you." And he was sincere.
It was a big scene, and I had intended the opposite. The ones who didn't follow me to the elevator waved slow, sad waves from their desks. And I felt like a giant cruise ship that had just set sail, when what I really wanted was to be standing ashore with everyone else.
posted by MJG at 8:09 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home