I didn't have an umbrella, so I stood under the portico and waited. The rain showed no sign of letting up.
My phone buzzed. A message from Ray Fox, a former colleague.
He'd joined the company a few years after me and quit at the end of last year after getting into a blowout argument with Nelson Lambert. Before he left, he'd said one thing to me: This company's going down sooner or later.
"Steve, heard Lambert got you pushed out?"
I typed back a single word: Yeah.
His reply came instantly:
"Drinks tonight. The usual spot."
The rain eased a little. I hugged the cardboard box to my chest and walked into it.
I got in the car and sat behind the wheel, staring at nothing.
My phone rang again. This time it was a longtime client. Marvin Perry, owner of a metal fabrication business. We'd worked together for six years, with contracts steady at around twenty million dollars a year.
He was calling about a new order. I told him I'd been fired.
"What happened? You were doing great."
"Company restructuring. I got 'optimized' out."
Silence on the other end for a few seconds.
"So what's your plan? My contract with your company expires in two weeks. I'm not renewing."
"If you go independent or land somewhere else, I'll follow you."
I was caught off guard for a moment before I managed to say, "Mr. Perry, thank you."
"Don't thank me. Business runs on trust."
"That new manager of yours, Lambert, came to see me last month. Wanted to talk about some 'strategic partnership.' Spent the whole time throwing around words I couldn't make heads or tails of."
"'Synergy' this, 'leverage' that, 'closed-loop ecosystem.' Talked for two hours straight, and by the end, the man couldn't even tell me the unit price of the product."
"You tell me how I'm supposed to trust someone like that with my business."
I couldn't help but laugh.
After I hung up, I set the phone on the cardboard box in the passenger seat.
It was still raining, but lighter now.
I started the engine, pulled out of the parking garage, and turned onto the main road.
In the rearview mirror, the office building where I'd spent seven years grew smaller and smaller.
Then it vanished into the gray curtain of rain behind me.
That evening, I arrived at the restaurant right on time.
Ray wasn't there yet.
I found a seat by the window and was about to call him when a crowd pushed through the entrance. Nelson Lambert led the pack, trailed by a dozen or so people from the sales department.
Then it hit me. Today was the department dinner.
Lambert spotted me immediately.
He was wearing a navy polo with the collar popped. His gut had grown another size since last month, his belt cinched tight against it.
"Well, well. Steve Dickerson."
"Fancy running into you here."
I ignored him.
He planted himself in front of my table, hands shoved in his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he looked me up and down.
"Grabbing dinner? All by yourself?"
I finally spoke. "Waiting for someone."
"Oh!" He dragged the word out. "Well then, take your time. Sales department dinner tonight. I'd better head over."
He turned to leave, then stopped as if something had just occurred to him. He looked back and added:
"By the way, you finished up your exit paperwork, right? HR mentioned you changed your reason for leaving. Put down 'terminated by company.'"
"Terminated is accurate, sure." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "But have you thought about what happens when your next employer runs a background check? That kind of record isn't exactly a selling point."
I said nothing.
He didn't push it further. He turned and headed toward the private dining room.
The others filed past my table behind him. A few glanced my way. Most looked the other direction.
Miles Chavez stopped.
He and I had started at the company the same year. We used to get along fine. Then Lambert arrived, and Miles became his loyal errand boy.
