Hung Out to Dry

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Abstract

e deed devolving upon them — that it would have been less torturous for all concerned had they simply wielded their axes forthwith. A weekend that commenced with forewarning of execution three days hence was hardly conducive to R & R.My boss, Wayne, in the spirit of gallows humor, capped the momentous announcement by tearing sheets from a message pad and playfully passing out these “pink slips” to members of our team.Although I persisted in extending my hand, Wayne conspicuously skipped me — which I took as a strong hint that my team membership was soon to expire.No way was I going to sweat this out for three days. Back in the office, at five minutes to five, I waylaid Wayne. Planting a foot and bracing an arm on either side of his door frame, I implored him to ‘fess up.Had I not been on Tuesday’s hit list, he’d have simply said so. As it was, his silent squirming said it for him. I assured Wayne I wouldn’t let on that he’d unwittingly provided a sneak preview of my fate.Thus, come Tuesday morning — having had three days to privately in

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dulge my despair — I affected calm dignity when, in the presence of his boss, Wayne solemnly pronounced official notice of my unemployment pending.Without meeting my eyes, Wayne robotically reeled off a prepared list of “talking points.” The paper he read from was pink.I couldn’t resist indulging a comic moment amidst the tragic throes of my moribund employment.I gleefully grabbed the list from Wayne’s hand. He cringed, mortified, as I announced my intent to have the pink slip “bronzed.”Then, waving my flag in pink farewell, I spied a paper-cutter on the desk. You’ve probably seen one: a large metal plate with cross-hatched grooves. On which you can align a sheet of paper, so as to make meticulous slices with the foot-long blade attached.You might anticipate the punchline: I lay the paper upon the plate and proceeded to shred my trophy.But no. Rather, I lay my head upon the plate as if I were about to be guillotined. After thoughtfully placing Wayne’s wastebasket adjacent so as to catch my severed head.</article></body>

In memoriam of my employment

Bloody Tuesday: January 20, 2004.

I just paused to check that I remembered the date after all these years. Indeed, I had. It was the first workday after the Martin Luther King Day weekend.

All employees had been called to a departmental meeting the prior Friday afternoon — “Black Friday” — at which we were commanded to show up by nine o’clock Tuesday morning.

So decreed the Powers That Be in their infinite mercy. After all, it was only decent that the doomed should be informed face-to-face first thing.

Apparently, it didn’t occur to Management — who were, understandably, under extreme stress in contemplation of the deed devolving upon them — that it would have been less torturous for all concerned had they simply wielded their axes forthwith. A weekend that commenced with forewarning of execution three days hence was hardly conducive to R & R.

My boss, Wayne, in the spirit of gallows humor, capped the momentous announcement by tearing sheets from a message pad and playfully passing out these “pink slips” to members of our team.

Although I persisted in extending my hand, Wayne conspicuously skipped me — which I took as a strong hint that my team membership was soon to expire.

No way was I going to sweat this out for three days. Back in the office, at five minutes to five, I waylaid Wayne. Planting a foot and bracing an arm on either side of his door frame, I implored him to ‘fess up.

Had I not been on Tuesday’s hit list, he’d have simply said so. As it was, his silent squirming said it for him. I assured Wayne I wouldn’t let on that he’d unwittingly provided a sneak preview of my fate.

Thus, come Tuesday morning — having had three days to privately indulge my despair — I affected calm dignity when, in the presence of his boss, Wayne solemnly pronounced official notice of my unemployment pending.

Without meeting my eyes, Wayne robotically reeled off a prepared list of “talking points.” The paper he read from was pink.

I couldn’t resist indulging a comic moment amidst the tragic throes of my moribund employment.

I gleefully grabbed the list from Wayne’s hand. He cringed, mortified, as I announced my intent to have the pink slip “bronzed.”

Then, waving my flag in pink farewell, I spied a paper-cutter on the desk. You’ve probably seen one: a large metal plate with cross-hatched grooves. On which you can align a sheet of paper, so as to make meticulous slices with the foot-long blade attached.

You might anticipate the punchline: I lay the paper upon the plate and proceeded to shred my trophy.

But no. Rather, I lay my head upon the plate as if I were about to be guillotined. After thoughtfully placing Wayne’s wastebasket adjacent so as to catch my severed head.