The Exit Interview

WC 974

The Exit Interview

By Jack Rawlins

“Ziggy. We don’t need you any more. You’ve been replaced by a man with half a brain. I want you out today. Pack up your personal stuff and leave immediately. “

I could tell this was a painful moment for the old guy. He was trying to be facetious but he was still going by the book. Probably read in a corporate manual that you should cut ties abruptly to prevent security leaks.

“Oh? Is this insult your idea of an exit interview?” I asked.

“No.” he mumbled; “but you gotta go.”

“Oh, good!” I said. “I’ll be gone before you destroy what’s left of this stodgy company. Now, are you going to have someone escort me to the door so I don’t run off with any paper clips? “

“Oh, you always were a smart ass, Ziggy,” he responded. “Now I won’t have to put up with your lip for one more day.”

“And I won’t have to put up with your incompetence for one more day, either,” I answered with a pleasant smile. “You really are an asshole, George. What’s more, you’re the only one in this company who doesn’t know it.

“And, I’m going to start stealing your customers by tomorrow. So forget about that ‘No compete agreement’ I signed when I joined this hazel-hatchery outfit.”

“Ziggy,” he said,“if you do, I’ll sue.”

“So sue me,” I said. “You’ll loose. You can’t deprive me of making a living. No court will let you get away with firing me because I have a sense of humor.”

“That’s the problem, Ziggy. You are the only one who thinks you’re funny.”

“George,” I said, “you’ve got to lighten up. You have no sense of humor. You can’t even write a plain declarative sentence without throwing in some gobbledygook that you think makes you sound smart.

“I can’t wait to get out of here so I don’t have to read or hear about “painstaking research; state of the art; optimizing, 24/7 service; customer-oriented; permission marketing; pro-active; viable; and ‘the key’—one more time.”

“I won’t have to sit through one more, long, boring meeting, where you drone on endlessly and nothing is accomplished other than scheduling another meeting.”

“Are you through?” he snorted. “Okay. Good, smarty. Now it’s my turn: I can’t wait to see you go. We’ve all put up with your idea of practical jokes far too long. Your practical jokes are not practical.”

“What do you mean?” I interrupted.

“Mean? That’s the key word: mean. Your idea of a prank is always mean. Somebody always gets hurt, embarrassed or frightened. You are not funny.”

“I know all those extra hours you worked nights—and billed at time and a half-- you spent setting up your impractical practical jokes.”

“For instance?” I asked.

“Hiding every roll of toilet paper in the building. That created a major crisis. I’ll give you credit though. You were thorough. You also hid everyone’s box of tissues. And leaving a corncob on each desk showed the true depth of your compassion.

“And those juvenile whoopee cushions. I was your first fart victim. And my secretary’s reaction was funny when she got hysterical, squealed and spilled her coffee. But your follow up with a whoopee trap on every seat in the office was overkill. You had everybody so spooked they would'nt sit down until they turned around three times like a dog getting ready to lay down.”

“A couple of harmless pranks,” I answered. .

“Oh? How about the time you removed the screw from the door handle in the ladies’ room? When it came off in Sally’s hand she was trapped so long, everyone thought she had gone home for the day. If someone else didn’t have to pee, she might still be there.

“Ziggy, don’t think it’s a coincidence that you had four flat tires the next day.”

“Bitch, that’s why I stole and hid her car keys.”

“Yeah. Real funny. She was supposed to pick up her husband up right after work. He was worried about her. And if he ever meets you, you should be worried about him.


“Is there anything else,” I asked.

“Oh, a lot more. Releasing a dozen crickets from the bait shop in every lady’s desk created a panic…all those ladies screeching, hopping about and trying to stomp them. You know how hard it is to stomp a cricket when you’re in spike heels?

“And then there’s poor, shy, Patty. That Stick-it Note you left on her chair made her cute little butt the butt of big jokes for a day. You don’t even remember do you? You could have gotten us sued. It said, “Horny, Will Diddle for Dollars.”

“Is that all?” I humbly mumbled. “You’ve blown everything out of proportion; they were just harmless little pranks.”

“Yeah; like the Bill and Monica prank was blown out of proportion?” he said.

He was on firm ground. “So is that all, Boss? I mean ex-Boss?”


“No. There’s a lot more but I don’t time to reviews your illustrious history of disruptions caused by your warped sense of humor.”

“Okay. I’m outta here!” I huffed.

“Good. I’m delighted,” he said. “I’m sure you can find a job somewhere where everyone has a mean streak in them and can tolerate your idea of funny.”

I had to agree with his analysis. I am a caustic, sarcastic, cruel, meanie. He was right. I was wrong. I like to think, “The Devil Made Me Do It!” But this was my moment of truth.

“Wait, Dad,” I said. “I’m sorry I called you an asshole. I will get another job. And tell Mom I’ll be over for your Father’s Day cookout.”

And then I added, “Love you. See you.”

“Same here, Son,” He said with a smile.

###

.