snapping a picture

   Boxes in hand, walks out.

   "I'm quitting this job, -fuck this place."  He said.

   About half a minute later, not even after a few seconds from when he was gone... I run around the corner, and into his (former) office.  Raid the bitch...

   Supplies, highlighters, pens, paperclips, staples, and a calculator.  I needed to re-up, and took his envelopes too, the Vanilla kind.. 8.5x11.. Those are hard to come by, and took some "post-its" too, the sticky notes, the kind I can write absurd numbers on, the kind I can leave around my office -with false notation and fake phone numbers, giving the appearance that I work hard...Sitting in the office, waiting for the phone to ring and walking to everyone's cubicle, individually telling them i'm going to "break the seal" and nodding at them, waiting for some eye contact and a nod back to tell me I can use the bathroom now.

   That awkward moment when you tell a complete stranger you have to "drain the lizard", and subsequently stand there, waiting for their approval.


   returning to my desk (the one I sing at)  I think about how annoying it must be to work with me, when I dedicate songs to people, and proceed to bust out all the lyrics from Mariah Carey's "Can't Let Go" single, and emotionally belt them out loud.  Vocalized enough so my Iranian boss can hear, and silently wonder if I'm being completely serious...honest about my Livescan, criminal background, and fingerprints.

   I think about that one time I got screamed at for doing 90 on the freeway, or the time he accused me of masturbating in the bathroom.

   I think about how shitty this economy is, and how much of a fucking joke/waste of time it is to try, and attempt to maybe, possibly sell a car to some Southern Californian, oriental Chinese low-baller...and staring at the phone, watching the seconds tick by on a digital clock... I remember all the other jobs I've had, and how great it is to keep a list of all the people i've seen fired from this current location.  I think about what it must be like... totin' around old pictures of yourself, back when you were "in the scene" with a Coors Light in your hands, and a smile on your face.  Everyone in the picture -gone, except for you.  Last one here, -with thin, receding hair and people that fix your car in secret.

   I think about how great it must be to finally fucking leave this place.  Finally do it big, when Jay-Z's "Somehow, Someway" finally becomes real, finally happens to a used car salesman, when it finally happens to me...

"Bryan..." He says.  I turn around from pretending to mark up some imaginary list in my folder...
"What's up Todd?"
"I'm quitting this job, -fuck this place."

   We shake hands for the last time, and even though we weren't cool all along... He says nothing to anybody else, silently gathers up the things he's packed, and with his boxes stacked, boxes in hand, opens the door, and walks out.