All exits are not made equal

To start, it’s been awhile. I was reading about a writer from the 19th century (I wish I could remember who) that captured the difficulty of writing for me. She said in an interview,

‘I would out helping my mother with the chores when, like a breeze on the wind, I felt the urge to write. In those moments, it feels as though if I don’t rush home immediately and write down my thoughts they will be lost for good.’

I feel the same way. I will go weeks plagued with rudimentary thoughts and feelings only the for the things right in front of me. Until a neuron will fire just right and I must run to the keyboard and plug away.

This is all to try and explain why you have not received a letter in so long. Maybe the real answer is, I got lazy. I got busy.

I’ve been thinking often of exits, likely because of my own. Every job I’ve ever had, I always tried to appreciate just how much time I spent there. Hours of time spent scooping ice cream at Bruster’s, stocking shelves at World Market, answering phones in a call center, helping someone find their new home. It has always been hard for me to accept the simple arithmetic of the proletariat. For something I dedicated portions of my life to, the time for dollars trade wasn’t enough. I would be the best I could be and inevitably forge some connections along the way. Work is more than a toil for me. To spend so much of my life at something I had to commit to it.

Every time I have put my two weeks’ notice in, I have tried to leave a bit of myself behind. I typically write a letter thanking whoever helped me along the way in the hope that I could brighten some cloudy part of the world. I’m not a particularly superstitious person but there is a part of me that loves this ritual. The writing of the letter gives me some bit of closure but not all of it. The remainder of the ritual, I save for the final day.

As I walk out of the building for the last time, leaving behind an empty desk and a few tearful eyes, I like to take a moment and look back over the structure. I try to remember who I was when I first walked in. Who I am now. I recall the anxiety and frustration of the first few weeks and moments spent teaching those who came in after me in the hopes of helping them avoid those feelings.

It’s funny how small the building always looks. It’s a towering monstrosity of infinite complexity when you arrive. By the journey’s end, it feels so small.

My last night shift at Bruster’s ice cream came after a particularly busy rush of business. I stayed a few minutes late to help with the crowd. As I hung up my red apron and put the store keys on the counter I was met at the door by the shop’s owner. An accountant in all senses, he typically eyed me as one might a troubling spreadsheet. Our only prior interactions typically consisted of him asking me to get a haircut. He extended his hand and thanked me with a warm smile I would not have thought him capable of. I took his hand and tried to return his forceful grip. I walked to my red Honda Civic and leaned against it for awhile looking back at the little shop. I had only been there a year but a part of me would miss the smell of freshly rolled cones and artificial strawberry. An uncontrollable smirk crossed my lips and I could feel my eyes welling up. The hair on the back of my neck stood on edge as I took a deep breath and got in the car.

My last day at World Market. I worked a double shift to cover my then-manager’s St. Patrick’s Day birthday celebration. The manager was certain I would call out or not work the whole shift, they had been burned by kids in college before, but I did not such thing. She would have had to come in and cover. She was the kind of person to get an odd satisfaction and expecting the worst and it coming true. A professional pessimist to be sure who took the phrase, ‘Always expect the worst to the next level.’ That was no way to end a relationship and I relished the opportunity to prove her wrong . I looked back at the now darkened store with wonder. The faces I had worked with and gotten to know so well flashed before me as my girlfriend arrived to pick me up. The emotions welled inside me as she pulled the car away.

My last day at the call center. Five years is a long time but let me tell you, five years in a call center are even longer. Although that job had given me so much: my first real mentor, my first best friend in a long time, my first real crush in a long time, my first real promotion, I was happy to be leaving. This was the kind of place where the minutes turn to hours and the hours turn to mush in your mind. But looking back, that makes your relationships inside that much closer. So many people I had worked with. Our floor alone housed at least one hundred at a time. Hours spent sitting in what came to be known as the tank, basically a slightly raised side of the office meant to oversee the floor of lined cubicles filled with ringing phone lines and hurried hustlers. Inside jokes and office gossip. Mysterious happenings such as the mystery of the mad pooper. All housed in a faded blue, aluminum sided building just a few miles from the Atlantic Ocean. I couldn’t help but wonder the kind of man I would become if I stayed, I thought as I marched to my now more pink than red Honda. Despite the mind-numbing churn of the work that was done there, I would miss so many of those people in the months to come. My nostrils flared and my eyes moistened as I started the Civic and sped away. It was time to move on.

‘When someone leaves your life, those exists are not made equal. Some are beautiful and poetic and satisfying. Others are abrupt and unfair. But most just unremarkable, unintentional, clumsy.’

-Griffin McElroy (one of my favorite internet people)

The sun is setting on the windows of the darkened office I am sitting on the stairs to the parking lot next to the leasing office. The red-pinkish hue reflects off the lake almost blinding me. The ornamental steeple reaches into the sky above the office and I prepare for a familiar stir in my chest, but it doesn’t come. The expected tidal wave of emotion is nothing but a ripple on my shore. Five years of my life, hours I don’t care to count and I’m ready to move on? Just like that.

You spend so much of your youth wanting to grow up. Or at least I did. But moments like this remind me that the switch was flipped without my knowledge and as always, too soon. I wasn’t just leaving this building or the people inside it, I was leaving the inside jokes, the cups of coffee, the laughs that only colleagues share. The Monday miasma and the Friday jubilations.

The minutes passed slowly as I waited for the flood of emotion to overtake me, but none came. This is what it is to grow up I guess. You stop filling the gaps between memories with wonder. You see the building for what it is. Four corners built to maximize profit. A roof to house a revenue stream. A graph to be monitored for productivity.

Forty hours a week, fifty-two weeks a year for five years. This equates to ten thousand four hundred hours. One of those hours changed me. I had moved on, I had learned to let go. It was easier this way. I just hope I can remember how to hold on again to the next moment of meaning.

I stride quickly to my car without another glance. This newfound objectivity is not a particularly welcome surprise. I’m not sad nor am I elated. Just another step on the stairway.

‘There’s them that do, and there’s them that dippity do. As for me, well… I’m a dippity doer. How about you?!’

-Austin Shrock?