We're Letting You Go
"I hope you understand that none of this is personal."
His right hand comes off as smoothly as a very sharp knife moves through a chicken breast.
"Apologies. A warning is merited here. Sudden transitions can be jarring, and we pride ourselves on communication."
She places the hand into a plastic tray labeled RETURNED COMPANY PROPERTY.
“Eventually, all the paperwork will be filed."
She smiles with the benign confidence of someone who has never questioned an employee handbook.
"I get it. This isn't your desired outcome. No one here wanted this."
She looks at the ceiling briefly, her eyes breaking momentary contact.
"Well... the executive team wanted it."
She reaches for a cordless reciprocating saw with a tiny sticker reading Safety First!
"You know, people misunderstand Human Resources. They think we're here for employees."
She laughs.
"That's adorable."
The left hand joins the first.
"We're here to reduce liability."
She wipes a fleck of blood from her glasses with the same microfiber cloth she uses on her laptop.
"The company has always viewed you as a valuable asset."
A beat.
"But assets depreciate."
She opens a Moleskine notepad.
"I've made notes."
She clears her throat.
"'Employee demonstrated occasional resistance to organizational priorities.'"
She looks down at him.
"Remember asking why we needed mandatory meetings when there was little information useful for you? Do you recall the time you questioned the wisdom of the CFO refusing to provide you with a departmental budget? Those were growth opportunities."
The saw sounded like a turkey knife rattling against the breast bone.
"You confused transparency with honesty. Transparency means we explain the decision. Honesty would require admitting the decision had already been made."
The right leg wetly separates.
She places it beside the others with geometric precision.
"There. We're very organized."
The room resembles an operating theater set inside an Apple store
Framed posters line the walls.
OUR PEOPLE ARE OUR GREATEST RESOURCE.
EVERY VOICE MATTERS.
Below them sits a paper shredder overflowing with anonymous employee surveys.
She notices him looking.
"Oh yes. We read every one."
She doesn't elaborate.
"You received a three-point-two on Collaboration. I know the numbers never tell the whole story, but they're wonderfully obedient."
The remaining leg comes away.
"Metrics are marvelous because they eliminate conversation."
Her Apple Watch chimes.
"Oh."
She checks it.
"My mindfulness reminder."
She closes her eyes, inhales, exhales, and smiles.
"There. I'm centered."
She resumes.
"You've probably wondered why your manager never gave you direct feedback. That's because direct feedback creates accountability. We prefer continuous ambiguity."
The fluorescent lights flicker and buzz overhead.
"I've been doing this for twenty-three years. I've dismembered accountants, designers, executives, engineers..."
She shrugs.
"A vice president once thanked me. He thought I was promoting him."
She studies what's left.
"The interesting thing is they all say the same thing."
She counts on blood-speckled fingers.
"'I worked weekends.'"
"'I missed my daughter's recital.'"
"'I sacrificed my health.'"
"'I thought loyalty mattered.'"
She lets the silence linger.
"It did—for exactly as long as it was profitable."
She opens one final folder embossed in gold.
CORPORATE VALUES.
"I always save this part for the end."
She reads.
"'We are family.'"
She smiles.
"I've always loved that one. Families are notoriously difficult to quit."
Another page.
"'We empower our people.'"
Another.
"'We encourage courageous conversations.'"
She glances at the torso.
"I've noticed those conversations are almost always one-way."
Outside the office, someone laughs. A printer spits out another stack of onboarding packets.
She kneels.
"There is one thing I genuinely regret."
For the first time, her voice sounds human.
"I never remember your names."
She stares for a moment.
"It's impossible. So many restructurings. So many reductions. So many strategic realignments."
She shakes her head.
"I remember departments. I remember budget lines. I remember severance costs down to the penny. But names disappear almost immediately."
She reaches into his shirt pocket and removes his faux brass name badge.
"Oh."
She blinks.
"There it is."
She reads his name aloud for the first time, then quietly drops the badge into a cardboard archive box already filled with hundreds of identical badges.
She closes the lid and writes one word across the top in thick black marker.
OVERHEAD.
Then she straightens her blazer, checks her lipstick, opens the door, and smiles warmly.
"Whenever you're ready..."
A polite pause.
"The next candidate may come in."
∞∞∞
Don Hall is a writer, storyteller, and creative mercenary whose wildly varied career—from homeless busker and Chicago public school teacher to theater producer, jazz musician, radio executive, and front-of-house manager at some of Chicago's most iconic venues—has given him an endless supply of stories and an abiding distrust of certainty.
He is the author of Belief Is a Thermonuclear Warhead, co-editor of The Literate Ape, and publisher of the Substack The Attention of Fools, where he writes about culture, politics, creativity, and the glorious absurdity of being human.
