DAVID
The call from Nina’s office came at nine thirty a.m. They’d had a meeting scheduled for ten a.m. to discuss his idea for a new outreach project to help people like Milo who struggled after leaving the military, and he was still gathering his thoughts, which was why he was surprised to be paged half an hour early. He entered to find her table ringed with Nina, a security officer, the head of Communications, and a fourth stranger, who introduced herself as Ms. Ritter, HR.
This office always irritated David because Nina kept music on low volume, this weird staccato electronic stuff where he couldn’t quite find the beat, and if he found the beat he could file it away, but the beat kept changing and bringing itself to the forefront of his attention. She had clacker balls on her desk, too, and a couple of other toys he never saw her touch, all of which caught the sun and tossed it around the room at odd angles. The security officer stood and resituated himself behind David, near the door, leaning against the wall like he’d meant to leave but hey, he might as well hang out, though the casual lean was betrayed by a nervous foot that he tapped in a nonrhythm entirely unlike the music’s nonrhythm. David’s head hurt.
A tissue box had been placed at the table’s center, so David knew he was being fired. He didn’t know why he knew that; he’d never been fired before. Something about the combination of these things: his supervisor’s office, HR, security. He’d gotten that feeling when he walked in, but the tissues solidified it. He debated leading with that, but decided to make them work for it.
“David,” the HR person began. “First of all, we want to thank you for all the hard work you’ve done for our company since you started here. The Pilots for Prison Guards initiative was a success because of you.”
Nina and Communications both nodded their heads in agreement. There was a pause where he thought maybe he was supposed to nod his head as well, maybe agree, or say how much fun it had been to work on the campaign. He kept his mouth shut.
“But, well, we think we’ve got a new direction for marketing, and we’re afraid we’re going to have to part ways with you.”
“And the others?” He couldn’t resist. “Do the others still have jobs?”
Ms. Ritter smiled; he preferred the serious expression. “Who is and isn’t staying isn’t your concern, David. We’re going to have to ask you to clean out your desk and leave.”
“That quickly?” He tried to remember his terms of hire and whether he was owed two weeks or more explanation. He supposed it made sense for a company with this many secrets to force people out quickly, without a chance to take anything with them that they might offer to a competitor.
“You’ll be paid for two weeks, and one additional week for the year you’ve been with us, but today will be your last day of employment. Your e-mail address is being suspended as we speak, so no need to send any company-wide good-byes.”
“Wait—am I being fired or let go?” He turned to Nina. “Will you give me a reference?”
Ms. Ritter spoke first. “As a policy, we don’t give references, but if anyone calls us we’ll verify your dates of employment.”
“But nothing else? Not even that I was in good standing when I left, or that I wasn’t fired?” He dared them to say it.
“Nothing else.”
“I don’t understand. My performance reviews have been stellar. You could move me to another team. Unless there’s something else?”
Ms. Ritter sighed. “David, someone carrying your ID card was caught trespassing in the building.”
That had not been what he expected her to say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wait—you mean that break-in on the news a few months ago? Why wouldn’t you tell me then? Or fire me then, if you thought I had anything to do with it? I didn’t.”
“I believe you, David,” said Nina. “But security policies are zero tolerance.”
“Zero tolerance on things I didn’t do, that happened months ago? With no chance to defend myself?”
“This is the best I could do. You’re being let go on good terms, despite this, because I said you’ve done great work for us. Sign the papers.”
He didn’t cry. He opened his mouth to thank them, then shut it again. What was he thanking them for? An uncomfortable fame, Dr. Morton’s medical intrusion, an unjust separation, an accusation with no chance to defend himself? He signed the papers they put in front of him, which basically said he wouldn’t use any information he had gained here in any other position, and he wouldn’t talk to the media about parting ways with the company.
One clause brought him pause. “It says here if I initial and accept the three weeks’ pay I’m not entitled to see my personnel files. Does that include whatever medical reports Dr. Morton has downstairs? Is that personnel, or something else?”
Nina and the HR woman exchanged looks, then Ms. Ritter spoke. “That isn’t technically part of your personnel file. You can put in a written request to see the contents.”
“Have you seen the contents? Any of you?”
“No,” Nina said. The others shook their heads.
He signed. It was only after the security officer followed him from the room that he realized he’d asked the wrong question. He should have asked whether they knew the contents of his medical file, not whether they’d seen it.
People on television always left work with a box, but he didn’t keep much personal stuff at his desk: a mug his moms had given him, with a dragon tail for a handle; his headphones; a few snacks he’d stashed in a drawer. The guard leaned against the wall and watched him. David made his motions slow and deliberate, so the guard saw he was putting candy in his mug, not, say, USB drives.
When he finished, he leaned over the shared wall with Tash’s cubicle. “Hey, it’s been fun working with you.”
“You, too, David.” They had the grace to look surprised, though they had to have noticed the guard.
In the meeting, HR had said not to talk to the media, but hadn’t said he couldn’t talk to Tash. He lowered his voice anyway, so the guard couldn’t hear. “I was going through a lousy time. I still am. I’m having problems with my Pilot and now I’m getting let go and I don’t know why but it might have something to do with that? Anyway, go team. Carry on.”
Tash looked like they had a thousand questions. “Shit, David. Good luck?”
David pulled a watermelon-flavored lollipop from his mug and held it out to them. They took it and nodded at him.
The guard followed him to his car. He held his mug out in a silent toast, then put it in the passenger seat. He wanted to sit for a minute, but the guy kept staring at him and clearly wasn’t going to stop until he left. He drove off the property and three blocks more, then pulled into a residential cul-de-sac and turned off the car.
The ID thing had to be bullshit; if they’d really thought he was connected with that, they’d have fired him back then. Nobody could have noticed the e-mail he’d grabbed; he was sure of it. Too much prying into other departments? If they’d found out about that, they would have said so, he was pretty sure, and besides, everything he’d searched for could have been explained as answers to questions people had asked him at trainings and recruitment sessions. As far as they knew, he hadn’t turned his Pilot off. He hadn’t disparaged it in public. He had passed the medical assessment with Dr. Morton, or so he’d been told. Nobody could possibly know he’d taken that one printed e-mail or that he’d had his Pilot turned off. He had no idea what he’d done wrong.