Chapter 3: Burned Bridges and Goodbye Shots

Ron told me, "Sort out whatever you need to hand over, just give it to me before you leave today."

He didn’t even look up from his phone. Probably texting HR about lunch.

Then he disappeared into his office.

Door shut, blinds drawn, the whole nine yards. Probably practicing his big boss routine in the mirror.

My work logs, development notes, and deployment docs were all submitted ages ago, and I hadn’t started any new tasks. There really wasn’t anything to hand over.

I double-checked my Google Drive, just in case. Nope, nothing left but old memes and coffee receipts.

That’s probably why the company felt safe firing me out of the blue.

They figured the pipeline was empty. No ongoing tasks, no loose ends. They underestimated the mess lurking under the hood.

A few teammates sent me private messages—just the usual condolences.

A couple "Sorry, man" DMs, some awkward emoji, and one guy offered to buy me a beer next week. The usual layoff ritual.

Aubrey, our tester, was born after 2000 and was the one I got along with best.

She always brought in snacks and wasn’t afraid to call Ron out to his face. Gen Z energy, fearless and fresh.

She was especially pissed.

Her texts came in rapid-fire, full of typos and righteous anger. I pictured her at her desk, sneakers kicked off, AirPods in, tapping out messages with one hand and flipping off Ron with the other.

"I saw Ron whispering with HR a couple days ago, but I didn’t know what it was about—turns out it was you! You did the most for the project. How can the company do this? Are they nuts?"

She threw in a string of angry-face emojis and a meme of a dumpster fire. Classic Aubrey.

I replied, "Yeah, they’re nuts for sure."

I almost typed something worse, but figured she’d get the message. Sometimes you just gotta laugh at the madness.

They just figured, with the project done, there was no need to keep me. Worst case, they’d hire someone cheaper to maintain it.

Like flipping an old car to a new mechanic and crossing your fingers he doesn’t stall out on the way home.

I wrote a summary doc and sent it to Ron.

Kept it polite and professional, but short. No reason to make it easier for him than I had to.

"Manager Foster, anything else you need?"

Ron replied instantly: "No, that’s fine."

Bet he didn’t even open the attachment. I could’ve sent him the Taco Bell menu and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Old man didn’t even look at it.

Not even a thank-you or a thumbs-up. Just pure transactional detachment.

When I went to get his signature, he acted all sentimental about losing a comrade-in-arms, but he was grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

He stuck out his hand and squeezed just a little too hard. The kind of handshake that’s more about power than goodbye.

"Jake, let me give you some advice before you go: don’t think you’re hot stuff just because you’re good at tech. For a company, people who can work are a dime a dozen. If you don’t change that attitude, you won’t last anywhere."

He delivered it like a sermon, right there in front of the copy machine. I almost expected applause.

I shot back, "You’re right, I’m definitely not the company’s backbone—at best, I’m a sphincter. Speaking of sphincters, maybe do some pelvic floor exercises, or you might spring a leak one day."

My heart pounded. For a split second, I wondered if I’d gone too far. But screw it—he deserved it.

His jaw dropped for half a second before he caught himself. I watched the gears turn—was that an insult? Then the sneer returned.

Ron thought I was just venting and sneered, putting on that patronizing look adults give when kids act up.

He had the whole disappointed-dad look down to a science. If he’d had a pipe and a cardigan, it would’ve been perfect.

I didn’t bother saying more and left.

Grabbed my plant, my headphones, and didn’t look back. I walked out into the muggy Austin air feeling oddly light.