Chapter 6: Goodbye, Ron—Hello, Future

As we were wrapping up, I joked, "Marcus, you didn’t ask me a single technical question."

He grinned, pushed his plate aside, and met my gaze like we were old friends.

Marcus Ellison smiled. "Those projects of yours on Github, with 50,000 stars, already say plenty. I’ve looked at your code. Our team really needs someone like you."

He said it like a statement of fact, not flattery. It actually felt nice.

Tsk, listen to that.

If only Ron could’ve heard this. The difference in attitude was like stepping from a basement into the Texas sun.

CEOs really are on another level.

People who build, not just manage. There’s a reason some folks end up in the history books and others just fill out performance reviews.

"You flatter me. Just one last question—do you always recruit people by scouting them online?"

I asked it half-joking, but I was genuinely curious. Most jobs come from who you know, not what you ship.

Marcus laughed heartily.

The kind of laugh that fills a room. The waiter glanced over and grinned, too.

"Of course not, but this is fate. Us sitting here today is fate, and if we can work together, even better."

It was a little cheesy, but for once, I didn’t mind. Maybe I needed a little serendipity in my life.

Tsk tsk, listen to that.

I could hear Ron’s voice in my head, sneering about loyalty and gratitude. Here was a guy who genuinely wanted to build something, not just fill a seat.

Ron always acted like the company was doing us a favor by paying us, and that we should be grateful for our jobs.

That corporate paternalism—"You’re lucky to be here, so don’t complain"—felt so small now. I’d bought it for too long.

The gap between people is bigger than the gap between people and dogs.

There’s managers, and then there are leaders. Marcus was the latter.

When I joined Silverstream, the team—barely ten people—threw a little welcome party for me.

It was pizza, paper plates, and a couple of craft beers in the break room. Someone played a playlist from their phone. It wasn’t fancy, but it was genuine.

When I added new colleagues on Facebook Messenger, a stranger also sent a friend request. I didn’t think much and accepted.

His profile picture was the default gray icon. Rookie mistake—should’ve checked mutuals first.

"Manager Ron asked me to ask you, why did the image library version suddenly become incompatible?"

No hello, no intro. Just straight to the point, like I owed him tech support.

I realized immediately—this was the rookie Ron just hired.

Poor kid, probably didn’t know better. Still, a little context goes a long way.

Not only was he rude, but his question had zero context.

At least Aubrey always sent cat memes with her bug reports. This guy? All business, no manners.

And now that Silverstream wasn’t paying me, whether the version was compatible or not was none of my business. I’m not obligated to provide after-sales support after being laid off, right?

It’s not like I was running a tech help desk for ex-employers. My loyalty ended with my paycheck.

Without another word, I deleted him.

Block, unfriend, whatever it’s called now. One less notification to worry about.

Two minutes later, Ron called.

I let it ring once, twice. Then, out of curiosity—or maybe just wanting closure—I picked up.

His caller ID still said "Manager Ron." I should’ve changed it to "Do Not Answer."

"Jake, what’s your problem? You leave the company and immediately cut all ties? I just wanted to ask a simple question—is that necessary? Let me tell you, leave yourself some room. We might cross paths again."

He sounded genuinely offended, as if I’d broken some sacred code. In his world, ex-employees are on-call forever, apparently.

That scolding tone—still acting like I’m his underling.

I felt a laugh bubbling up, but kept my voice level. There’s nothing like being told to "leave room for yourself" by the guy who just took your chair.

"Manager Foster, I really can’t help. You know how complicated the code is—if something goes wrong, you have to check it line by line. There’s no way I can diagnose it remotely."

I almost added, "Good luck," but figured he’d get the message. Some lessons you only learn the hard way.

I tossed my phone on the couch and stretched out, feeling lighter than I had in months. For the first time, my future didn’t feel like a bug waiting to happen.