On Jumping Ship

Photo by myself, on the platform of the G train in Brooklyn.

The G is rumored to leave people standing for fifteen minutes on the platform. My experiences so far have been positive.

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I gave my notice today. As soon as the HR guy saw me with my letter in hand, he paled and stammered, 'Oh no, not the letter. Are you...?'

I'm sure he's used to it. That's his job - interviews, screening, letters, exit interviews. And in between, he makes sure people are relatively happy. He notes their days off and celebrates their birthdays. He handles the day-to-day.

Anyway, I felt badly and guilty, despite the fact that I'm the one leaving. That's just me. I know that I'll be going to a (hopefully) better place, but someone will have to pick up my pieces, decipher several projects partway through and deal with the same frustrations.

Meanwhile, the skirmish Frank started yesterday with the decorators has quieted. Frank is now openly snubbed when he walks through their workspace. Well-coiffed heads swivel round and give him a dead-eyed stare. I tell Frank that if it'd been me, or a gay guy, we would've had a better time of it.

It's just a strange, political fact of life. I think it's just easier to yell at and torment a straight guy in conservative clothes than it is a female dressed relatively fashionably or a gay dude in wide wale cords and Ralph Lauren moccasins. I don't know why. I can't explain it.

HR guy said there will be an announcement Monday about my departure, but who knows. I wouldn't be surprised if they kept a lid on my leaving for a while. The thing is, unknown to the office, another of my work buddies, Sam, is accepting an offer to the same office where I'm headed. Sam and I are backbone and one-fourth of the team, heading four projects of various sizes between the two of us. The office has been quietly shaken by my leaving. In a couple weeks, they will be reeling and reaching for a strong drink.

I feel badly for Frank, whom Sam and I are leaving behind. Trapped as a non-American in immigration limbo, Frank also has an inhuman amount of work on his plate. Sam and I will visit and email and commiserate over drinks, but it won't be the same.

We won't be there when poo is flung or when fashionable gloves are thrown down. Poor Frank will be on his own.