Letter to Someone Who Moved on to a New Job

This is how short-lived my gratitude can be. I am the master of disaffection. The master of sour, of entitlement, of the glass-half-full. This weekend I was worried that I wouldn't have a job at all. And now? See below as I participate in current-employer bashing with a former employee.


Go easy, JB. Go easy. Some of us are not out after all. I could see the Huey dicing the air above me, could see the extended hands of the grim medics. You were behind the machine gun, your body tick-tocking in slow motion rhythm as the brass shells arced through the smoky air and I tried JB, to grab something, anything, that would pull me to freedom but the helicopter leaned on its side and shrank to a small dot while the orchestra blared a symphony of death and desertion.

I am still here. Crouched at the foot of a palm tree, eyes shifting w/murderous anxiety in my mud-painted face, strangling my sweaty gun. I am still here.