Page 78 of I Hope This Finds You Well

To: All Staff—Supershops

Subject: Fuck You

Colleagues,

Today will be my last day at Supershops. Regrettably, reason and morale are at an all-time low and nobody cares about each other anymore.

A lot of you have made my life wonderful here. And you know who you are.

But this message is for the absolute twats who made my life hell. The individuals who participate in blatant patterns of disrespect. You know who you are too.

Nobody notices the things I do for this office. In a couple weeks, you bitches will all have watermarks on your glassware without me to refill the Jet-Dry, and you don’t care.

I may have been terminated, but I won’t be leaving until the end of the day, and I thank you all for letting me have that.

Don’t fear for me. Fear for you.

Larry Goodwin

The laughter comes in a stilted wave, uncertain and mumbled at first, until it takes over the floor. Olivia Espinoza, the do-gooder fire marshal, throws on her fire vest in the panic. Caitlin and Joy run over to Garret’s desk even as Randal shouts at everyone to remain seated. He pulls a radio from his belt and mutters some codes into the speaker. Some staticky mess of noise comes back, and he holds it up to his ear before giving up and pulling out his cell phone.

For five minutes nothing happens, and the energy on the floor begins to lull with the anticlimax. Then a yell comes from the hallway: “No! I at least get to express myself!”

Larry D. Goodwin comes pounding out, rapidly panting, red-faced, his collar rumpled. Cliff and Gregory trail him. Randal blocks him, trying to cut him off from walking into the desk area.

Larry’s expression shifts—like he’s in shock as he takes in all of ussilent onlookers—but then his features pinch resolutely. “This is all your faults!”

His audience watches in rapt silence.

Cliff’s eyes search across the floor. They land on me and hold.

The HR emergency—it was real. He wasn’t just avoiding me.

“You people manipulate each other all day,” Larry announces.

Everyone looks at one another, each of them innocent in their hearts.

“Is this really the life you want?” he tries again.

Again, blank stares.

Except, alone in my cubicle, his question presses into me.

He gestures behind him at Cliff. “He’s just here to fire us, piece by piece.”

Cliff rolls his jaw, arms stiff. But I catch the way his eyes flash. He hates the truth of it.

Larry’s face has gone the color of an eggplant. “Gregory’s a fucking tool that only got scones for the cool kids!”

Gregory’s eyebrows shoot up at the same rate my stomach drops. “What?”

Beside me, Armin coughs.

“All right,” says Cliff. “Larry, it’s time to—”

Larry grabs for his belt and it happens so fast: he turns and flashes his butt cheeks. Randal throws out his arms to shield the innocents, and Larry takes the opportunity to bend right under them like he’s playing a game of limbo and starts running around the desks, still squatting. There’s no doubt that it’s a drive-by mooning. He makes a point to give every person on the floor a full view of the pale, freckled horror that is one man’s ass. Then he picks up the Yoda plushie from Jean Adler’s desk and sticks it in his pants. Randal is racing behind him and manages to pull the stuffed toy free from Larry’s grasp, before whipping it to the ground in disgust.

This kind of moment is so unreal that a small chuckle escapes me. As much as a breakdown is terrible, it is also a wondrous thing to behold.