Carlos A. Avitia-Velazquez

“You’re fired.”

He handed back the paper in silence.

“Take what you can today; you can come back tomorrow before noon if there’s anything else left, but I would advise against it.”

So that’s it, he thought, turning to his desk. Slowly, mechanically, he began to gather up the various trinkets he had scattered around his office cubicle over the last two years. He could not bring himself to look at the man standing before him—the man with the fake tan and plastic youth, the silk tie and gold watch. The man he had hoped to be better than one day.


He looked up.

“This isn’t the job for you anyway. You know that.”

He did now.

“Take care.”

Then the man, the president of his division, paused awkwardly for moment. He added
quietly: “son.”

And with that, he turned abruptly, walking briskly back to his gleaming corner office.