His phone rings. Loud ringtone, like old-man loud. He answers without even saying hello, just: “I told you I’m retiring. I don’t care if the board thinks I’m bluffing.” I pretended not to listen, but the receptionist was out of sight so there was no buzzing or printer noise to drown him out.
Whoever was on the line must’ve been arguing because he laughed once, real dry, and said, “Buddy, they’re still keeping the software I wrote in ‘92 running. You think they’re firing me? They’re terrified I’ll actually leave.” Then he paused and said, quieter this time, “I’m tired. I don’t want to die in that building.”
The paper cup slipped out of his hand and fell on the floor. Didn’t spill anything, because it was empty. He just stared at it. I think both of us thought he’d bend down and grab it, but he didn’t. He said into the phone, “Tell them I’m done. And tell them I’m keeping the mug.” Then he hung up and looked at me like he suddenly remembered I existed.
I don’t know why, but I asked if he worked in tech. He shook his head too fast. “I built the logistics backbone for a grocery chain you’ve shopped at every week of your life.” He said it like a joke, but he didn’t smile. “People think the important stuff is code. It’s not. It’s screaming at someone in accounting because they mislabeled peaches as nectarines and 300 stores panic-ordered the wrong pallets.”
I laughed, and he kind of snorted, then rubbed his eyes. The hygienist finally called my name. I stood up and he said, without looking at me, “If you ever find something you’re great at, don’t tell anyone. They’ll chain you to it.” I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded like an idiot and followed the hygienist.
When I came out 30 minutes later, he was gone. The paper cup was still on the floor. The receptionist stepped over it when she went to refill the Keurig.
I thought about picking it up, but I didn’t. I don’t know why.
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