Page 3 of The Knotheads Next Door
I mean, at least have the decency to fire me in person. Or send me an edible arrangement with a note that says,Hey, sorry about your life imploding! Here, have some fruit shaped like flowers.
Instead, I get a cold, soulless message telling me my services are no longer needed.
I slump against the back of my tiny, lumpy couch, the springs groaning like they’re also over me and my mess.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it.
When it buzzes again, I groan and grab it off the coffee table, the caller ID says "Rhonda Peters - Finance Department." My now-former boss. Oh,fantastic. Do I answer? Do I let it go to voicemail? I feel like answering would give her too much power. But not answering means she wins by default.
With an overly dramatic sigh, I accept the call.
"Hey, Rowan,"Rhonda, says in her usual clipped, professional tone."I wanted to personally reach out about your termination."
"Wow, thanks," I say flatly. "That really makes this feel more personal."
Rhonda clears her throat. "We're restructuring," she says, her voice doing that
fake-sympathetic thing that HR people perfect in their evil laboratories. "It's not personal, Rowan."
I nod like she can see me, even though we both know itispersonal. I may or may not have called the CEO a "greedy spreadsheet with teeth" during a staff meeting last week when he announced that our health insurance was getting "optimized." Whatever.
"We can offer you a strong reference—"
I let out an unhinged little laugh. "Oh, sure! That’s super helpful when I have to explain to future employers why I’m homeless because I was let goright before my rent is due."
Rhonda pauses."Right. Well. Best of luck, Rowan."
"Cool. Thanks for the memories," I say, channeling my inner yogi. Be at peace Rowan, be at peace. "I'll come get my plants tomorrow."
"That won't be necessary. We've packed your desk items. They'll be waiting for you at reception."
Super. The corporate walk of shame awaits.
"Awesome sauce," I say with all the enthusiasm of someone getting a root canal. "Can't wait."
Click.
I drop my phone onto my lap and stare at the ceiling. Am I being bitchy? Yes, I’m definitely being bitchy. Maybe I should've sucked up and asked for an extra week’s pay, but what’s the point? Rhonda is about as sympathetic as a brick wall.
Ding!
Then, as if the universe wants to kick me while I'm down, another notification pops up.
Jayson the Jerk (Landlord):
Just a heads-up, rent's going up next month! Gotta keep up with the market ??
I blink. I reread it. I consider arson. (Kidding. Mostly.) The emoji is somehow the worst part, it's like he finds casually telling me my entire foundation of stability is imploding just so funny, teehee!
I text back.
By how much?
Only 35%! Such a deal for this neighborhood now!
I drop my phone like it's burned me. Thirty-five percent. THIRTY-FIVE PERCENT. That's not a rent increase; that's a hostage situation. With my newfound unemployed status, I'm as appealing to landlords as a wet bag of trash. I can already hear them now:Oh, you don't have a job or a trust fund? Sorry, we're really looking for someone who can pay us.
There is no way I can afford that, especially now. I grab a blanket off the back of the couch and pull it over my head, like I did when I was a kid, and I was hiding from monsters in my closet. But the real monster islate-stage capitalism, and it does not care if I am curled into a ball under a crocheted throw.
