My “forced retirement” wasn’t my first layoff, but it’s the one that stings the most because it came from a company that prided itself on “never doing layoffs.” So I definitely wasn’t looking for that iceberg.
Previous layoffs were easier to handle. My first layoff was from a startup that completely shut down, so everyone was let go and we were all piled onto the same life raft together, the entire ship lost. For my next layoff the entire division was cut, so again we all drifted away together, waving to the ship we once sailed, but with lots of company.
This time the layoff was more selective, and everyone – but me – stayed on the big ship sipping cocktails and playing shuffleboard while I sat alone on a raft, watching them recede into their wake.
The disappointing part was that no one onboard threw me a life preserver, offered any help. I am talking about rank-and-file people I partied with at trade-shows, knew about their kids and families - they all just pretended I never existed. No lifelines. Not even a text.
Maybe it was survivor’s guilt. Maybe they thought helping me would get them tossed overboard too. I’ll probably never know. But I know this: when I was on the ship and someone went overboard, I always reached out.
As I sit adrift on my raft, I see Retirement Island in the distance, and it is an easy navigation to its shore. In the other direction, the periscope of a familiar U-boat cuts through the waves: an old rival, now circling my former ship. I’m tempted to flag it down and join in, to help torpedo the vessel that cast me off. But the old war no longer interests me, and I know my former enemy will win, with or without me.
So after more than three decades in the trenches, I realize the best revenge is found not in battle, but in a beach chair on Retirement Island, sipping Margaritas, watching from afar as the ship I once served capsizes slowly beneath the waves.
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