1. Are You Going?
“Are you going to your happy hour,” Debra asked.
I had been sitting in the office after having turned in my monitors and my laptop and my keyboard and my mouse, after having taken my Philodendron down to the car, after having cleaned my desktop and the counter where the Philodendron has been sitting for years. I had been reading my phone, because I got all my check-out activities finished, and I still had an hour and a half to go with, quite literally, nothing left to do.
I looked up at Debra.
“Your happy hour,” she said, “Aren’t you going?”
“Well, it doesn’t start until 4:30,” I said. (It was 3:50.)
“4:00,” she said.
We walked over to her desk and looked at her calendar, because mine was closed up in my turned-in laptop that we sitting on the counter in Derrick’s office. She took a look. Sure enough: 4:00. I was going to be late for my last hurrah.
Let’s just say that’s par for the course.
2. B.B.Rover
“David. David. David,” Brett had said a week before. “Say it’s not true.”
I couldn’t say that. He was gracious in expressing his regret.
“I’ll schedule a happy hour at B.B.Rover,” he said, “and I’ll invite all the folks who love you.”
There was a flattering turnout. Somewhere between a dozen and twenty people: some who came to briefly say good bye, others hung out with me for two and a half hours. They bought me sours and fries. And we talked and laughed and offered cheers and finally said our goodbyes as we walked to our cars, promising to stay in touch.
