The Great Resignation

Candace stood at the gate of the garden style condo complex on Farragut west waiting for Alan to let her in. She shuffled the large heavy cardboard box from hip to hip until she was tired of waiting, put it down and dialed his number.

“Oh my god, don’t call me! Why are you calling me? What are you a god-damn boomer? Just wait.”

There he was, barefoot and shirtless, wearing salmon pink board shorts, and hobbling towards her, phone in hand.

“Why didn’t you just beep me in?”

“Because the thing that lets people in is broken, and I haven’t called maintenance.”

He leaned in to open the gate, “what the hell is this?”

“My burn box!” She said as she hoisted it off the ground. He cackled.

“Excuse me, is this mean girls? Because you’re thirty.”

“That’s precisely what it is.”

“Get it, bitch!” They walked to his two story loft.

Candace set herself up on the coffee table in the living room while Alan went to the kitchen to grab the bottle of whine and two double-pour glasses. Candace removed her journal, a black Moleskin originally intended to manage her to-do list but wound up being a journal. She turned to the back cover where she bulleted the takeaways from 100 pages of rage:

1. I’m not happy
2. Ryan is an asshole
3. Brad is an asshole
4. I hate my job
5. There is too much light and sound pollution in L.A.

She finished with her closing statement in thick, elegant cursive: Fuck this and burn it all down.

Alan sat down, handed her the big red bowl of wine and read the page over her shoulder.

“Yes! Let’s do this! What are we doing? We can’t commit arson!” She knew he would be supportive, he always was.

“No,” she laughed, “nothing illegal, just fun!”

They the whole Sunday afternoon crafting, and celebrated with happy hour and take out. "I'm going to miss you, but I'm glad you're finally doing this" were Alan's final words.

She put her work and date wardrobes in a box by the curb, and pack her car with her gear and the clothes she was comfortable in. By 10:30 p.m. Candace was back in her studio bedroom typing an email to her landlord:

Dear John,

I as of tomorrow I will no longer be a resident of 1022. I left the check for my final months rent in the office mailbox and understand that I forfeit my deposit. I have opted to leave my furnishings. I don’t have time to figure that out, but I put a sign in the lobby for people to come take them. If they remain after tomorrow I’ll accept the cost of having them removed if there is one.

Gratefully,

Candace Michaelson

She hit send, shut the laptop, and turned off the light, feeling no need for a ceremonious glance around the apartment she’d called home for five years. It was tastefully decorated with mid-priced IKEA furniture, frames, and fake plants. She always felt the décor solidified her place in the “some day I’ll climb the corporate ladder, settle down, and buy good furniture” category of upward mobility. A path she thought she wanted but knew wasn’t right.

“No more lies”, she whispered and fell asleep.

When morning arrived Candace hopped out of bed and made coffee like she always did. After a few sips of coffee, a few swipes on her a phone, she took a shower and put on the white t-shirt she and Alan tastefully designed the night before with sharpie, it read “fuck you, you’re crazy” on the front. She wore it with a black two suit jacket, her dark wash high waisted jeans, and her favorite black bitch-clicks. She styled her dark brown hair with long loose curls, and wore her favorite shade of red lipstick, the she grabbed her backpack and the big, brown cardboard box and was on her way.

The first stop was Ryan’s apartment. He would be at work when she got there. It was five miles down the road and about a two hour drive in LA traffic. She’d be late for work, but for the first time ever, felt happy about it.

Ryan and Candace had been dating for five years. He was fine. He was a real estate agent with large muscles and a proclivity for self-proclamation. Ryan’s view of Ryan was that he was the best real estate agent, weightlifter, friend, son, and boyfriend. Candace always wanted to believe him, and did until Friday when the floodgates opened on that damn Moleskin. She finally saw the truth of the matter: he sucked.

After two hours of sunshine, open windows, and anthems of the 2000’s, Candace put the brown paper wrapped box by Ryan’s door with a card that said “I’m through with you, and I blocked your number. XOXO Candace”

She drove on to the Firm where she spent the last four years building award winning ad-campaigns, upwardly managing old and incompetent white men, and watching golden boys join her rank with less experience and higher salaries. She had love for Agatha and Martie, two more experienced women who unofficially mentored her here and there, but she didn’t want to be like them: twenty years in, far from partner, and bitter. She knew they wouldn’t approve of what she was about to do, but she took solace in know that their younger selves would have cheered her on. At this point Agatha and Martie couldn’t understand. The rank and file order of office life was the rhythm of their lives, the old melodies long forgotten.

The office took up the top three floors of the Highland Rounds Building a few blocks off sunset. She went to the executive suite where Roger’s office sat in the northwestern corner.

“Hi Roger.” She said calmly as she walked into the all glass office, brown paper wrapped box.

“Candace! Where have you been? What are you wearing?” He was flustered and his face was growing redder by the second. “That! That is inappropriate. What the hell is wrong with you? The Maple Frans meeting is in forty minutes, you have to change!”

“Roger, I’m not going to that meeting, I’m late because I quit. No hard feelings, I’m just done.”

“You can’t quit like this! Why would you quit like this?” Maple Frans was the biggest fashion designer the company ever managed, the CEO, Max Ryan, was a close friend of Alan’s and took to Candace at one of Alan’s fancy cocktail parties. Today, Max and his partners were coming in for a seven figure proposal.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure Aaron and John can manage it.” She was sure they couldn’t. Max referred to guys like Aaron and John as “suckling suits”, always wearing a suit and always sucking up to some other asshole, refusing to pay any real attention to other people, particularly those who weren’t other cis gender white males.

“You can’t be serious.” He was defeated and confused. Then, a deep breath later, took on tone of concern, “Do you need mental help? I can call somebody.” Better to be a hero than to recognize defeat.

“No, Roger. I’m clear headed and I’m done. I bought you this, as a thank you.” Candace placed the box on his desk. “I wish you well.”

“You, too, Candace. But you know if you leave you can’t come back.”

“I know.” She turned and walked out.

Ten hours later, Candace was entering Death Valley with her telescope and camera. Roger was getting ready to go home, and Ryan was just arriving at his door. Both took a moment to open the brown paper wrapped box that Candace left for them, Ryan ignored the card and cut right into the gift. Under the wrapping both were very average looking boxes of cardboard. When they opened them up a mess of glitter sprang out with a pad of paper that said “Asshole!” And a pungent rotten smell spread through the room.

Better to burn bridges than to carry on, soulless and chained.