Notice

Following a decision to leave his job, Herman hears a ticking somewhere, counting down toward something better, he thinks...

When Herman gave his notice, suddenly he stopped thinking about death. Without the constant ticking of a stopwatch spurring him toward five o’clock, toward the next promotion, toward the 401k match kicking in, toward another promotion, toward retirement and cashing in on that 401k, suddenly mortality ceased to chase him.

“But what about the benefits?” his mother asked while he talked to her on the phone. “What will you do without those?”

“I can save money without a 401k, Ma, and I can afford healthcare if I’m careful,” he answered. She had taught him that much. He remembered her clipping coupons at the kitchen table when she had fewer grey hairs, and when he had no grasp on what budgeting meant beyond hoarding Teddy Grahams. Specifically the chocolate ones.

He was walking through the park at eleven in the morning, feeling rays of warming winter sun wash over his face that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Sometimes he’d get up early for a stroll before work. Sometimes he’d go for one after. But the middle of the day was sacrosanct. Those hours he sat at his desk, or on his couch, or even on the floor, never far from his computer and the screen where windows into other people’s worlds would open. Faces would appear in portals that he couldn’t pass through. He wouldn’t have wanted to, anyway. Those portals sapped something from him as they gave nothing in return. They were blackholes with far less mystery. Far less theory. Far less intrigue. Just windows into the inane and aimless prattle that paraded as work.

His mother exhaled on the other end of the phone.

“If you need money, your father and I can—”

“No, Ma. You can’t. And you won’t. I’ll be fine, seriously,” Herman said.

“OK, if you’re sure. But we’re here if—”

“I gotta go, Ma. Talk later, OK? Love ya.”

She answered in kind as Herman turned off the phone and slipped it into his coat pocket. Hands frozen. Spirit thawed. At last.

A squirrel sat on a trashcan at the corner of the park and stared at him, neither creature used to seeing the other in this light.

The phone cooled in his pocket as he replayed his mother’s words in his head.

Benefits.

What a joke.

The very notion that healthcare was a benefit always made him cringe. What the rest of the world labeled a human right, his country labeled a benefit.

What. A. Joke.

His health insurance would follow him until the end of the month and then he’d be one of those benefitless citizens again. Someone deemed unworthy of healthcare. He could pay for it, like so many did, which he would, because he saved and scrimped for this. He staved off debt, cut costs for years, and invested wisely to be able to not worry—at least for a while—about this ledge he was about to jump off with only a parachute made of secondhand sweatshirts and old college tee shirts sewn together with threads of hope, shoved tightly in his backpack.

What others called privilege, he called maniacal planning and the eschewal of anything likened to a luxury.

He hadn’t shopped retail in as many years as he had worked. Herman had developed a keen ability to darn holes in socks, eventually darning the space between two previous holes, darning the darns, his thread work holding itself together over the years as little of the original sock remained.

These things he did in secret. No one knew how he would wait outside the bakery for discarded day-old bread. No one saw him at night meeting Lenny from the supermarket for the bags of vegetables that were no longer sellable. Tribal people never worried about a “best by” date and they managed just fine.

It was just one week ago that he gave three week’s notice. Two being customary, Herman decided to give an extra one, to be nice, to lay himself out just a little bit further to be walked all over one last time as he decided how he would cope.

He had told that face on the screen that he was through. That he would pursue other opportunities.

The face forced a smile. Forced kindness. But Herman knew that if his manager could reach through the portal and ring his neck, she would. Not because she would miss him. Not because she wanted him to stay. But because she would have to replace him and explain to the company why another hen flew the coop.

That wasn’t his problem anymore.

He had brand new ones.

He thought about the little light on the screen next to his name turning yellow back in his apartment as he strolled that morning. And then he imagined it turning red. Messages might flash up asking him to do one of the dozens of tiny inconsequential things that he had done for years.

The things they’d never slip into his obituary.

Not thinking about death, about the meager eulogies they’d give, about the litany of nothings they’d write about him, about the pebble-sized impact he left on the Earth, well it would free him up in the most devilish of ways. Immortality was scary, in its own right, but Herman would prepare himself to face it.

Now he walked and wondered about all the possibilities and the things that wouldn’t tick down to an end but rather unfurl into new beginnings.

The chains rattled and tried to pull him back to his apartment, back to the computer screen.

He still had two weeks to go.

Gleefully, however, Herman dragged the tether along and continued walking through town, past the laundromat to see who washed their clothes before lunch and past the barbershop to see Sal sitting on his chair playing Sudoku in between clients. The coffee shop sat mostly empty at this liminal hour where people were glued to their work at home or in offices.

Earning their benefits.

Matching their 401ks.

Watching the time pass until there was no time left to count.

But soon he would have it all. Time. Only time. Time to do, time to think, time to discover, time to explore, time to waste. It would be his.

How to spend this fresh jackpot, however, weighed on his soul. He walked by a nursing home and considered volunteering. The bookstore could always use a helping hand. And he had no great fondness for organized religion, but the local church did enough good with its food pantry that Herman could swallow his disgust for a few days each month if it meant helping people. Like, really helping people.

Maybe he’d open his tin box of charcoals again and draw. Or he’d start tending vegetables at the community garden. He could finally get back to the piano or learn to make ramen, learn CPR or train for a triathlon, volunteer on a suicide prevent hotline or work for Meals on Wheels.

He could even write a book.

Herman hated to think of himself as a cliché, but it was hard to be unique without at least one of the world’s eight billion people having had a similar idea. It was even harder, however, to imagine a world without work—even if just for a moment. What would everyone on Earth do if they had this choice? How many would sprawl out on the floor and stare at the ceiling? Or worse, scroll listlessly on their phones?

Such hypotheticals would forever remain as such. No amount of automation or technology would soon liberate the world from the demands of work. Capitalism made sure of that. It was part of being human. Ants understood shared labor, but humans evolved past that a long time ago and couldn’t go back anymore than they could return to the trees or pick bugs off each other and eat them with any amount of dignity.

Even Herman would have to find a way to earn money soon. Later. Not immediately. But he’d find a job that suited him. A consultant role. A freelance gig. Something where he could provide value. He just wasn’t sure what kind of value.

His brain raced. Tiny signals popped between neurons, a flurry of images and thoughts and ideas and hopes and fears and passions all cascaded through him. The introduction of time and the breaking of the stopwatch filled him with the nutritious hope for creative output and human connection that he longed for, trapped in his screen for what felt like centuries, the mirror smashed and the spirits free to wander the world of the living once more.

Liberated.

But floating untethered meant bending to other whims.

The wind would decide for him.

For now, that enticed Herman, left him drooling to know where each originless breeze would send him.

As long as the wind was kind.

It sounded nice.

Freeing.

Yeah, he could deal with that.

For a while.

Maybe.

To wander. Get lost.

To feel lost.

To be lost.

Lose himself.

His stomach began to turn in the same way when he thought too much about what was inside a blackhole, trying to imagine what gravity would feel like pulling him in three dimensions or ripping his neutrons from his protons into a vacuum that had to lead somewhere or else why did it exist at all. The impossibility of knowing immediately shook him and twisted his insides.

He needed a hit to calm himself.

The image of the blackhole yet again reminded him of the computer screen, and he felt a tug.

Herman raced back across the park where the squirrel had abandoned its trash can. Noon approached as he headed to his apartment. He hustled up the stairs and fumbled with his keys as he unlocked the door and closed it behind him, rushing up the stairs, finding his computer screen blank.

With a jiggle of the mouse, the portal to other worlds opened again. The red light suddenly blinked green. He heard the metallic clink of the shackles on his ankle again. It felt tighter than before, but familiar. Comfortable. Anchoring.

Reminder: 12:15 meeting with Vanessa about new strategy

“Hey Herman, can you find the 2024 ROI report on SharePoint for me?”

Reminder: 2:30 touch base with Design Team

“Herman, I’m so sad to see you go! Can you make sure I have your handover document by 3?”

Reminder: 3:00 handover document to manager for review

The tiny messages popped up, soon to be replaced by faces, soon thereafter to be replaced by darkness. Just two more weeks, he told himself. The stopwatch activated again, ticking down again. This time to his recovery. That much he knew.

It would take time to get used to it.

To wean off the familiarity of it all.

But Herman didn’t think about death as much anymore, and soon he knew he’d be thinking about and doing so many more beautiful things. He just had two more weeks before he could cleanse himself of this drug that was all he knew, the corporate benefits that were serving him like a high after the needle leaves the arm. Serving him unnaturally. The detox would start soon. He’d be awash in time and possibility and new beginnings, as he hoped for, as he needed.

But now it was 12:14 and Herman knew he had to take another hit as he felt the familiar cuff dig into his ankle, the chains rattle, and the window on his screen popped open into that dark world where colleagues raced to collect their retirement and die.

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