Today.
Today was the hard day. Today was the day I made the difficult phone calls to colleagues I've worked with for years.
Half were happy for me that I was leaving and getting out. Even the knowledge that, as of right now, I've no job lined up didn't temper that excitement. It was, one said, “the best thing that could happen to” me. Discontent runs deep in the company.
Half were upset. I expected that. One expressed the wish that he could be as bold — “You're so lucky — I feel trapped.” One cried. One expressed a depth of anger that surprised even me — “You're not leaving,” he said. “That's fucking bullshit, man. You don't leave. Fucking bullshit.” He said that on the salesfloor — I could tell. I'd have done the same, had the positions been reversed.
The hardest phone call was to my former employee. He promised he'd come by the store and see me before I go. He'd better — I'd be hurt if he didn't.
As the day wore on I'd occasionally feel sad as I realized that I'd see many of these regular customers never again. There are some I'd love to see again, and I know I won't. That, too, makes me sad.
Eventually, the day wore down. And then it was done.
I picked up Hugh Laurie's novel, The Gun Seller, at Barnes & Noble off the bargain table after work. I'd always wanted to read it, I wondered why some enterprising publisher didn't try and capitalize off the success of Laurie and House. It seems that Soho did, and ended up remaindering off their stock.
Now, after George Harrison and All Things Must Pass, bed. Sigh.