Chapter 3: Public Humiliation and Old Wounds

Back at my desk, I started packing. Eight years of my life crammed into a cardboard box from the supply closet.

Footsteps—expensive ones—approached. Chris strolled in, trailed by his new clique, all eager and overdressed. His smirk made me feel like a stray dog begging outside a steakhouse.

“Some people have zero self-awareness,” he announced, making sure everyone heard. “Just a regular employee, but because he’s been here awhile, he thinks he’s the boss!”

He raised his voice, putting on a show. “Taking ten times the salary of everyone else, running up company expenses, never in the office. Should we keep this kind of person around for the holidays?”

People stopped typing. Jenny from accounting fiddled with her pen, eyes fixed on her spreadsheet. Mike from IT pretended his headphones were on.

Chris’s cronies piled on:

“Mr. Miller, you’re so right! We need to get rid of these parasites!”

“Mr. Miller, you’re wise! Only strong leaders like you can create a better future for the company!”

“I suggest we investigate Jake Foster before he leaves—who knows if he embezzled anything!”

I stood there, watching the circus. Recognized a few faces—Chris’s old frat buddies, probably never worked a real job in their lives.

These brownnosers were all new, brought in by Chris, probably promised fast promotions.

The company was a project management firm, handling investments and government deals. Complicated stuff that required connections and finesse.

I’d joined straight out of college, when we were just a dozen people, working in a strip mall next to a Chinese takeout, growing from nothing to a public company.

The journey wasn’t smooth. During the pandemic, we almost went under. We all took pay cuts, worked from home, kept the lights on with duct tape and hope.

Most of the old crew left. I was the only one who stayed. The last original left standing.

The boss was getting old and said before Thanksgiving that his son would soon start from the bottom. But everyone knew “bottom” meant a corner office with a lake view.

I set my box on the desk, arms crossed, letting them do their show. My coffee mug clinked against my stapler. Eight years, out like this.

Chris’s face darkened when he saw I wasn’t reacting. He leaned in, cologne choking, whispering in my ear, “You’re just a nobody living off my dad’s company. You’re not even good enough to shine my shoes.”