Terminated

No one else.

My cellphone rings. The boss. I ignore it, but I know this is a summons I can't escape for long. Instantly, I am separated from those who fled here beside me. The people across the table are now simply workers on lunch break arguing over pizza toppings -- mushroom or pepperoni?

I am a fugitive.

The 4700 Club

But I am still the class clown. I excuse myself to "go get fired" and promise to return before the pizza arrives.

At the office, I make it back to my desk, but the boss, who must have choked down a sandwich while we were gone, is quickly over my shoulder like a garlic-breathing dragon: "Terry, can I see you for a minute?"

And the termination minute is not an exaggeration. It is all a blur as I sit in the tiny office with him and the HR woman and nod and nod and nod, the way you do when you buy a car or close on a house; anxiously waiting for the command to initial there and there and there and sign here and here so you can be on your way.

I already know there will be days, weeks, to sit around in my underwear and study these papers. "I always prefer to read the fine print in my underwear," I almost blurt out, but I do not want to kid or laugh with these people. The pizza is getting cold.

The company is beyond giving reasons for dismissing employees, but, as the HR woman shuffles papers, I go through a checklist in my head, trying to decipher why I was chosen. Age? In context, I'm only a little older than Prince and not nearly as old as Jerry Seinfeld. Performance? I can see my "Staffer of the Year" trophy from here. Money? That was the rumor -- they whacked the three who made the most. But all things considered, I thought I came pretty cheap.

The HR woman gets up to make a copy of a final form declaring that I do not possess a company BlackBerry. While she is gone, the boss stiffly sits as witness in a chair against the wall, and my thoughts travel from the immediacy of the paperwork to wondering if, after 18 years with the company, I will get even a simple, "Thank you for your service."

Where are the kind words? In the end, even death row prison guards get a little sweet on their condemned prisoners, pamper them in those final moments. In the movies, the predator that killed 42 innocents ultimately gets a, "Hey, you're not all that bad, Jimmy Ray," before they shave his ankles and strap him down. But I am getting nothing but loud and clear silence.

The HR woman hands me the last form to initial, smiles politely, and that is that. I briskly grab the folder as if it's an annoying car-detailing flier left under my windshield wiper at a strip mall and head toward the door. The boss lays a not-so-subtle maneuver on me in case I want to try and pull off a wave, but he's oblivious to the fact that there is no one left to wave goodbye to. When I reach the foyer, I hear an urgent, "Hey, Terry!"

Okay, I get it. Here it comes. The boss was only waiting to get out of earshot of HR to show his true appreciation. Here it comes, here it comes . . . "What's your code?"