My Boss Took My Badge Before Checking The Closing Folder

Dorian fired me beside a stack of napkins.

I had drawn the South Memphis depot on one of them. Four blue squares marked the lanes we needed to keep clear for the morning returns. The company sale was due to close the next day, but trucks still needed room to turn.

"Leave that," he said. "We have people for the warehouse now."

I was the people for the warehouse.

At thirty-seven, I was a lean Nigerian American man with dark brown skin, close-cut black hair, and a small pale scar through my left eyebrow.

My title was operations planner at Riverbrace Pallet Company. I moved reusable freight pallets among three Tennessee depots, kept repair crews fed with damaged stock, and made sure customers got enough sound units for their next load.

I earned $58,000 a year. Dorian knew that number better than he knew our trailer capacity.

Dorian Vale was a broad white man of forty-four with swept-back sandy hair, a deep tan, and silver glasses he wore low on his nose.

His watch cost more than my car. He checked it while our forklift charger tripped for the third time that week.

"The buyer wants a lean team," he said.

"Did the buyer say that?"

"I speak for the company."

We stood outside his office, where anyone could hear. That was part of it. He liked a small crowd when he made someone smaller.

"Your access ends at five. Two weeks' pay if you sign the release."

He handed me three pages and a pen that had his name on it.

I read the pages.

"This releases claims in every capacity," I said.

"Standard language."

"Then standard language can wait for my lawyer."

He smiled at the word lawyer.

"Chidi, you're a scheduling employee. You don't have equity. Don't turn a small exit into a large mistake."

I set his pen down.

"Please send my final wages to the account on file."

He took my badge before I reached the last line of the release.

In the break room, I packed my mug, a ruler, and the little pencil tin my father had used at his repair shop. I left company records in the drawer. I took only the napkin with my lunch order on its clean side.

Priya Sen found me there.

She was forty, an Indian American transaction accountant hired to help the buyer check our sale papers. Her dark braid hung over a gray jacket. She looked at my box, then at the clock.

"Excellent," she said. "They removed the person who knows where things are. That should speed up counting."

"Ask for a depot count before you sign off."

"I have asked. They gave me a spreadsheet."

"A square on paper isn't a pallet."

I turned the napkin over and drew a square. Then I left its right side open.

"Our return list has gaps," I said. "I sent three written requests for a full count. April, June, and last month. Ask for those too."

She studied the open square.

"Can I call you?"

"On my own number."

Outside, the heat rose from the lot even though October was almost over. A freight train moved beyond the fence. I sat in my old sedan until the crossing bell stopped.

Then I called Everett Bell.

"They let you go?" he asked.

"Today."

Everett had lent Riverbrace money for pallets, wash equipment, and repair benches. He was retiring to be near his daughter in Cookeville. His equipment note was overdue, and Dorian had treated each payment notice like an ad for new windows.

"You have the originals?" Everett asked.

"In my bank box. Mara has copies."

Mara Cole was my lawyer. I had hired her before I bought anything.

"Then don't argue in a parking lot," he said.

"I didn't."

"Good. Paper hears better than men like him."

At home, I warmed rice and stew, then opened the envelope Mara had given me ten days earlier. Inside was the board's written acknowledgment of my outside transaction. I had disclosed it. I had stepped away from all company borrowing work. Nobody could honestly call it a trap.

There was also a delivery receipt. Riverbrace's finance office had received notice of the transfer eleven days before my firing.

Dorian had been copied.

He had spent that week choosing a jacket for his closing photo.

I called Mara.

"They want a release from me," I said.

"As an employee?"

"In every capacity."

She went quiet, then asked me to bring the envelope in the morning.

I laid its last page on my kitchen table. Everett's signature sat above mine. The heading read Assignment Of Note And Security Agreement.

Under New Holder, in black ink, was my name.