Five years earlier.
“Boss?” I leaned hunched against the doorframe of my boss’s office, as so often when we talked to each other.
“Dennis,” he said without taking his eyes away from the screen. He continued writing whatever he currently worked on. A shared habit, only paying attention if the topic was worthwhile.
“How would we proceed,” my words lingering for a moment unspoken on my tongue, “if I quit my job right now?“
My pulse raced, and I could feel my heart punching hard jabs against the inner rib cage. Adrenaline shot through my body’s veins, leaving me in cold sweats and almost shaking. I took a deep breath to avoid ending up with a seizure. That would have been embarrassing.
But I said it. And with the words finally spoken, I was in unknown territory. My life had always been a straightforward line of other people’s suggestions, sold to me as choices. So from early teenager years my career seemed obvious:
“You like sitting in front of the computer, Dennis, so why not work in an office?”
As a 13-year-old boy, rather dim-witted with rational thinking, the logic was sound. So while working with a computer sounded great, I never spent a second thought on the fact that I loved the computer for playing games.
One year earlier.
“Mr. Jingles?” I stood straight in my blue collared working shirt and matching pants. Since the generic clothing the company provided wouldn’t accommodate my size, I wore my pants with legs rolled up just under the knees. While it was a refreshing style in summer, it left people shaking their heads in winter. I didn’t mind. I stopped giving a fuck about people’s opinion some time ago.
My boss eyed me with suspicion. A habit he adapted ever since I returned from my long-term vacation two years earlier. He granted me a straight eight week holiday which set a precedent for others as well, and ever since spread amongst his workers like the plague.
Although I remained a good working-drone, he met all my intentions with appropriate skepticism.
“Mr. Vigazzz,” he said with a growl. I enjoyed calling him by his last name, even though we were on a first name basis. My tone always implied an underlying humor, as well as a rebellion against authority. He returned the favor with equal grace.
“Thank you for the chance you gave me here,” I said with a genuine smile, “and the time I had. You’ve been a good boss, therefore I grant you the privilege of informing you as early as possible.“
His expression dulled, and he sighed, probably asking himself why he always had to deal with this shit.
“Do I need to sit down for this?” a corner of his mouth quirked up.
“Do you have heart problems?“
“Probably after our conversion.“
I smiled. “I’m quitting my job. Just wanted you to know first.“
This caught him off guard, and he raised his eyebrows.
“Why?“
”I want to hike around the world. But don’t worry, I’ll not leave until next year.”
“Then why the fuck telling me now?“ Annoyed, he turned around and left me standing alone. Still smiling, I turned to my favorite colleague.
“C’mon, let’s go to the vending machine and have the famous chemical brew they advertise as soup here. I just quit my job.“
Four years laid in between the decisions of quitting the only two jobs I had in my life. As a German, you identify yourself with work. The job differentiates you from your neighbors and people you meet. It’s a trademark of your life and you display it like the team crest of your favorite football club. It’s the ultimate status symbol and determinator of rank in social hierarchy. I was proud of my first job and loved the company with every insane fiber of my body. Working overtime, every weekend, and only rested on holidays. I identified with the brand, the people, and everything we stood for. What started as a job became my life and, more than once, referred to the office as home. However, things changed.
Once fun and motivating, it turned into stress and depression. I never dread the mornings, waking up and going to work, but there was no excitement anymore either.
So after a long day at work, I did the only sensible thing: I went to a bar.
Sitting at an empty table staring blindly into my phone, I started typing a message. I left the words with the phone on the ground of a lake, but the essence prevailed. It read like this:
Dear Dennis,
It’s Wednesday, my dude, and you’re sitting sober in a bar. Sounds weird, I know, but hear me out:
You haven’t been happy in your job for a while and you know things have to change to make it better. If not, it will only spiral downward and we don’t want to go there.
For me, however, it’s not the time to get out. There’s neither enough money saved, nor a plan B on the horizon to break the cycle.
This message will serve as a reminder, timer set for exactly one year into the future. I hope things got better, but if not…if you’re still sad, angry and without motivation, do us both the favor: quit your job and find something new.
Love, Dennis.
“I got a letter on my desk today.“ Mr. Jingles stood a head smaller than me, one hand tucked in his pants at the small of his back, the other one angled on his hip. I always imagined him as the world’s-worst-poker-player, since he advertised his emotions like a billboard. Unconsciously, he chose his wardrobe to express his daily mood and if that failed, the color of his face and pulsing vein on the neck did the rest.
“A love letter?“ I asked. Of course, I knew which letter he referred to. I put it there myself.
“I thought it was just a joke!“ he blurted.
“A joke I was telling you for an entire year now. Congratulations, you arrived at the punch-line.“
“So you really want to quit?“
“Already did.“ I said with a smile.