"Which one of us?" I ask.
"Oh...um...Brooklyn."
Brooklyn looks at me with a what did I do now? and I shrug back with a beats me.
Brooklyn locks his computer screen and heads back to the already crowded corner office. The Assistant Manager stays at his station. He looks over at me with an apologetic look, reaches below the counter and holds a pose long enough to power down Brooklyn's computer.
I should be angry enough to yell. I should be pissed that these guys are getting the best of a better guy. At the very least I should be outraged by the fact that Brooklyn is escaping before me. I feel nothing. If anything, I'm pissed that I'm not more upset.
There is no anger where there is no surprise. I don't have the facts, but I don't need them. I know he didn't steal anything, was never late and he hit his numbers. So maybe a customer had enough with his sarcasm, that becomes a manager's call. Maybe Brooklyn talked back to Cock Bombay one too many times, still not an automatic termination. Whatever he's in there for, I'm sure it's a judgement call by Cock Bombay and the Bobble Head and I'm sure the call is "execution." Whatever, I'm pretty sure Brooklyn can handle this. He's a tough guy.
The Assistant Manager logs in to Brooklyn's computer with his own code and informs me he'll be finishing out the rest of Brooklyn's shift. I nod, knowing that he'll be asking me for help and I'll be listening to him squirm to respond to customer curve balls. The door in the corner opens and stays open. A Union representative walks out first, with a clipboard and tote bag. Brooklyn follows. His face is red. Shit.
With all the fantasizing we've done about leaving this place, this is not the way it was supposed to happen. The ignominy of being fired shows in Brooklyn's eyes as they blink away the shock and the pain. I feel a lump in my throat and find it hard to swallow. I try to make eye contact but it doesn't last long before Brooklyn shakes his head and walks out the front door. I make an attempt to clear my throat and my body exhales with a shudder. There is a line of oblivious customers waiting to be helped. Fearing "customer avoidance" could be my final act of insubordination, I know I can't take a break right now. My voice cracks a little as I read the next name from the list.
I don't know where my friend has gone. I don't know why he had to go. Given Cock Bombay's enigmatic tendencies, I doubt Brooklyn knows too much about what just happened. The only thing either of us knows for sure is that I'm buying him a beer at six o' clock.
