I’ve spent the last six months as a contract worker covering a full-time employee’s pregnancy leave, and although my girlfriend — favoring stability of employment over strictness of fidelity — has suggested I knock up the returning new mother again so that I can hang onto her job a while longer, I’m diving back into the full-time freelance world of three- to seven-day weekends as of five o’clock this sunny Friday afternoon.
“I’m sorry to see you go,” says one of my more cantankerous older male co-workers. “I’m going to have to spend the next six fucking months listening to baby stories.”
“As a matter of fact, I have a million baby stories,” I say. “I’ve just been saving them for today to tell you all at once.”
“Oh, okay. Let’s hear them.”
“Well, for instance, this one time, I killed a baby. And then I ate it.”
“How’d you kill it?”
“I put it in the driver’s seat of a car in the garage, then ran a hose from the exhaust pipe in through the window to make it look like a suicide.”
“Ha,” he says. “I’m stealing that one.”
When I came in today, I was pretty sure that my legacy after I left the office for the last time would consist merely of a tattered Post-It note telling my co-workers to put the milk back in the office fridge after opening it. So I’m happy to leave him with that one.
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