How to Quit Your Day Job

Write a letter, several of them. One to The Big Boss, heavy-handed, full-blooded, yet without misgivings, without grievance, without insouciance, one that enumerates The Reasons in painstaking detail. One to Arturo, more of a manifesto than a letter, one that confirms his worst suspicions, political in nature, concerning my generation’s repetition of his generation’s mistakes. One to Chip, a countercultural Pass-the-Torch letter that bequeaths to her the volumes of subversive literature hidden in the nooks and crannies of The Community Center. One to The Celebrities, expressing your admiration and ongoing loyalty to their cause, letting them in on the secret. Ink up the pages. Spare no detail, however insignificant. Leave nothing unsaid. Write until the well is empty. Write until you fall asleep or until the sun breeches the treeline, whichever comes first.

Keep the letters, then, in the front pocket of your beige coveralls. Consult them, if necessary, throughout your shift. Otherwise, allow their arguments to seep in, to permeate your actions, to inform your mood, to steer you in the right direction, towards the right outcome, the inevitable conclusion, your two-weeks’ notice.

Wait until the conditions ripen, until the time is right, until your pulse is steady, until the temptation to backpedal subsides, until any possibility of misfire is out of the question.

You will recognize the moment when it arrives. The air will have a rarefied quality. The rays of sunlight will seem longer than usual, more fragile on the pavement, suggestive. The crows will squabble and hurl insults from the tops of the tallest trees, the cottonwoods, or perhaps valuable advice. The squirrels will be out of their nests, chasing circles around the bark of the trunks, two by two, or working diligently, industriously, administering innumerable stashes of hidden acorns. You will breathe easier at that moment. You will feel expansive, buoyant, as you cross the threshold, as the double doors to The Community Center open at your approach.

It will be the first time in months, the first time since you were hired, perhaps, that you enter the building through the main entrance. No, the Side Entrance will not do, the janitor entrance, around the side of the building, hidden in the brush, secret almost. No, not today. Today you will come out into the open. Today you will feel the sunlight, benevolent, redemptive, on the skin of your face.

Illustration by Rakuro Taniuchi

Walk briskly through the foyer yet without compromising your composure, without showing your hand. Lock your sights on the last door at the end of the hallway, the Inner Sanctum, The Big Boss’s office, her workly abode. Do not falter or deviate. Any hesitation, any misstep, could endanger the whole endeavor. It’s a delicate operation after all, as delicate as it is indispensable.

Knock firmly but without desperation, without aggression. Be polite but not meek as you step through the doorway into her office. Without looking up from the email that she is supposedly composing, without meeting your eyes, The Big Boss will ask you to take a seat across the desk from her. Whatever you do, do not walk into the trap, do not set off the tripwire.

The seconds will string together and congeal into a wall of silence, but do not interpret this as a slight, yet another humiliation, an illegitimate exercise of power. Any resentment would only taint your poise and discolor your words and blunt their edges. This is no time for moralizing. Wait as long as you have to, unaffected, out of reach, equanimous, until The Big Boss’s words come, her formula, prefabricated. “Now, what is it that I can do for you?”

As it turns out, The Big Boss is not the only one who has read the script before the performance of the scene. When it comes time to say your lines, don’t improvise. Get straight to the point. Give no information that isn’t strictly necessary, despite the letters in the front pocket of your beige coveralls. Reveal nothing of your intentions, of your longing to exercise your profession, none of the details of The Blueprint. Speak only in platitudes.

Inform The Big Boss that it is “with a heavy heart” that you must put in your two-week’s notice. You have scrutinized the situation “from every possible angle” and unfortunately “there isn’t a scenario in which you would be able to continue in your duties” as Faithful Custodian of the Center. Naturally, you would be more than happy to “show a new hire the ropes,” that is, to introduce them into The Custodial Code, to initiate them into the Secret Society of Janitors.

You would like to take the opportunity, furthermore, to “express your deepest gratitude” for the “valuable learning experience” of cleaning the dirty toilet bowls of The Community Center over the past year. Reassure The Big Boss that you hold “fond memories” of the hairballs in the floor drains and that you will keep those fond memories “close to your heart” as you “embark on this new journey in your professional life.”

It will then be the Big Boss’s turn to read from the script and express that she is “sad to see you go.” Abandoning herself to rhetorical flourish, she might even suggest that “there will always be a place for you at The Center,” if you were to change your mind.

Push the chair back gently with the back of your thighs as you stand up. Shake The Big Boss’s hand across the desktop. Notice how she meets your gaze for the first time, just an instant, as you reach for the doorknob.

The next two weeks will be marked by the strictest discretion, bordering on secrecy. You must not discuss any aspect of The Plan with anyone who isn’t a co-conspirator. The fact that janitors are mostly invisible will make it easier to make it to The End without drawing unnecessary attention to your situation, as it progresses ever more rapidly towards its final resolution.

Bring a satchel full of books with you to your last shift, the most careful selection, and a change of clothes. Bring an overcoat, long enough to conceal the bolt cutters. Clock out at your regular time but stay much later, as long as necessary, until all the floors shine, until all the surfaces gleam like never before, until all the loose ends have been adequately tied up. Then venture out the Side Door, without looking over your shoulder, into the clement night, into its protective silence. Follow the winding pathways through the trunks of the giant trees, one last time, until you get to the trainline. The moonlight on the tracks will indicate the right direction. It will be near morning by the time you reach The Fence. Remove the bolt cutters ceremoniously from your overcoat and cut a handful of links, the minimum necessary, until the hole is large enough to slip through. Since you won’t be needing them, you can leave the bolt cutters in the shrubbery as you pass through to The Other Side, to the life that is waiting for you there, right there where you left it the first time.