15 MINUTES ON A TUESDAY

He will spend approximately 15 minutes with you right before lunch on a Tuesday, hemming and hawing himself into a protective blanket; a comfortable barrier which will allow him the position of being an innocent pawn in the game. His speech will not be original, and your ears will only pick out about half of what he will say, while you stare at his mahogany desk set and Dilbert calendar.
"Problems in the economy,.. downsizing through the company,.. it's hit us pretty hard,.. wish there was more I could do,.. all your hard work."
And don't laugh at his jokes. You have never laughed before, no sense in starting now. Accept your severance check for $2,154.97, and calmly stride out of the door, propelled by waves of relief at his having scuttled your employer-to-employee relationship so easily.
He will mark your name off his schedule, and enjoy something containing the word 'lite' for lunch; you will head directly to your desk and begin clearing it out.
But wait, this is important. Right before you open your front drawer, look up suddenly. Faster than David Copperfield, you will see a dozen heads snap in the opposite direction. Remarkable things will suddenly require their attention on the opposite wall; there will be important phone calls to make, and items of interest to file in drawers that are normally never opened. Your co-workers will smell the sickly stench of separation on you. Don't drop your eyes; stare pointedly around the room without glaring. Savor this moment.
Now, pick up your bag and leave everything else right where it is. There's nothing useful in those drawers; there never will be. A spectrum of Stabilo highlighters you will never use, two packages of Swiss Miss with imitation marshmallows, and some handouts you will never read. Your next concern is getting past the receptionist without her putting you in her prayers. I mean, do you really want to hear about how your getting canned from this shitty job is all part of God's plan? I doubt it. Time your pace to coincide with the ringing of the phone, thus clearing your path straight to the elevator. Press the "down" button, and don't forget to exhale as the door slides shut.
Use your bus pass to get home, and savor the empty streets as you walk the block to your brownstone, breathing cold, crisp Autumn air. Don't panic. Fix yourself a generous meal and sit down at the table to plot your next move.
You will draw up a stack of handwritten fliers advertising all your worldly possessions at rock bottom prices, and haul box after box of crap down to the pawnshop, accepting anything they offer you. You will subsist on the last of your groceries, close your checking account and donate, sell, throw away, or burn everything else. Less is more.
Four days later, you will be sitting in an otherwise empty apartment looking at everything you own: a sleeping bag, a rucksack containing a mixed variety of clothing-- some of it lightweight and comfortable, some of it heavier and built for rough weather-- a mess kit you traded your CD player for, your passport, a flashlight, a first-aid kit with other toiletries in it, sunglasses, your watch, a pair of boots and a pair of sandals, and a few odds and ends. You will have $4,000 dollars in small bills and change to your name.
There will be one thing left to do. You will lock the door and walk three blocks to the used car lot where you saw the large panel van for sale: "$1,000 OBO". You will get it for half of that, along with two new spare tires. It will start right up, and you will swing by a garage for a tune-up and a few automotive necessities-- among them, an atlas. Drive home.
You will collect your gear, call three friends and tell them you will write from the road, get in the van, start it up, and drive into the setting sun with a grin wide enough to split your skull. You have no idea where you are going, but feel there is no sense in being late.