Two Weeks' Notice

I might do this to some of our old Meridian systems on my way out.

I’m honestly kind of pissed that Neil Sedaka made as much money as he did off of ‘Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.’ Because really, what does that sentiment offer to the world that we don’t already know? I mean, crap, dude, if I’d known that people were into songs about blatantly obvious things I would’ve skipped this whole blog business and gone to work penning chart topping hits like, “Eating Ice Cream Too Fast Gives You Brain Freeze” or “Spider Man 3 Was Disappointing.”

The reason I bring this up is because I had to break up with my job the other day, in anticipation of going back up to school in September, and even though the process went smoothly it was not easy or enjoyable.

I’m not really an expert about breaking up – I’m more of an expert about being broken up with. Most of my girlfriends have had the good sense to take a long, hard look at their lives and say “Oh my God. I’m dating Truman Capps,” which is always a shocking enough revelation to convince them that they want to be single again. This has usually worked out pretty well for me, as being dumped warrants zero personal guilt, vast amounts of pity (both self and from others), and a weeklong period when it’s socially acceptable to drink whenever you want to.

Admittedly, my breakup with The Ex Girlfriend ended with her donating my box set of Freaks and Geeks to Goodwill, but in spite of my DVDs’ valiant sacrifice it’s still preferable to be the victim.

NEVAR FORGET

On the few occasions that I’ve instigated a breakup, on the other hand, I’m always left feeling like some sort of callous, diabolical asshole – as well you should when you tell someone you don’t want to spend time with them on a regular basis, I suppose. And in most cases, a bunch of other people start to see me that way too – namely the girl’s friends, who no longer appreciate this dorky addition to their social life, or her parents, who until then had all but worshipped me for my politeness and Republican, seemingly asexual outward appearance.

Believe it or not, though, the experience is more awkward when quitting a job, as I just found out, because essentially what you’re saying is, “You couldn’t pay me to work here. You tried, and it worked for a while, but now I would gladly trade a steady income in the midst of a horrible recession in exchange for not being an employee here anymore.”

And, y’know, maybe that’s cool if you’re one of the 96% of Americans who hate their jobs, but I’m not. I like my job, as I’ve mentioned before. And I like my boss, which is why it just about broke my heart when, once I’d walked into his office and stumbled over my words, he said, “Aw, Truman, are you leaving us?”

This hasn’t been an issue at the other jobs I’ve done – when I washed cars or bussed tables or made milkshakes, I did so with the understanding between myself and my supervisor that at the end of the summer I’d be off to school. Also, I hated those jobs. Like, a lot. And I was bad at those jobs. Like, really bad, which is presumably why I didn’t get hired back.

Roundhouse Kick Entertainment is different, though, because this is a career style job, the kind that people go to college and compete with one another to get, and I got it through luck and friends in (relatively) high places in spite of the fact that I wasn’t 100% qualified for it at the time. Also, in my interview I was purposefully vague about my plans to finish my degree in Oregon. The point is, my boss had stuck his neck out by hiring me on the spot, and by quitting the job to go back to school I feel as though I’m taking a dump on his kindness – metaphorically donating a bunch of his DVDs to Goodwill, perhaps.

Of course, this is what I’m feeling – it didn’t go down like that at all. My boss was completely understanding and encouraged me to give him a call next summer when I come down here for realsies; for this reason he is, as always, a straight up G.* I provide my own crushing guilt, whether it’s warranted or not.

*Everything I need to know about ebonics I learned from watching season 1 of The Wire.

Unlike breaking up with a girl, though, that’s not the end – I was just giving my boss my two weeks’ notice today. This means that for the next two weeks I’m walking past his office, preparing to vacate this badass position he cleared for me, feeling ‘ol Mr. Guilt every time he looks at me. Imagine dating a girl for two months, then buying her dinner and saying, “This isn’t working out. Let’s break up in two weeks.”

As with all breakups, though, I know I’m better off. Los Angeles is a big, vibrant place full of activity and culture and sweaty homeless Mexican dudes asking you for change, and it’s been fun living less than six miles away from Jack Nicholson, but it’s also been pretty lonely from time to time, seeing as my social circle down here consists of Patrick, my cousin Gene, and my two roommates whenever they aren’t asleep or out getting drunk with chicks they met on the Internet at trendy nightclubs.

What was perhaps most strange was that last night I was lying awake fantasizing about being back at college – this coming from the guy who spent much of this past year fantasizing about having a job in the entertainment industry in LA. Frustrating as it may be to take classes for a career path I’m all but certain I won’t pursue, it’s one hell of a lot better than working a full time job and having to pretend I’m an adult.

Truman Capps will miss those sweet, sweet paychecks, and that sweet, sweet employee kitchen.