The Dirty Truth

“Tom.” I strut toward the living room window, take in the gray cityscape below, and swallow a cleansing breath. “Working for that man has been nothing short of a nightmare. We both know it. He needed to read what I wrote, and I needed to write what I wrote. Maybe ending my career with a swan song isn’t the most professional thing in the world, but there’s no going back now. Just tell him you confirmed my decision and you’ll work with HR to find a replacement.”

In five years, I’ve never once had to tell my boss how to do his job.

“Oh Lord.” Tom moans into the phone. “Speak of the devil. He’s beeping in. I have to go.”

He ends the call before I have a chance to say goodbye, though I’m sure it won’t be the last time we speak.

“So?” Indie readies a spoonful of cereal. “What’s the good word?”

“He’s freaking out,” I say. “He just needs a full twenty-four hours to process this, and he’ll be fine.”

“You sure you made the right decision, babe?”

I hesitate, though I’m not sure why. “Like it matters now.”

“Am I picking up on a little doubt?” Rising from the table, she pours her milk down the sink and places her dishes in the dishwasher.

“You’re picking up on a little bit of everything.”

“What’s that saying? Fortune favors the bold?” She lifts a shoulder and gifts me with a reassuring smile as if it could possibly make any of this less nerve racking.

“Not trying to be bold or brave,” I say. “I was thinking about my obituary this morning, after I finished my article.”

She chokes. “Your obituary? Why?”

“I was thinking about what it would’ve said had I died two months ago,” I say before correcting myself: “I mean if I’d stayed dead.”

“Okay . . .”

“It would’ve mentioned my parents and my sisters and maybe my college and that I worked at a men’s magazine . . . but that’s it.”

Indie shrugs. “You’ve accomplished more in your thirty years than some people accomplish in a lifetime.”

“Maybe, but until you’re faced with your own mortality, you don’t realize all the time you’ve wasted on things that don’t matter. Meaningless things.”

“You think your life has been meaningless so far?” Her voice carries a delicate pitch.

“No,” I say. “Not entirely. Just parts of it. So I’m removing the parts that are meaningless and replacing them with things that have meaning. At least that’s my plan. I want to write think pieces. Articles that inspire people to take action and move them to change their lives or the lives of those around them. I want my work to have made other people’s lives better. Also, I want to make people’s lives better. And I can’t do that if I’m stuck behind a corporate desk five days a week.”

I’m fortunate to be able to work at all. Many people who have suffered my same fate can’t say the same. My recovery has been easier than most, which is all the more reason I should dedicate myself to more worthwhile endeavors.

Hunched over the counter, she purses her lips together. “Okay, so you had your three a.m. epiphany and quit your job.”

“Exactly.”

“And now you’re going to find a meaningful job that pays enough so we don’t get evicted and we’re not living on the streets by Christmas?” She tosses me a wink, though I’ve known Indie long enough to know she’s only half teasing.

“I promise no one’s getting evicted.” I draw an X across my heart.

“If anyone can make this work, it’s you,” she says with a resolved sigh, as if she’s conjuring nostalgic memories from our college-roommate days.

I first met Indie when she was in my Intro to Journalism class. It took her half a semester before she realized she was terrible at writing and better suited for graphic design. A few years later, when we were making our postgraduation plans, I talked her into moving to Manhattan, despite the fact that she’s very much a country girl at heart. It didn’t take long for her city wings to spread.

“And for the record,” she adds, “I can list a million things you’ve done in your life that are meaningful. But at the end of the day, all that matters is your list. I’m with you either way, okay? You’ve got my full support. Just don’t miss rent, okay?”

Shuffling across the room, I wrap my best friend slash roommate in a tight hug, breathing in her perpetual vanilla-apricot scent.

“Can I just say . . . I’m so glad you didn’t die,” she says.

Silence settles between us.

And then laughter.

“Same,” I say, wiping a happy-sad tear from my eye.

Breaking away, I head to the shower to clear my head and decide what to do with the next several hours of my life. My first taste of freedom may have started on a bitter note, but the second bite will be sweet—I’ll make sure of that.