My former company messed up royally, and the resulting exodus was glorious.

My own manager was, to put it bluntly, a monster in a human suit, and even that description probably insults monsters.

The final trigger for just about everyone was the end-of-year reviews. Water-cooler whispers around the lower-rung staff said that everyone who wasn’t management got reviews that were less than stellar, regardless of how hard the employees worked. Many were denied raises entirely and were given a story about how the company simply couldn’t afford to give out raises this year. Some were given chump change and were told that this was the best management could do. By chump change, I mean that some people got $0.05 more per hour, and those were the naïve or desperate who busted their a**es in the hopes of earning recognition. This set the staff on a low simmer.

The true slip-up happened when Human Resources sent a number of emails to the wrong people: the supervisors. In our company, supervisors were doing management work without management benefits and with a laughable increase in pay. The emails blatantly instructed anyone of (actual) management rank and above to spin the exact story we were fed. The email acknowledged that the company was facing record profits, and to prove it, management and those higher were being given incredibly generous (hush money) raises.

This switched the simmer to a roiling boil instantly. The supervisors were hardly even a step above the rest of us, and they had already been having a negative reaction to the nonsense-level workloads that had been dropped on them. Within twenty-four hours, everyone below management was in stealth-mutiny mode.

By the next week, everyone who was not in upper management was starting to take turns “having the flu” as we did interviews at other companies.

Within a month, the company began hemorrhaging employees. Surprised expressions quickly turned into full-on panic.

I had been a bit slower at getting my new job, so by the time I was giving my resignation, management was practically throwing suitcases of money at staff in order to retain them. No one was taking the bait.

Boss: “You know, [My Name], your commitment and loyalty to [Company] haven’t gone unnoticed by upper management, so I’m proud to tell you that all of your work finally has paid off.”

They pushed a list of benefits, and increased pay, at me. These were all things that I had been trying to get for years.

I pushed the list back.

Me: “I don’t think you understand; it’s too late. I’m leaving the company. This is my last day employed by [Company].”

Boss: “What can we offer you to get you to stay?”

I gave them an icy stare.

Me: “Literally nothing. I’m leaving. Let’s be clear. You tried to deny me paid time off for my honeymoon. You told me to put my dying dog in a freezer and to either grieve later or to get over it. You and I both know that anything you offer me now would just turn into a lie within months.”

I stood up from the table.

Me: “You lied to us a few months ago about how all of this—” *tapping the paper on the table in front of me* “—wasn’t possible to offer us, and the fact that you are offering it now proves that you were all deliberately been screwing us over. You are soulless, stupid, and incompetent, and I don’t even need a job reference from this s***show of a company.”

I spun on my heel and walked out, closing the door on their sputtering attempts to reply.

I won’t deny that that felt really, really good, considering how long I had been biting my tongue. The job prospects had been horrible until this point, so my only regret was that I couldn’t get a job opportunity lined up earlier.

I have worked as a stocker for a craft store for over a year. But when my dad retires, we were moving out of state. I hand in my two-week notice, slating the eighteenth of the month (a Wednesday) as my last day of work.

I double-check my schedule to make sure I’m taken off, and I see that I’m scheduled until the twentieth, that Friday.

Me: “Hey, [Store Manager], I can’t work the last two days. The eighteenth is my last day.”

Store Manager: “Oh, really? I thought you could work a few days after that.”

Me: “No, I’m moving out of state. We’re packing up our last bit of stuff and leaving. It even says on my notice that the eighteenth is the last day I can possibly work.”

Store Manager: “Oh, okay. I’ll fix the schedule.”

It’s mildly irritating to have to argue my case, but the store manager has always been a bit spacey and disconnected from reality and time, so I chalk it up to him having a derp moment and let it go. I work my last few days, get hugs from the coworkers I’m friendly with, say goodbye to all the staff, and go home for the final time.

Thursday, the nineteenth, I get a call on my cell phone from the craft store’s number.

Floor Manager: “[My Name], where are you?!”

Me: “Home, packing the last of my stuff. The eighteenth was my last day. I told [Store Manager] to take me off the schedule.”

Floor Manager: “I put you back on there myself. We need you for a few more days. You’re supposed to be here now!”

Oh, so it was [Floor Manager’s] fault. She and I have butted heads often, to the point I reported her to corporate for trying to make me work off the clock.

Me: *Irritated* “Well, I’m not available. I’m leaving the state. You had two weeks to rearrange the schedule to prepare for this.”

Floor Manager: “The store does not arrange itself to your schedule. This is a job, and you need to work when needed.”

Me: “Not anymore. I don’t work for the store anymore. [Store Manager] even gave me my last paycheck.”

Floor Manager: “You don’t get your paycheck until Friday, so you can knock off the lying. Get in here, and I’ll think about not writing you up for this.”

I am silent for about a heartbeat, stunned by the sheer idiocy. Then, I burst out laughing. Loudly. And at length.

[Floor Manager] tries to yell at me, but I am laughing so hard that I can’t stop to hear anything she says, so I just laugh over her. When I catch my breath again, I say into the seething silence:

Me: “I quit on Wednesday. I don’t take orders from you anymore. Goodbye.”

I hung up on her and let the further calls go straight to voicemail.

In my family, we have an abundance of men with the same common name; let’s say “John.” My father’s name was John. I had an Uncle John, who had a son, John Henry, who wanted to be called Hank until his father died, and then he wanted to be called John. My sister’s first husband’s name was John. She’s a health aide with a long-term client (eight years now) whose name is John. My first husband’s name was John. My current husband’s name is John.

To put it bluntly, I’m well-conditioned to some pretty automatic reactions to that name. This has happened to me at least twice. I’m on the phone with someone at work whose name happens to be John. We discuss whatever the call is about. When we finish up…

John: “Thanks for the information, [My Name]! Goodbye.”

Me: “Bye, John. I love you… Wait a minute!”

I’m helping a caller make a flight booking.

Caller: “Why does the price drop so much on the Sunday?”

Me: “Oh! That’s because it’s July 4^th. Most people travel before or after the holiday, but not on the day itself, which is why it’s cheaper.”

Caller: “Is that because it’s so dangerous to fly? With all the fireworks?”

Me: *Waiting to see if this is a joke.* “Uh, no, sir. It’s just because there’s less demand.”

Caller: “But the fireworks, right? It’ll be dangerous to land if they hit the plane.”

Me: “There won’t be any fireworks at the airport, sir.”

Caller: “Why not?”

Me: “That would be very unsafe.”

Caller: “Hmph! Well, that’s not very patriotic!”

This story is part of our Fourth-Of-July-themed roundup!

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Want to read the Fourth-Of-July-themed roundup? Click here!

I have spent twenty years at seven different major brand hotels. I am training a new clerk when a portly old bald guy in his sixties comes in and asks for the government rate. He’s dressed like a relic from the 1970s in a really tacky polyester jacket. Per normal procedure, I ask him for some government ID.

He opens his jacket to pull out his ID and at the same time very deliberately displays a huge .44 magnum hogleg in a shoulder holster. The ID is fake — a bad fake. I mean, you know that embossed label tape you used to put your name on stuff when you were a kid? It is basically a photo ID with “F.B.I.” in label tape underneath it. The hotel is far from full, so I shrug and check him in at the government rate.

After he leaves…

Trainee: “Wow, was that guy really FBI?”

Me: “I highly doubt it. I have actually spoken to FBI agents in this job before, and they never look like that. See that guy standing over there?”

I point at a young man in a dark suit who has been hanging around in the lobby for the past twenty minutes.

Me: “Now that is what FBI agents usually look like.”

At that exact moment, the same young man approached the front desk, pulled out his very real FBI credentials, and asked for information on the man who had just checked in. About an hour later, the guy was led out in handcuffs.

It was one of those rare events in life that unfolds like a movie.