My BMW motorcycle riding friend Howard Mudd had a bunch of these t-shirts made when he retired from his job as offensive line coach for the Indianapolis Colts.
I swapped him a Goobertown, Arkansas t-shirt for one of them.
I’m wearing it today to mark the 15th anniversary of the day I walked away from a job at The Indianapolis Star that had become intolerable.
The arrogant twits running The Star at the behest of Gannett completed the transformation of a newspaper into a newspaper factory and a modest golden parachute was the only good thing to come out of my mother’s departure from this life.
Fifteen years ago this morning, I was driving to work and talking to Maria on the phone.
“I think I’m going to quit today,” I ventured.
She came back with the perfect reply.
“You don’t have the nerve. I dare you!”
As soon as I reached the Metro North Bureau of The Star in Carmel, I called Human Resources and informed them that I was done, as of today.
I asked if I would suffer any consequences for not giving two weeks’ notice.
“Do ever expect to need a reference from us?”
Laughing, I replied, “No. I think 33 years speaks for itself.”
The HR woman noticed that I turned 55 a few months earlier and offered that I was eligible for early retirement with a reduced pension.
“OK, I’m retiring.”
I cleaned out my desk, reveling in the shock on the faces of my coworkers, and was gone by 11 a.m.
I’m still waiting for the panic attack.
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