Chapter 1: The Donkey Gets Put Down

At Silverstream, you’re the donkey grinding the millstone—work’s done, they haul you out back and put you down. No warning, just a boot to the curb.

It’s the oldest trick in the book: squeeze every last drop out of you, then toss you out back like you’re yesterday’s stale bagels. In this business, loyalty’s just a punchline. I’d watched it happen to others, but nothing prepares you for when the blade swings your way.

Management figured it was cheaper to bring in some rookie for maintenance.

Sure, it probably looked smart on paper—why pay a seasoned engineer when you can grab some college kid for half the cost? But a bargain-bin hire in tech is like buying used tires for the Indy 500: sounds thrifty until you hit the first sharp curve.

What they didn’t realize was, after all the endless requirement changes, the code was a disaster only I could navigate.

It was Frankenstein’s monster, stitched together from last-minute Slack requests and Ron’s fever dreams. I was the only one who knew which wires to avoid unless you wanted the whole thing to blow up.

Sure enough, the minute I was out the door, the shit mountain erupted.

I would’ve paid good money to see Ron’s face when that first critical bug ticket hit his inbox. That’s karma with a jumbo bucket of popcorn.

1

When HR told me I was being let go, I was honestly shocked.

My palms went cold, and for a second I forgot how to breathe. I stared at the beige office carpet, waiting for the punchline that never came.

My brain did a double-take. Maybe I misheard? I even checked the date, half-expecting it to be some kind of April Fool’s prank, except it was mid-June and way too damn hot for jokes.

Just last week, the major project I’d been responsible for had launched smoothly.

Last week there were Funfetti cupcakes in the break room—my absolute weakness. I grabbed two, pretending one was for later. That was barely seven days ago.

The boss himself said everyone on the project team would get a bonus. He even patted me on the shoulder and called me the backbone of the company.

I remember the weight of his hand, the fake sincerity in his smile. I let myself believe, just for a minute, that maybe this time things were different. Sucker move.

And now, just days later, this so-called pillar is out the door.

Guess the backbone’s only needed when you’re lifting, not when it’s payday. Classic corporate logic.

HR’s face was expressionless.

She’d mastered the art of the poker face—probably watched YouTube tutorials on it. Not even a flicker of sympathy.

"The company will give you all the compensation you’re owed. Please complete the resignation process today."

She said it like they were doing me a huge favor.

Like I’d just won a game show. "Congratulations, you get two months’ rent and a souvenir coffee mug!" Except there was no mug, just my half-empty Red Bull and a sad plant in the corner.

I’d been at Silverstream Solutions for exactly a year. At best, the payout would be two months’ salary.

Which, after taxes and rent in Austin, is basically enough for a couple rounds at Lala’s Little Nugget and maybe some street tacos on the way home. Texas big city living, baby.

But it wasn’t just about the money. What really pissed me off was how they burned the bridge after crossing it.

It was like being ghosted by someone who’d asked you to help them move the day before. A year of my life, poured into late nights and lunch breaks skipped, just to get the rug yanked out and the door slammed in my face.

When they hired me, the project had just kicked off. AI applications were booming everywhere, and Silverstream wanted to jump on the bandwagon to stay competitive.

It was 2023, and every tech company in Austin was tossing out buzzwords like candy at a homecoming parade. Silverstream, not to be outdone, wanted AI glued on top of their creaky dental systems. "Disrupt the market," the VP said, like he was pitching a Super Bowl ad.

I happened to have experience developing and deploying AI models. As soon as I joined, I dove into the new R&D project with a few teammates.

I remember my first day—old coffee in the pot, whiteboards crammed with diagrams, and a team that looked half-awake but hungry. We were scrappy, for sure. I figured we’d make it work. I always do.

In a small company, job roles are a joke—one person does the work of four or five. I never complained.

It was like a startup version of musical chairs—one engineer does the database, backend, frontend, and fetches lunch if the intern’s out sick. I wore it like a badge of honor, thinking hustle would get me somewhere.

The grind over the past year goes without saying.

Let’s just say my DoorDash driver knows my name, and my mattress remembers the shape of my back better than my ex ever did.

But I never saw this coming.

I had mentally mapped out the project’s next phase. Instead, here I was, boxed up and shown the exit. Sometimes you see the train coming, sometimes it just plows through you.

First thing they do after the product goes live? Lay me off.

Not even a grace period or a thank-you card. Just a swift goodbye after the confetti had settled.

The irony is, just last night I was still working unpaid overtime, staying up past 2 a.m. to document the project’s shortcomings for future improvements.

The red digital clock on my desk had just flipped past 2:07 a.m. My roommate came out to grab a glass of water and gave me that you’re-crazy look. I shrugged and kept typing. Like a chump.

Back at my desk, Manager Ron Foster was chatting with others. When he saw me, he said, all casual, "Jake, try not to take it personal, okay? It’s just a company thing—restructuring and all that."

He said it like he was handing out parking tickets, not pink slips. His tie was crooked and he didn’t even look me in the eye.

Yeah, I totally get it—just like I get my grandma’s sciatic pain.

If sarcasm could kill, I’d have committed murder right there. My grandma’s got more spine than Ron ever will.

The rest of the team already seemed to know I was out—their faces were awkward.

You could practically hear the nervous tapping of keyboards and see people pretending to focus on their screens. Someone coughed, no one met my eyes. The silence was thicker than Austin humidity in August.

Somewhere, a printer jammed and beeped, but nobody moved.

And I didn’t miss the flash of smugness in Ron’s eyes.

Like a kid who stole the last cookie and wanted you to know about it. He must’ve practiced that look in the mirror.

Damn.

I wanted to punch the cubicle wall. Instead, I just clenched my fists and stared out the window at the parking lot, row after row of dusty F-150s, a battered Silverado, and one sad, sun-faded Prius squeezed in the corner.

This old guy had probably been waiting for this day forever.

Probably counted down on his calendar. I could almost see the red Sharpie marks. Some people collect stamps, Ron collects grudges.