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"Even the back doors were locked when I got to work this morning. I had to use my security card to get in!"

"So?" My friend Thea's voice boomed back into my ear. "It figures. The big announcement is made today, right? New owners can push pretty big brooms."

I shifted the receiver to the other side, fortunately where I don't hear quite as well. "It's significant. That entrance hasn't been locked in 50 years."

"You haven't been there 50 years," she replied. "Face it, Jill. You find significance in everything. That site is toast anyway."

I didn't want to agree, but my friend was probably right. It was no big news. Just a formality. We all knew what it meant. Our site was redundant. Sooner or later, everything would be packed up, headed for one of the other places they owned - somewhere else - just losing a few people in the process to help finance the consolidation. We were helpless pawns, knowing what came next, but powerless to prevent it. In the end, we would be just statistics. Today was the beginning of the end. Yesterday had been Labor Day, and this was Saber Day. One quick plunge to the heart and it would be done.

"How about metal detectors," Thea asked, tired of waiting for me to reply. "You see any of those?"

"Naw."

"Armed guards, maybe?"

"Just the usual guys."

"There you go, then. Just a simple precaution to keep the loonies out."

"Keep the loonies in, more likely."

"Yeah, some loony with an Uzzi looking for some son of bitch what done him wrong."

"What about a her?

"Huh?"

"What about done 'her' wrong? Who's to say it'll be a guy with the Uzzi?" I protested.

"Statistics. Law of averages. It'll be some white, middle-aged middle management type. That's how it happens."

Workplace violence was certainly nothing new. Thea's assessment started my twisted mind searching for likely candidates. The purge had been going on for several years now while they'd been pruning us for sale. Just who was the most likely to crack first? Guy in the next cubicle? Old boy upstairs in Finance? The thought of swapping power suits for bullet proof vests suddenly seemed a prudent idea. Still I had to bristle a little at pure statistics.

"Seems I remember a woman shooter or two? What about that Laurie-What's-Her-Name in Chicago?" I protested.

"Whole different modus operandi. We're talking corporate cats here. Like you, come to think of it.

"Maybe you're right."

"Right about what?"

"I guess I'd worry, if I were you," she said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You walk the company line. Ms. Corporate Person."

"And just what does that have to do with anything?" I was indignant.

"Better get down off your high horse before somebody shots you - and the horse," she said without malice. "I'm just warning you to duck when the bullets start flying."

"That isn't funny, Thea."

"Wasn't meant to be." Her voice softened. "Just take care of yourself. I need my best friend, O.K.?"

"I will."

Her concern touched me. Funny, but I guess I used her as my impartial interpreter of company v/s reality. Working elsewhere, outside the corporate culture - but feeding from it by way of her corporate clients, as I often reminded her - she was free to make objective assessments. Merger fever had hit industry hard. Smaller companies everywhere were getting gobbled up by the giants. Trouble was, they didn't digest all that smoothly. Apt to give the big boys indigestion, now and then.

As for the rest of us, there was no legal medication available to treat the afflictions from which we suffered. No pill could make the reality less. This was real, and it was painful. It was like the passing of an era, and we weren't prepared for the sudden rupture of our way of life. Those who had labored in the trenches for twenty years or more had done so under the illusion that they were laying up treasures in retirement heaven. Giving the respect to those senior in years or position, we expected to receive the same when we had reached that pinnacle in life.

Not so! Faster than a speeding hormone, we had gone from young and vital to aging and outdated. Being over 40 meant being ancient and out-of-step. Rather than a source of wisdom, we were the object of scorn. Anybody who had been doing anything as long as we had, had to have been doing it wrong. Sales of hair dye and Nordic Tracks bumped upward in the local area, but the net difference it made was fleeting.

"Are you there, or what?" A sharp voice in my ear brought my attention back to the receiver.

"Sorry, I was distracted."

"I've thought of something to cheer you up," Thea said.

"Like what?"

"Like a positive side to this whole thing."

"There's a positive side?"

"There's a positive side to everything," she answered.

"Spare me, please."

"O.K." There was silence on the other end.

"I give up. Tell me already," I said.

"At our age, downsizing could be a benefit. Tell 'em you'll take yours in a size ten."

"Very funny, Thea. You've missed your calling. Instead of being a small-time artist, you could be a small-time comedian."

"Ouch! But I was just trying to cheer you up. There is life outside the corporate world, you know."

"That's what I'm afraid of," I told her.

"Why?"

"All I can imagine is years and years of life and only weeks of income."

"You'd get by."

"That isn't what I had in mind."

"That isn't what anyone has in mind. It just happens. In six months, I promise you, we'll be laughing about this."

"Easy for you to say. You'll be still employed." I told her.

"Self-employed," she answered. "And not such a bad thing to be. You might learn to like it."

"Maybe." I was uncertain. "Look, I've got to try to get some work down before the BIG meeting."

"Call me after?"

"I promise."

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.

"No," I replied. "But I'm just stubborn enough to live long and suffer."

"Atta girl," Thea said. "Chow for now."

I hung up the phone with a smile, thanks to Thea's black-humored support. Staying depressed for long wasn't my style, but lately I'd found too many reasons to be discouraged. Like all the cycle of my life were off a notch or two and proceeded in a more or less jerky fashion.

That brought to mind last night's argument with my latest significant other over "if I'd relocate" or "if he'd relocate." The jerk. As if I wanted to make some kind of colossal change in my life. As if it were all my fault. Nuts, I thought. I'd get a new job and a new boyfriend, too. Still, a nagging voice inside reminded me that the streets weren't exactly crawling with men who met the criteria I'd established over the years: like having half a brain and less than the usual macho tendencies - and being gainfully employed.

So, I'd lower my standards. Get by on less. Get me two twenty-five year olds for alternate weekends. Wear them to a frazzle. Screw their brains out. Ha! So much for fantasy. I'd just have to be thankful for Bill's good points and ignore the rest. At least he was supportive most of the time.

I turned over a few papers on my desk, but I knew that I wouldn't really be able to concentrate until the meeting was over, and the announcement finally made to confirm what we all suspected, anyway. What I needed now was a quick sugar fix.

I'd go down and raid Margie Ruth's candy jar. Sooner or later, everybody found their way to her office for a pick-me-up, either from her candy stash or her sassy commentary on Life. Margie Ruth was a real piece of work. Somewhere on the shady side of fifty, she was a tough old gal with a heart of mush. She dispensed chocolates and gum with the practiced hand of a master, wisecracking all the way. Tiny and hyper, she was like some little gray bird, topped with a bright red plumage. Her head was always swathed in her signature bright scarves.

What could have been merely a eccentricity or fashion statement, was in fact a necessary. The chemo that had left her bald, had supposedly also left her cancer-free for several years. Even after her hair grew back, she'd still worn them. You'd almost never see her down-spirited. She'd be waving the Tootsie Pop that substituted for the cigarettes she'd had to give up, and talk your ear off.

She looked up from her computer as I walked into her office, intent in sticking my hand deep into the world's biggest candy jar and search for guilty pleasure. I met her eyes, and for just a moment, I thought she looked old, and tired. Then the characteristic wide smile flashed across her face.

"Ready for the big day?" she asked.

"As much as I can stand to be," I told her. "Been on vacation?" I asked, noting that her usual desktop muddle was missing.

"Out for some tests," she said, and I regretted my words, belatedly remembering that someone had mentioned she'd been sick again.

"But I'm fine," she insisted, before I could reply. "The old needle stickers have to keep up their revenue, and say they're being cautious."

"I'm glad to see you back," I said, feeling awkward. And I thought I had problems! At least my body hadn't betrayed me yet, beyond some lines and sags where they didn't belong. But I realized that I wasn't that far behind her in age, and that wasn't a pleasant prospect.

She was still smiling at me, as she motioned for me to help myself to the jar. As I fished about for a stubborn Snickers bite-size-bar, she opened reached into her large purse and pulled out a book.

"I'm glad you stopped by this morning, because I wanted to give you this." She waited until I devoured two more Snickers and handed it to me. "I was cleaning out some stuff of Ted's in the attic, and I found a box of stuff I'd put up there and forgotten about."

I took it from her hand. "Thanks," I said. It was a copy of our Company's history, published a number of years ago. I'd seen one in the archives. "Hey," I said, "This looks like a collector's item. I'd love to have it, but don't you want to keep it yourself?"

"I wanted someone to have it who would still care, after..." her voice trailed off and then she quickly perked up. "After all we old fossils toddle off to the bone yard." Her laughter was contagious. "I'm thinking about early retirement."

"No joke," I said. "The average age at this site is mid-forties and climbing. Everybody left has the mentality that every day's one day closer to double-nickel."

"At least I've passed that milestone and my benefits are locked it," she replied. "But ever since Ted died, I've been wondering what to do with the rest of my life."

Her mention of her late husband tugged at my memory button. An ex-cop and slightly older than she, he'd retired early, only to succumb to a sudden heart attack a few years ago, right in the midst of her own struggles with cancer. If I thought I had problems, I had only to look at what Margie Ruth had been up against. Bummer.

"You're still young," I protested.

She gave me a knowing look. "Old enough to know better; too young to resist. But I've made up my mind. I don't want to keep pushing papers around everyday. I'm going to make a clean break. It's the perfect time, really. I'll never have a better opportunity to make a significant difference."

I was glad she could sound so positive about what loomed ahead. Yet I was feeling uneasy. We'd never really been close in the years I'd known her. She'd been somewhat of a loner with that big candy jar drawing a steady stream of visitors to her office, if only to "fuel up" and say hello. We'd co-habited a fitness program together during a company-sponsored wellness kick and had agreed on our favorite part: soaking in the whirlpool after. But except for my knowledge of her ex-cop husband and her bout with cancer, her personal life was mostly a mystery to me.

"Going to the big meeting?" I asked, realizing she was waiting for my response.

She nodded. "Oh, I'll be along. I wouldn't miss it."

Snatching one last Snickers bar from her jar, I made my retreat and joined the stream of downtrodden bodies and grim faces lining the halls on their way to the company meeting place that we all called the Dead Presidents' room for the rogues gallery of portraits that lined the walls. Each painting was of our Company's head of a different era. Over a hundred years of suits that somehow all looked the same. Maybe it was the same suit, just dusted off for each succeeding generation, I thought as we filed into the room under their unchanging gaze. Thea was right. I'd been in a state of corporate denial for a long time. I'd thought it I just kept doing what I was doing well enough, then all would be O.K. Today would be smell-the-coffee day for a lot of us.

Everyone sought out the back most rows of chairs, but there were so many of us that only the fortunate few actually got seats there. The rest had to stand or suffer the embarrassment of trudging to the front. I made my way to one of the last vacancies in the very front row. A few minutes later, just before the old owners and the new owners all lined up in chairs on the platform before us, Margie Ruth slipped into the seat on my left, clutching her big leather purse.

I grinned. Nearly as famous as her candy jar, that bag was rumored to contain almost anything from a Band-Aid to a bottle of deodorant. "If she ain't got it; you don't need it," was the common office refrain. It was sad to realize that we'd have to learn to count on ourselves for those little emergencies of life. No more relying in Auntie Margie Ruth when we needed something.

The noise level on the platform increased, and the volume in the audience quieted down as we realized the meeting was about to begin. The old site manager began by telling us all what a wonderful job we'd done to make the company great, but... I stopped listening just about then, because I'd already heard the four letter "M" word: "Move." They were definitely closing this site.

I glanced over to see how Margie Ruth was taking it, and saw her rummaging in her handbag. Gum, I thought, or breath mints or Kleenex. Good old Margie Ruth would be ready for anything. But I nearly freaked out when she pulled a big ugly gun from the depths of that innocent-looking bag. A cop gun - I thought with panic insight. Before the guards - or I - could react, she had jumped on the stage between the dignitaries. They all ducked for cover, but the audience just watched in numbed silence as Margie Ruth waved the gun as if searching for a target.

"This is for all of us," she cried. "We've been swallowed up, but spit out whole! Let us go, not with a whimper, but with a bang." She raised the gun, and fired sure-shot, not at the cringing executives, but bang in the middle of the forehead of the painting of the oldest Dead President. As she lowered the gun, her scarf fell from her head to reveal fresh stubble, and a mutual gasp went up from the waiting crowd.

Then the frozen contingent of security guards, finally reacting to some unseen signal, quickly subdued Margie Ruth and took away the gun. The meeting was over; the more guards opened the rear doors and urged the silent masses toward them. Only the shuffle of feet and an occasional sniffle broke the eerie stillness. There were tears on many faces that blurred the long-set lines of tension, replacing them with a fresh expression of relief. Maybe the worst had come and might now be over.

I just sat alone in the front with my head swiveled to the back of the room and watched as one by one, Margie Ruth's co-workers exited toward uncertain futures. Only symbolic blood had been shed, but then the blood letting had been going on for years, anyway, as an undercapitalized company teetered on the edge. No money for modernization; little for improved compensation: it was inevitable that the Company and its products would be gobbled up for the dividing of the spoils.

I watched them lead Margie Ruth off through the small front door of the room She was smiling and waving her scarf like a proud banner. I sighed, knowing the pain of the next few hours and days as we struggled to deal with what had happened here. But with pain came hope. Her impulsive action brought a fitting end to what had been dying for a long time anyway. Our final ties had been cut, and the healing could begin at last.

As I waited for my turn to go, I imagined how I would tell it all to Thea before she heard it on the radio at noon. It was the first real news after weeks of uncertainty. It was like coming to the brink and then stepping back. I realized then, that just losing a job wasn't the worst horror one could face. At last I felt free, and the freedom felt like a promise. For the first time in months, I could breathe without that little catch in my throat.

I picked up the handbag from the chair beside me. I'd make sure it got back to its owner, wherever she was headed. She'd be the one needing support from the rest of us, now. I savored bittersweet memories like one of Margie Ruth's Sweet Tarts on my tongue. Hang on, Friend, I thought, as a I recited a silent prayer for her.

As soon as I could, I'd take her the kind of wacky get-well gift that would be a reminder of our days at the spa to spark her eternal optimism: a teeny new bikini. After all, we'd still had a lot of swimming to do with the sharks, before we would go to sleep with the fishes.

THE END