Off the Grid Weekend

On Wednesday afternoon, Tina Jones from admin posted a sign-up sheet in the group chat, titled, "Confirmed Attendees for the Labor Day Weekend Retreat at Osprey Lake."

I scrolled through all 35 names, from Franklin Harlow at the top all the way down to the receptionist, and even the cleaning lady. My name, Perry Carver, was not on the list. I scrolled through it again and still couldn't find my name.

At the time, I assumed it was an oversight. I sent my team lead, Russ Dolan, a message.

"Hey Russ, I think the retreat list is missing my name."

He did not reply for 40 minutes but, when he finally did, it was two words. "It's not."

I stared at my screen for a long time. It had not been an oversight. I simply had not been invited.

I typed out "Am I not..." and my finger hovered over the send button for three seconds before I deleted the whole thing. I did not send it.

On the morning of Labor Day, I made myself a sandwich in my apartment and scrolled through my phone. The company group chat had already blown up.

Someone had posted photos of the lodge, a lakeside balcony with a full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water. Someone else was showing off the BBQ spread, steaks and seafood piled into a small mountain. Kim Parker from the front desk had posted nine selfies in a row, every caption packed with exclamation marks.

I scrolled past them one by one.

Then Russ posted a photo. Thirty-four people packed into a pair of long canoes, all wearing matching red team shirts, paddles raised high, every one of them grinning. The sunlight caught the surface of the lake and turned it gold.

The caption read, "One less person and the boat rides lighter."

The comments blew up underneath.

"Russ, you're ruthless, hahaha!"

"Honestly though, we were way faster this year!"

"Who's missing?" one of the new hires asked.

"That guy... the one who sits by the break room. What's his name again?"

"Perry."

"Oh, him. Not like he'd know what to do with a paddle anyway."

The laughing emojis piled on, and every single one landed like a slap through the screen. Nobody tagged me. Nobody asked why I was not there. Nobody seemed to think there was anything wrong with one person being left out.

I set my phone down on the table and calmly turned it off.

Downstairs, there was a woman selling tamales from a cart near the front entrance of the building. I bought two, one sweet and one savory, then ducked into a convenience store for a beer.

Back in my apartment, I pulled the curtains shut. I cracked the beer and drank half of it in one go. I unwrapped one of the tamales, the savory one. It was decent enough, but after a couple of bites I lost my appetite.

It was not the food. It was that line, still sitting in my head and refusing to leave. "One less person and the boat rides lighter."

I had worked at that company for six years. That was 2,190 days. I was the one who had landed Verant Group, the company's biggest client, single-handedly bringing in 40% of annual revenue.

From client acquisition to pitches, data analysis, day-to-day account management and weekly client reports, I handled every bit of it on my own. The company's entire ad targeting system was something I had taught myself to code and built from scratch, one line at a time.

Last Black Friday, Verant tacked on an extra three million dollars to their ad budget at the last minute. The client called at 2:00am demanding a complete strategy overhaul.

Russ had his phone off. I was the one who dragged myself out of bed barefoot and reworked everything alone until 6:00am.

The ROI came in top three across the entire industry.

Our CEO Franklin posted about it on social media afterward. "Grayline Media plays to win!"

The photo he attached was Russ shaking hands with the client. I was not in that picture. I was never in any picture.

Six years I had given this company, yet without me the boat rode lighter?

Then let it ride light.

I finished the beer, left what was left of the tamale on the table, pulled the covers up, and went to sleep.