Exit Strategies

It’s an unavoidable fact: whenever you enter, one way or another, you will exit.

During a rare pensive moment I asked Jan about the ultimate exit.

“What would you do if you knew you would die tomorrow?”

I could tell the question concerned her by the furrowed brow and sharp stare.

I tried to ease her anxiety, “Oh, no, I’m not going to do anything to you. I mean, I don’t know what could happen tomorrow. It’s just a question, not a plan.”

She thought for a moment then responded, “I would spend time with family, probably go to the temple.”

“Well, now I feel bad.”

“Why?’

I shrugged my shoulders and replied, “Well, I was thinking more about Red Robin and eating all the burgers and fries I could stuff in.”

As you can tell- we think a little differently.

I guess I’m a little paranoid. Wherever I go I think about how to exit if something were to go horribly wrong. If I was at work and a crazed ex-employee burst through the door and started to shout obscenities while making threatening gestures I know exactly how to handle the situation. I’m no hero. I wouldn’t tackle and subdue the intruder. My plan is to crouch low and sneak out the back door.

Even when I go to a restaurant I like to face the entrance door so I have a clear view if something goes horribly wrong. I also look for the exits so I can make an escape. It may be dashing through the kitchen and out the service door. Or, breaking a window and climbing through the glass shards.

While others are talking or reading, relaxed and snuggling into their seats prior to the plane taking off, I listen intently to the stewardess’ emergency exit presentation. I follow along on the card while tracing my finger of the path to the nearest exit. I recently read that one former airline safety director said she counts the rows to the exit in case the cabin fills with smoke. I like that idea.

The greatest exit strategy I’ve ever seen came from an almost three year old. Due to my church assignments Kevin had missed the opportunity to attend nursery. When we finally moved into a family ward Jan and I gently took Kevin by the hand and led him to the nursery. We introduced him to the nursery leader who assured us he’d be just fine.

Kevin, obviously afraid he’d lose his jacket, asked if he could hang it on one of the knobs just outside the room. That seemed like a harmless request and walked with him out the door to the coat rack. He took off his coat, placed it on the hook; then he applied his exit strategy.

Kevin took off down the hall as fast as an almost three year old could run. Zig-zagging and dodging through adults and children he scurried like a munchkin fullback breaking through the defensive lines. Following through the crowded hallway I caught up with the escapee and applied a firm hand on his shoulder. Marching him back to the nursery we signed papers that the nursery leader was not responsible if he escaped again

I learned a little from Kevin’s abrupt exit attempt.

There have been several layoffs at the Mail Tribune. It seems no one’s job is secure and a call to the office could come at any moment. I’ve thought about how I’d feel about that final interview. I’ve also thought deeply about what I would do.

Here’s my scenario: My manager would ask if he could speak to me in his office. He would explain that times are hard and the company needs to lighten the staff. He’d explain how corporate is forcing a smaller workforce and I was to be the latest victim. Nodding my head with understanding I’d take my key card out of my pocket to humbly hand it over and prepare to be escorted out the building. It’s then I would apply my exit strategy.

Snatching my key card back I’d leap from the chair and burst out the manager’s office door. As I ran through the building, ducking and dodging through cubicle canyons, fellow employees would leap onto their desks, shouting with glee, cheering me on while waving their arms in excitement.

Their chant would start as a low rumble then peak in a supersonic crescendo,

“Run, Gregory! Run!”

The braces that restricted promotions and creativity would shatter and fall to the ground as I picked up speed.

Managers would stand stunned, jaws slack, eyes wide in unbelief. I’d bound up the stairs to the newsroom. By then texts and tweets would have alerted the journalists of my breakaway. Photographers would position themselves, cameras held steady, waiting to digitally catch the perfect moment of a newly laid off worker's dash.

Reporters would call out my name, firing off questions like Gatling guns as I sprinted by. Flying downstairs I’d break through the crowd who had gathered in amazement. I’d then dart out the side door, car brakes squealing and drivers cursing as I shot across the street to Distribution. Doing a jig around the press, I’d thrust my hands into a bucket of slimy ink, rubbing it beneath my eyes like war paint. Slapping my black stained palms against my white shirt and on the top of my bald head I’d run through the freight gate, circling back across the street and bowl through the front lobby door. Hurdling over the counter I’d continue my lap until I reached my desk. Quickly snapping up all my mementos, photos and history I’d throw my entry key card into the air and give a shout that would rock the white bastioned building. As the whine of sirens came closer, I’d strut out the back door, pausing to take a deep breath then exhale slowly. Straightening my tie, I’d calmly walk across the parking lot to my car.

I will never be escorted out of the building; because I have the ideal exit plan…