Bandwagon

Dear Maestro, and the full Orchestra,

It is with a heavy drum-beating of my heart that I must take my bow.

I know the gravy gig’s up.

I should have known you’ve all been keeping score. You banded together against me, didn’t you? The jangle of discordant voices, whispering their siren song of discontent and rebellion, have now joined the swelling chorus of people baying for my head.

The next two weeks will be my swan song.

Honestly, your nit-picks did not strike a chord with me. I do march to the beat of a different drum, but that should not make for such a division in the tempo by which this place runs. The tenor of this club was happier under my direction and choreography, until a sub-theme of sabotage wove its own melodies into our harmony. Cadence is everything in our organization, and without the proper accent in the rhythm and pattern of our production, well, we fall flat. You’ve got more than the required three strike sets against you lot.

I hope my replacement will do better solo, since I won’t be helping to create a proper bridge.

As for the saboteurs, I hope they finally face the music. Blah blah, justice and all that jazz, but bringing down the house? Literally? I would blow the whistle on that behavior, no matter that it got rid of your so-called useless wood-wind, namely, myself.

I hate to sound like a broken record, but I must urge you to pull out all the stops in dealing with the rogue elements. I can harp on it till I get blues in the face, but seriously, you really need to change your tune. A thorough investigation with arrests and further consequences would be music to my ears.

Federal charges? Do those ring a bell? Yes, I will certainly sing like a canary; I will gladly sell out for a song. Attempted murder of myself is a key motivation. When I said we should kill it, I meant that euphemistically!

Fret not, I will return for a second act. Not to toot my own horn, but I have well-rehearsed skills, and I shall beat the drum and find a better, richer-sounding job. I can afford to play it by ear for a while, since I was sharp enough to invest. I’m still fit as a fiddle, and I can dance to whatever beat set for me by a different company. I can survive on something better than just eating ramen noodling.

I’ve got the chops, and the pipes; I can cover for others’ clams.

I don’t play second fiddle to anyone, you know. You can’t put me on hold, or mute me, or relegate me to the tech crew. I am not a prop. I am not a backdrop! You can’t sweep me off stage into the wings and pretend I was only a bit part, when in fact I should have been the star of the show. But your friendliness, it seems, was all a show, and all the sound and fury of a tempest in a teapot.

I will go and get my groovy on. I’m no hack to horn in on someone else’s house gig.

Good luck on just fiddling around here, adding all the stops and whistles to products that don’t need them. Rome is burning while you, Nero, fiddle, and the elevator music that fills the background isn’t cutting it any more. Tune up your instruments and have a creative jam session, because if you all don’t change your tune, you will learn that someone else is leading the band. I tried to keep you from being the same old song and dance, I really did.

Theatrics are certainly not my forte. This office drama club just isn’t for me. I need to strike the right note by striking out on my own. Maybe I’m preaching to the choir, or maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn to sing in tune. Either way you look at it, I’m rocking and rolling out of here.

Hopefully this is just a phrase – um, phase – you’re all going through.

Don’t look to me for any encores. This week will be my final coda, then I’m easing on down the road. They say it ain’t over till the fat lady sings, but this chick ain’t chirping.

It takes two to tango, it’s said. That may be true, but I’ll sit this one out. Beat it, people. I need to restore harmony in my own mental health. Time to take a breath, pause, rest, and then resume a more sedate aria. Don’t count me out of tune, this isn’t some unfinished requiem! Classical of you to do that, really.

I will carry my tune out of here, in a bucket if I have to. So I’ll scat.

With bells on!

Sincerely,

Jane-Doe A’Deer