Page 7 of Julian

People don’t call customer service when they’re happy. They call when there is a problem. When they’re disappointed or when they go unheard. I spend hours each week listening to complaints about packaging, pricing, formulas, shipping times, undertones and applicators. I’ve learned more about what frustrates customers than any marketing deck could ever teach me.

I file it all away mentally.

One day, I tell myself, I’ll build something better. A brand that actually listens. A line that solves the things customers complain about in hushed, exasperated tones when they think no one important is paying attention.

This job may not be the dream, but it is data.

And most importantly, it’s income, which is desperately needed. My mom and stepfather—two struggling, wannabe artists—barely have two nickels to rub together so it’s on me to support Dylan while they’re off living a hippie lifestyle. We pretty much live hand-to-mouth, but we’re happy, and that’s the most important thing.

I slice open the tape carefully and fold back the cardboard flaps.

The first thing I see is a pair of oversized black sunglasses.

For a second, I stare at them, confused, before recognition clicks. They’re mine. Or they were. I thought I lost them months ago—probably left them at my desk during a long shift and forgot to grab them when I rushed out to make a driving appointment.

“Okay…,” I murmur, lifting them from the package.

Beneath the sunglasses is a photo—slightly bent at one corner.

It’s me and Dylan from two summers ago at Coney Island. He’s mid-laugh, taller than me already, his arm thrown over my shoulders. I’m squinting into the sun, hair whipping across my face, both of us holding melting ice cream cones like trophies.

I kept that at my cubicle, taped to one of the shelves where it hung just over my monitor so I could see it all the time.

I swallow hard, an uneasy churning takes root in my gut.

Next comes a coffee mug—chipped slightly at the rim—the one that says Future Founder in gold script. A joke I bought for myself during a particularly brutal week of back-to-back complaint calls.

And then, at the bottom, my notebook. The black one with elastic binding. The one filled with scribbled observations, product ideas, customer quotes, half-formed branding concepts I’ve been too afraid to show anyone.

These are all from my cubicle.

All of them.

That churning in my gut morphs into full-blown nausea.

That’s when I see it—a folded piece of paper tucked along the side of the box. My name is written on the outside in Julie’s handwriting and my stomach bottoms out as I know with dreaded certainty what it will say. I open the envelope and pull out a letter, unfolding it carefully.

Harper,

This is the most difficult note I’ve ever had to write.

The words blur slightly and I blink, forcing myself to keep reading.

I was going to call you, but I wasn’t confident I’d be able to keep it together long enough to explain everything clearly, and you deserve clarity.

My fingers tighten around the page.

As you may have heard, the company was recently acquired. With the new ownership comes a complete restructuring of our operational model. One of the first decisions made was to shut down all in-house customer service branches and transition entirely to automated and outsourced systems.

I stop breathing for a second.

Effective immediately, your position has been eliminated.

The kitchen goes very still.

I am so, so sorry. I scrambled this afternoon to gather as much from your cubicle as I could before facilities cleared everything out. I didn’t want your personal items to be lost or boxed up without care.

My eyes sting, but I keep reading.