The Turnover

The wheel turns, trapping some and letting others go. We come and stay for one year or two, fill our bank accounts and flee. Some stick around, move up to management, marry local dates. Others take off five weeks in, un-dotting all the i’s.

When one leaves and another comes, a party we must throw. So we found ourselves around another table, ordering just one more. Teaching games and Korean cuss words to the new staff, and saying our goodbyes.

The last pitcher always leads to the singing room. Smuggled in a big bag of liquor, sang at the top of lungs; danced on the couch. One stray arm and the disco ball broke in two, but it was an easy fix.

And so we’ll miss the last one quite a bit, the new guy, we like him, too.