Mini-Episode: Farewell Tyrell

[Birds tweeting.]

[Footsteps approach.]

Bernie—Josh Rubino

Goodness Mr. Fredericks, have you got the right idea today!

Tyrell—Arun Sannuti

Morning, Bernie. Yes, it’s very beautiful out, isn’t it?

Bernie

Lord knows, if I wasn’t up working, I’d be at home in my own garden as well. What’s on the docket?

Tyrell

[Chuckles.] Well, I’ve got cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplant, and kale all going so far. Right now, I’m making some room for a bit of winter squash.

Bernie

Mm, mm, mm, sounds like you’ve got the makings of a mighty fine salad there, don’t you?

Tyrell

That’s the plan. Say, if you come back in a few weeks, I might even have a bit of fresh veg for ya.

Bernie

You’re too kind, my friend.

Tyrell

It’s no trouble at all. What about you—what’ve you got for me? Something good, I hope.

[Rustling through a stack of papers.]

Bernie

It seems like I just might! Are you a friend of this Michael Tate’s? Seems like he’s a mighty popular guy; you’re probably the twelfth person I’ve delivered one of these letters to this week!

Tyrell [fondly]

Yes, Michael was a friend of mine.

Bernie

It’s wild what happened to him, isn’t it?

Tyrell

It certainly is, but not necessarily surprising. At least, not if you worked there.

Bernie

Hah! I believe it. Well, don’t let me keep you from your garden, Tyrell. Plenty more mail that’s got to get delivered. 

Tyrell

Enjoy your day, Bernie!

[Footsteps.]

[Hands wipe themselves off pants. A letter is opened and unfolded.]

Michael Tate—James Oliva

Dear Tyrell,

I’m writing to you from the publisher’s secret office at the top of the secret elevator behind the kombucha machine at ThirdSight. If you’re receiving this, it’s likely too late for me, as I’ve been locked in here for several weeks without food. But if by some miraculous twist of fate you happen to know the passcode, I’m begging you to come rescue me. 

It wouldn’t be the first time you used your kindness, generosity, and intuition to protect me from Oliver West’s malicious intent, and I’m fully aware of that. And, regardless of the outcome of this letter, recognize that I’m forever in your debt.

You know, I will always admire you for the way you advocated for yourself, and me, by leaving the way that you did. Even if I must admit I was never entirely sure what you thought I’d be able to accomplish with that many squeezy stress balls. Still, it was an ultimate act of kindness and demonstrated to me that you saw through Dipshit and the publisher’s actions. You understood that what was happening here, to me, was cruel, even when I wasn’t able to see that myself. It was brave, admirable, and beautiful. And I truly thank you for it.

But that isn’t the only reason I’m writing to you today, because I must make a confession to you. For I have committed a cruelty upon you that, until now, I’ve never admitted to another soul. Tyrell, I am ashamed to say that I am the ThirdSight lunch thief. 

You see, it started innocently enough at first. Before Gemma left, she told me how nobody ever cleared their food out. And here I was: hungry but newly employed and with a negative bank balance. So, that day, it was out of an act of self-preservation. I sought out whatever looked properly abandoned and landed on a bit of your old, forgotten veggie lo mein with extra mushrooms. At the time, it did the job, and you seemed none the wiser. So, I didn’t think anyone would be hurt by my actions. 

But eventually, I changed. No longer was I merely the kind of lunch thief that raids the fridge and picks at whatever looks good that day: no, my actions were far more nefarious than that. I spent my next few months seeking out whichever Tupperware or takeout containers had your name written on it. And not only because you consistently had the very best food of the bunch (though, let me be very clear: you absolutely did), it was because I was rebelling against an imagined slight I at the time believed you were making against me. The oven-roasted ratatouille, with cherry tomatoes that burst in my mouth and a balsamic reduction that I still can’t get out of my head. Your award-winning three-bean chili sent me and every single one of our co-workers reaching for a bag of stale tortilla chips. That’s all you.

You see, my friend, I’m a recovering alcoholic. And, from the very beginning of my time at ThirdSight, I was aghast at how readily available the booze was. Not only from the top shelf company bar cart or freshly tapped kegs but from the relentless Margarita Mondays you threw week after week. Now, I know I could have come to you about this: you were the head of HR, for goodness’ sake, but my sobriety was new, and this was the first steady job I’d had in ages. So, at the time, I blamed you, even though I understood intrinsically what you were doing was out of the kindness of your heart and the desire for camaraderie between colleagues. I couldn’t yet take responsibility for my own weakness.

At this point, I have no idea how I can return the very many favors you’ve done for me, but if I somehow, through some dumb stroke of luck, make it out of here, give me a call: lunch is on me.

With love,

Michael Tate

Tyrell

Wow. Did you beautiful baby sprouts hear all of that? It sure explains a lot. I always wondered why Michael never joined us at company happy hours. I figured he was just shy, is all. Sensitive. But this makes a lot more sense. And while I wish he’d felt comfortable enough to confide in me, I understand how he may have feared repercussions from it. Human resource departments, no matter how honorably run, do have a pesky history of protecting the employer more than the employee. And an admission of that kind may have triggered the kind of recourse that’d have seen Michael unemployed all over again.

[Sighs.]

I wish this letter had gotten to me sooner. Not that I had the code he needed: no, I didn’t even know those apartments were there. But I would’ve done anything I could to help my friend out of that situation. Because I know he would’ve done the same for me. Still, I’m glad he was able to get himself out. Now I’ll be able to take him up on that lunch. I wonder if he’s still got the same number. I guess there’s only one way to find out…

[Takes a phone out of his pocket.]

[Dials. The phone rings a few times.]

Michael

Hello?

Tyrell

Michael! It’s Tyrell, and you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.

Cookie

Josh Rubino 

“Don’t you?” Ooh, that was so sinister, let me try that again.

James Oliva 

Hello? [Rustling.] No, no, no, I’m sorry. That “hello” is at the end of this thing. Don’t worry. I thought of that. The second I said it, I was like, “he’s going to think I’m talking to him.”