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The Time of My life Randy Fitzgerald

How to Get Invited to Your Own Farewell Party

I haven’t been this confused since I found out Tiny Tim was marrying Miss Vickie.
The other Wednesday Barb told me on short notice and in a rush that she was off to a farewell party after work for someone we knew who had taken a job out of town and was leaving Richmond for good. I assumed she was speaking of our good friend Sarah, who recently got one of those great job offers you can’t refuse—only this one necessitated a move for her to Washington, D. C.
All of Sarah’s friends had been moaning and groaning for weeks about losing access to her—she’s a games-playing, movie-loving, book-reading, political junkie word-freak like us. When we found out she was really going, Barb and I immediately began planning weekend train trips to Washington to see her. (Even for Sarah, we’d have to think long and hard about tackling I-95.)

Anyway, I was disappointed when Barb left the house with no explanation as to why I hadn’t been invited to go along. “Maybe Sarah’s farewell party is just for her women friends,” I consoled myself.
Imagine my surprise when Barb came home from her outing a couple hours later in great spirits, still laughing as she came through the door, saying that she had had the best of times. She admitted that the guests, a group of women who all at one time or another had worked with the “dearly departed,” were so delighted that the “honoree” of the party had already left town that they could barely contain themselves.
“We shared horror stories and laughed like fools for two hours,” Barb said. “I had a V-8 and two Perriers in honor of the happy occasion.”

Happy occasion? Laughing like fools? Downing Perrier like it was water? Had I missed something?
Turns out I had.
This party she went to without me was actually a get-together celebrating the move of a local gentleman who, occupying a fairly prominent post in the city for the past decade, had over the course of his years here antagonized a fair number of people, a lot of them women.
Some of those were happy enough at his leaving to meet for drinks after work and raise a glass to that fellow’s moving on down the highway.
It’s kind of sad, actually. I hope nobody has a party to celebrate my leaving town, if I ever should happen to go.

It kinda makes me want to live better, be nicer, not antagonize folks, stop playing my banjo for friends in the symphony and dozing off in church, avoid cheating at golf and taking the last biscuit. I resolve to do better, you all—just please don’t hoist a brewski to celebrate my exodus.
Some people such as our friend Sarah do get a really nice little going-away party—Sarah’s actually turned out to be the following Saturday night, and I was invited to that one. It was quite a send-off, complete with gifts and speeches and tears. Her friends hugged her and offered support, and she thanked us for sharing so much of her life during her years as a Richmonder.
The party ended with all of us expressing the hope that some day she will get another great job opportunity, this one back in Richmond, and return to town.
“I’ve put in a special request with the gods,” said one guest, “asking them to bring you back.”
On the way home, Barb said that with two going-away parties in the same week, she just hoped the gods didn’t get confused and bring that fellow back instead.

Randy Fitzgerald is chair of the English and journalism department at Virginia Union University. He is a former Richmond Times-Dispatch columnist and University of Richmond administrator. His blog is www.randyfitzgerald.blog.com.

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