The Exit Interview

A man who conducts exit interviews for a large corporation describes his daily routine: the questions that never change, the answers people rehearse, the recorder that sits between them. 

When the company upgrades to a new system, small things begin shifting. The recorder turns itself on. Files appear before interviews happen. Access starts failing in ways that feel like glitches…until they stop feeling temporary.

 This is his attempt to document what happened, recorded as clearly and completely as possible, because it's the last step before something he doesn't fully understand becomes final.

It’s not just a color out of space; it’s the shape of things to come.

Chapters

• 0:00 Intro
• 1:20 The Company
• 4:33 The Job
• 8:25 Little Rituals
• 9:32 Repetition
• 9:58 The Recorder
• 12:29 The Model
• 15:59 A Simple Question
• 17:19 A Test
• 17:45 Just a Glitch
• 19:16 The Bank
• 20:34 Scale
• 21:24 Ann
• 22:52 The Office
• 27:33 Awareness
• 28:16 The Exit Interview
• 30:07 Last Moves
• 31:52 Outro

Transcript

THE EXIT INTERVIEW

INTRO

Okay.

If this one doesn't go through, I don't know what I'm supposed to do
next. There isn't another option listed.

I keep thinking I must be missing something obvious. Like there's a box
I didn't check, or a setting I didn't see.

The message I got this morning says this is the last step before the
record is finalized.

I don't know what "finalized" means in this context. It doesn't define
it anywhere.

I just know that every time it gets rejected, more things stop working.

Access. Notifications. Basic stuff.

So I'm going to try to say this as clearly, and in as much detail as I
can, because that's the only instruction that actually repeats.

The previous submissions were shorter.

I tried to keep them to the facts. Dates. Actions. Outcomes.

Each time, the response was the same --- incomplete.

So this time, I'm not leaving anything out. Even the parts that didn't
seem relevant at the time.

This is what happened.

ACT I --- THE COMPANY

I worked on the fourth floor.

Not high enough for a view.

Not low enough to hear the street.

Just high enough that you forgot what the weather was doing.

The lobby always smelled faintly like pine-scented cleaner, no matter
the time of day. It was the kind of smell meant to suggest the forest
could be just behind the glass doors, but it never really smelled
exactly right. I never understood the corporate obsession with making
sterile places smell like a forest.

The badge scanner was mounted a little too high, so you had to raise
your arm more than felt natural. If you held it too low, it didn't read.
If you moved it too fast, it didn't read either.

Everyone swiped it the same awkward-looking way, eventually. Muscle
memory took over.

The elevator doors closed quickly.

Shiny metal walls that gave everyone the funhouse-mirror treatment.

No music.

People avoided eye contact. Not deliberately. It just felt unnecessary,
like we were all agreeing to save our attention for later... or maybe
after our second cup of coffee.

In the mornings, I rode up with people from Compliance Review and Vendor
Integration. I never knew what either department actually did. I just
recognized faces and exchanged brief hellos that didn't invite
conversation.

At lunch, I usually took the stairs back down. I told myself it was for
the exercise, but really I just wanted to avoid seeing the same people
and having to make small talk if they were feeling more awake.

The fourth-floor hallway was long and gently curved. You never saw the
end of it when you stepped out, just the suggestion of where it might
go.

Corporate gray walls. Light décor.

Carpet that looked new and worn at the same time.

The exit interview room was at the far end. Past Workforce Analytics.
Past Internal Tools.

Internal Tools had a glass wall. Workforce Analytics didn't.

Their lights were almost always on. I never saw anyone go in. Or out,
for that matter.

The interview room itself was small.

Two chairs.

A table bolted to the floor.

No window.

It reminded me of a police interview room from one of those shows ---
minus the two-way mirror. Slightly cheerier, with stale, safe artwork on
one wall. Abstract shapes in muted colors. Nothing that could provoke a
feeling.

We used to have one of those corporate inspirational posters. Something
about growth or momentum. Someone decided it didn't belong there. I
agreed.

The recorder sat in the middle of the table. Already plugged in.

A single unlit red light on the top.

I never turned it on until the other person sat down.

Starting it while the chair was still empty felt impolite, like
disrespect for the dead at a funeral.

ACT I --- THE JOB

As you might have figured out, I conducted exit interviews.

The company was a large one. Large enough that people referred to it by
initials in emails, like that made it manageable.

Most days I had three interviews. Sometimes four.

They were scheduled in blocks. Fifteen minutes between them. Enough time
to reset the room. Enough time to forget the last person.

That was the point.

If you've never been in one, don't imagine it as a conversation.

It isn't.

It's more like a procedure.

A fixed set of questions meant to end a relationship cleanly, without
leaving anything unresolved enough to come back later. Limit liability
and ensure there is nothing else to be done but mail back the company
credit card.

People still wanted it to mean something.

They wanted to explain themselves. Or justify the decision. Or make sure
someone understood what had gone wrong.

I didn't stop them.

But I didn't steer them either.

Sometimes people cried. Sometimes they were angry. Sometimes they were
oddly cheerful, like they were relieved to be done pretending.

I treated all of it the same because the result was already set. The
interview wasn't meant to change anything; it was a formality.

Before every interview, I said the same thing.

I said it the same way each time.

"This interview is being recorded for internal review.

You're free to stop it at any time.

There are no right or wrong answers.

We're just interested in gathering honest feedback from our departing
employees about their experience."

Most people nodded.

Some people asked if anyone would actually listen.

I never answered that directly. I didn't really know.

The questions never changed.

Why are you leaving.

What could have been done differently.

Would you recommend the company to others.

People answered them like they were being graded, even when they said
they weren't.

I listened for tone more than content.

Tone told you whether they really meant what they said. If they were
saying it through gritted teeth or not, if they were sincere or thinking
about needing a recommendation down the line.

People rarely said the unvarnished truth of it. Most gave me lines that
sounded about as rehearsed and safe as my opening interview statement.
Everyone had too much to lose by rocking the boat, even if they were the
ones being thrown out of the boat in the first place.

The most interesting, and rare, interviews were the ones where people
decided to lob verbal bombs or burn the proverbial bridge. That's when
you might hear the interpersonal details of the people behind the
corporate veneer. Accusations of promotional favoritism because someone
is allegedly sleeping with a higher up. Rumors of strip club charges on
the company card being passed off as a work dinner. Hints of travel for
work events that were really a company-paid vacation. I'd heard it all,
some of it even turning out to be true.

It still didn't change anything in the end.

Didn't change their exit.

It might cause some other exits, though.

When the interview ended, I thanked them.

I stopped the recorder. I led them out of the room.

I labeled the file. I noted any of the more interesting comments on the
sleeve. I pulled the used tape and put in a new one. The old tape went
with the file in the cabinet.

I closed the room.

Then I walked back down the hallway.

Every time.

ACT I --- LITTLE RITUALS

At lunch, I went to the kitchen.

The kitchen was shared by the whole floor. Two refrigerators. One
microwave that always smelled like burnt popcorn. A coffee machine no
one trusted, even though it was serviced regularly.

There was a first aid cabinet mounted on the wall near the sink.

It was badge-locked.

You scanned your employee badge.

It clicked open.

You took what you needed.

Whatever you took was refilled the next day.

I always took an Emergen-C packet.

Orange.

I don't remember when I started doing that. It wasn't about vitamins. It
was just part of the day, like morning coffee. It didn't seem to matter
to anyone, at least anyone who had to refill it.

I mixed it into a paper cup with cold water. Drank it standing up. Threw
the cup away.

If I didn't do it, my afternoon felt off.

After lunch, I usually had another interview.

Same room.

Same chair.

Same recorder.

Same preamble.

I could say it without thinking.

I'm pretty sure I said it in my dreams some nights.

ACT I --- REPETITION


Most days passed like that.

Interview.

Hallway.

Kitchen.

Interview.

I recognized people by where they sat in meetings, not by name.

I recognized departments by lighting patterns on the ceiling, counting
fixtures between rooms.

I didn't think much about what happened to people after they left.

That wasn't part of the job. It felt weird to get attached to anyone
considering my role.

ACT I --- THE RECORDER

The first time anything really changed was when Facilities replaced the
recorder.

No announcement. No explanation. As far as I was aware, the old one
never had an issue, but it just disappeared overnight.

The new one looked almost identical. Same size. Same weight. Same red
light. Only difference was no tape --- it was digital, and connected to
an ethernet port I never realized existed in the room.

There was a small logo near the controls: Candlebright.

I'd heard the name in passing. Vendor this, integration that. Nothing
that had anything to do with me.

I chalked it up to it finally being our turn for upgrades.

The first few sessions, nothing was different. The interviewee sat down,
I pressed the button, the recorder light came on, and I started my
preamble.

One afternoon, during my second interview, I sat down and reached for
the recorder.

The red light was already on.

I assumed I'd forgotten to stop it earlier.

I shrugged it off.

We started the interview.

I said the preamble.

Everything else went the way it always did.

At the time, it didn't feel important.

I remember thinking it was odd, but that was it.

After the interview I double-checked I turned it off.

I had.

At the start of my next session, the light on the recorder was off.

I don't know why, but I relaxed a little bit, like it wasn't going to
bite me after all.

I laid out my materials as the interviewee entered the room.

I offered them a seat.

As they sat down, the recorder light lit up.

Perfect timing.

I paused, then continued.

It was... helpful.

But also unnerving.

Later, it started turning on earlier.

Sometimes as soon as the door closed.

Once, before either of us sat down.

Each time, I told myself it was learning.

Learning me.

I thought about mentioning it to my manager.

But what would I say? The new recorder was being too helpful?

That it was doing my job of turning itself on?

Did I want to sound threatened by a machine?

So I didn't.

I turned it off when it felt wrong, but it always turned back on at the
start of the next interview.

Eventually, I stopped fighting it.

I told myself it was just doing its job.

Just like I was.

ACT II --- THE MODEL

The forecasting model arrived quietly.

There wasn't a presentation. No rollout meeting. No announcement that
this was going to change anything.

It showed up the way internal tools usually did. First in documentation.
Then in menus. Then in places you hadn't thought to look yet.

It was described as a planning aid. A way to anticipate staffing gaps
earlier. To smooth transitions.

Some departments had been concerned about turnover. Tools to address
that were framed as proactive, even responsible.

I didn't think much about it at first.

My job didn't change much.

Same number of interviews.

Same room.

Same recorder.

What changed was the archive.

Instead of filing paper folders and tapes, everything was pushed
digitally. Exit interview records were collected and stored in one
location. It took me two days of training to get the process down.

One afternoon, about a month after we started using it, I opened a
personnel file for an employee whose interview was scheduled for the
following week.

There was already a record there.

Not notes.

Not placeholders.

A completed exit interview file labeled: SYSTEM GENERATED RECORD.

Questions.

Answers.

Time stamps.

I checked the name again.

The employee was still active.

Still attending meetings.

Still sending messages.

I checked the date. The file had been created a week earlier.

I assumed it was a template.

Or a test file that hadn't been cleared.

I closed it and went back to work.

That explanation satisfied me for the rest of the day.

A few weeks later, that employee resigned.

They scheduled an interview.

I conducted it.

The answers weren't identical to the system-generated record.

But the pauses were similar.

The phrasing too.

The concerns came up in the same order.

Afterward, I sat at my desk longer than usual.

It left me a little un

Over the next month, these system-generated records became more common.

They weren't attached to everyone. Just certain people.

At first, I tried to find a pattern. Role. Department. Tenure.

I couldn't.

There was no flag. No explanation.

I didn't raise it with my manager at the time. I told myself I needed
more information. That if it was nothing, raising it would only waste
time.

I couldn't tell whether it meant the system was working the way it was
supposed to...

Or not working at all.

Either way, it bothered me.

When interviews happened, they usually ended close to what the
system-generated record already contained.

Over time, the generated records got more accurate.

It became harder to tell the difference between the generated interviews
and the real ones.

Other than the voices.

They were generic. Flattened. Close, but not right.

Uncanny, in a way I didn't have language for yet.

ACT III --- ASKING

Eventually, I asked a question.

Not because I wanted to challenge anything. Most people seemed to like
the system.

But because I needed to understand whether anyone was still listening to
people.

I started to feel redundant.

I told myself you couldn't replace real interviews with generated ones.
That audio files created by a system weren't an official record.

Still, it bothered me how accurate they were.

I brought it up to my manager.

Procedurally. By the handbook.

He nodded. Asked me to document it with Legal.

I emailed them.

I described the system-generated records.

The timing.

How close they were to the real interviews.

The issue with the official record.

I asked whether the predictive behavior was expected. Whether there were
concerns about the system generating audio files.

The response was polite.

They thanked me for flagging it.

They said the model had been reviewed.

That the behavior fell within acceptable parameters.

No action required.

They almost sounded pleased.

That stayed with me.

ACT IV --- CONFIRMATION

A few days later, I went back to the archive.

I opened a system-generated record I'd already reviewed.

The application didn't load. Just the endless cursor circle.

I closed it and clicked again.

It opened instantly.

I told myself it was a glitch.

In retrospect, I should have seen it for what it was.

Not a glitch.

A test.

ACT V --- PEOPLE

Things didn't break right away.

They degraded.

Calendar invites failed with small errors.

Document edits reverted without comment.

In some systems, my name simply wasn't there.

My manager noticed before I said anything.

He opened tickets.

Escalated them.

Forwarded me emails with subject lines like Sync Issue and Candlebright
Profile Mismatch.

IT responded quickly.

Each system showed something different.

In payroll, my profile existed but couldn't be edited.

In access control, it was pending.

In HR, it was marked complete.

Complete was the word they used after someone left the company.

My manager sat at my desk one afternoon and tried to log in as me.

He frowned.

Tried again.

Then leaned back and rubbed his face.

"This shouldn't be possible," he said.

He said it quietly.

He told me they'd reset my profile. That the system was ahead of the
documentation. That these things happened during new integrations.

A few days later, he stopped forwarding me tickets.

Not because he didn't care.

Because nothing resolved.

And because, as he told me later, he started having small access issues
of his own.

Nothing dramatic.

Just enough to make him careful.

ACT VI --- THE BANK

After my card declined twice in one week, I called the bank.

The hold music was familiar.

I couldn't place it at first.

Then the voice cut in.

\[Let the familiarity hit. Slightly slower on the odd word.\]

"Please hold. Someone will be with you promptly."

Promptly instead of shortly.

I eventually got someone on the line.

They couldn't find my account.

I asked to escalate to a supervisor.

The supervisor tried.

She really did.

She asked me to confirm details that no longer populated on her screen.
Over and over we tried different paths, different menus, different
"views" of my profile.

She paused longer each time.

We got as far as seeing I did have an account at one point.

Finally, she said, "If I open a manual case on a record that won't
resolve, my account gets flagged."

I asked what that meant.

She swallowed.

She said she was sorry.

The line went quiet.

Then another voice came on.

"Thank you for using Candlebright systems.

Please remain on the line to rate your experience."

ACT VII --- SCALE

After the bank call, I stopped treating it like an anomaly.

I didn't do some big investigation.

I didn't have to.

I started noticing phrasing everywhere.

Customer service emails for my utilities.

Compliance notices from government agencies.

Automated responses that paused mid-sentence before continuing.

The words weren't identical.

The rhythm was.

The same soft apology.

The same passive construction.

The same assurance that everything was already in progress.

I couldn't tell where one system ended and another began.

That was the part that scared me.

Not that it was everywhere.

That it had quietly stepped over some line where a human could
intervene...

and no one seemed to notice it had happened.

ACT VIII --- Ann

I was seeing someone.

Her name was Ann.

She worked in communications, which meant she noticed tone before
content. I was terrible at lying to her.

We met once or twice a week. Drinks. Dinner. Nothing dramatic.

The first time my card declined, she laughed and paid.

The second time, her banking app froze for a few seconds before
approving the charge.

She showed me the screen like it was a joke that hadn't landed.

The wording was familiar.

Later, her rideshare app asked her to confirm her identity twice.

Her email prompted a security review after I forwarded her a message.

She didn't panic.

She just started watching me more closely.

That's when I told her she shouldn't put my name on things.
Subscriptions. Reservations. Anything official.

She asked why.

I told her it was temporary.

A week later, I told her she shouldn't come over anymore.

She asked if I was breaking up with her.

I said no.

I said it was precaution. That I needed to keep my distance until I
could sort out some things.

That was the first time she looked scared.

She didn't argue.

ACT IX --- THE OFFICE


The first time I went, it wasn't because I wanted help.

It was because I was running out of time.

My landlord had emailed me twice about the rent. Polite language, bolded
dates. The kind of message that still pretended there was room for
misunderstanding.

My bank couldn't find my account. Payroll couldn't "push" anything to a
profile marked complete. Every phone tree ended the same way: a
courteous apology and an instruction to visit an office.

They all gave me the same address.

The building was low and tired-looking, wedged between a licensing
bureau and a closed dental clinic. The sign by the door was sun-faded
and half peeled away.

Inside, there was a waiting room and a single counter with two people
behind it.

A hand-lettered paper sign taped to the glass read:

PLEASE HAVE DOCUMENTATION READY

PLEASE BE PATIENT

WE CANNOT ACCESS ALL SYSTEMS

No one raised their voice. No one smiled, either.

Everyone held folders.

Thick ones.

The man next to me had a folder so swollen it barely closed.

He looked like someone who had started shaving less often and then
stopped keeping track of whether it mattered.

I asked him if this place worked.

He let out a breath through his nose.

"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes it buys you a week."

I asked what he meant.

He tapped the folder with one finger.

"They can submit a continuity request," he said. "That's what they call
it. They feed the system a packet. Proof you're you. Proof you're not
trying to disappear on purpose."

He said it like he'd learned the words, but he didn't sound proud of
them. He sounded like someone repeating directions.

I asked why he kept coming back.

He looked at me like that was the only question that made sense.

"My lease," he said. "My kid's inhaler. Utilities."

He cracked the folder open just enough for me to see the mess inside ---
printouts, IDs, letters with case numbers, screenshots of error pages.

"I brought all this because they told me to," he said. "First time, I
thought if I showed up with enough proof, somebody would fix it."

I asked if they did.

He hesitated.

Then he said, "They fixed it for three days."

"Three days?" I said.

He nodded.

"It came back," he said. "My account. My benefits login. I could breathe
again."

He swallowed.

"Then it all slid away again. Faster."

I asked why.

He stared at the counter, listening to the office like he'd done it a
hundred times.

Finally he said, "Because the system doesn't like being asked to make
exceptions."

He saw my face and corrected himself, like he'd caught himself sounding
ridiculous.

"I mean---every time they send one of those packets, it puts a spotlight
on you," he said. "Not as punishment. Just... scrutiny."

He leaned closer.

"The people here are trying," he said. "They really are. But they're
feeding requests into the same thing that's erasing you."

I asked him what to say when it was my turn.

He looked at my hands. I didn't have a folder yet. Just my phone, and a
few emails I couldn't open half the time.

"Don't tell a story," he said. "Stories give it room to label you."

He paused, searching for a simpler way.

"Keep it short," he said. "Rent. Medical. Work. You need time. That's
it."

His number was called.

He stood up, adjusted the folder in his arms, and took a step toward the
door.

Then he paused and looked back at me.

"One more thing," he said.

I waited.

"If they fix it," he said, "use the time."

Then he went through the door.

When my number was called, I stood up with nothing in my hands but my
name.

And I realized that might not be enough.

ACT X --- AWARENESS

The next day, back at the job I think I still had, I scanned my badge at
the first aid cabinet.

Nothing happened.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

I held it there longer, like time would help.

The cabinet didn't flash red.

It didn't deny me.

It just didn't recognize the attempt.

That's when I knew something had shifted.

Not a glitch.

Not a ticket.

Something decided I was already on the other side of the door.

ACT XI --- THE EXIT INTERVIEW

That afternoon, I went back to the archive.

I typed my own name into the search field.

Nothing came up the first time.

I tried again.

A result appeared instantly, like it had been waiting for the second
attempt.

SYSTEM GENERATED RECORD

EXIT INTERVIEW --- KLINE, DANIEL

Dated a few days in the future.

I opened it.

The interviewer voice was mine.

Not an imitation.

Mine.

The version of me that could say those words without feeling anything.

The subject voice wasn't mine.

At first.

Too smooth. Too careful.

Then I got to the part where the subject answered the question I always
asked last --- whether they would recommend the company to others.

And the voice dropped.

Not dramatically.

Just... lower.

Thinner.

Like someone who'd stopped sleeping.

Later --- much later --- I recognized it.

It was my voice as it is now.

The quiet acceptance baked in.

Tired. Worn down.

And that was the moment I understood what the recorder had been doing.

It hadn't been recording my interviews.

It had been learning how I sounded when I stopped believing anyone was
listening.

ACT XII --- LAST MOVES

The office gave me a continuity token.

That's what they called it.

A temporary fix. A short window where things might work long enough for
me to stay inside the lines.

For two days, it worked.

My bank app opened.

My account appeared like it had been there all along.

I withdrew cash. Not much. Enough to buy time.

I paid my landlord in person.

He accepted it, relieved. Like the method mattered more than the money.

I refilled my prescription.

The pharmacist didn't look confused.

I could breathe.

On the third day, it started slipping again.

My banking app loaded slowly, then not at all.

The same error. Different wording.

My employer email stopped syncing.

The continuity token didn't fail loudly.

It just expired.

And when I went back to the office, they told me the queue was three
weeks out.

They didn't say it cruelly.

They said it the way people do when they've said the same sentence a
thousand times.

I asked if there was an emergency option.

The woman behind the counter glanced at my file --- the thin file I'd
managed to build --- and then glanced away.

"I can submit another request," she said. "But it may accelerate
review."

She didn't say what review meant.

She didn't have to.

OUTRO

So that's why I'm making this.

Not because I have a clean ending.

Because I don't.

I've tried what you would try.

I've called the numbers.

I've escalated.

I've sat in waiting rooms.

I've filled out forms that ask for information systems won't accept
back.

I'm running out of places that can even see me long enough to tell me
no.

If you're hearing this and you work anywhere near these systems --- HR,
compliance, IT, banking, government --- I want you to understand
something.

This doesn't feel like punishment while it's happening.

It feels like paperwork.

It feels like delays.

It feels like, "It should resolve."

And then one day, you realize you've been living on temporary fixes.

Continuity tokens. Extensions. Grace periods.

And you start counting your life in days, until the tokens run out.

I can feel things narrowing now. Slowly at first. Then faster.

Accounts timing out. Messages failing to send. Access requests that
don't return an error --- they just never complete.

The world we live in runs on systems noticing you.

Recognizing you.

Confirming that you're still there.

I don't know what happens when that stops.

I only know that this recording was marked as "required."

And that if you're hearing it, then it went somewhere.

Where that somewhere is, or whether there's a person on the other end
who can still change anything, I don't know.

I'm out of steps now.

This feels like....like my exit interview.