You Know Who You Are

"Please include the items that YOU are working on."
Oh, honey. He was working on all of it.

Twenty-five years in the building.
Nine developers. Six execs.
He built the AI in the spring.
It worked the first time, in the demo.
Then security wanted a review.
Then legal wanted a review.
Then a steering committee met
to choose the people for the committee.
Summer: pending.
Fall: pending.
Everybody in the building used AI anyway,
on their phones, under the desk.
Just not the one he built.
Then they sent a brand new VP
who counted tickets like a cashier.
Cancelled the time off he'd approved.
Pop quiz in the Monday meeting:
"Name every release. From memory."
Writing up a review behind his back,
a paper trail, line by line.
Twenty-five years of shipping,
and he was working for an ass—

So he gave two weeks and the keys to the kingdom.
Every project, every name, every date.
Color-coded, cross-referenced, nine devs, six execs.
And the VP scrolled.
And scrolled.
And scrolled.
And typed:

"Please include the items that you are working on!"
He was working on all of it.
You were counting his clicks,
he was running the band.
You wanted a list, he handed you a map.
You know who you are.
(You know who you are!)

Receipts.
MIT: ninety-five percent of companies, zero return on their AI pilots.
Gartner: thirty percent, dropped right after the demo.
Wells Fargo fired more than a dozen people
for "simulation of keyboard activity."
Somebody was counting clicks.
Microsoft says the new job is "agent boss."
Build the agents. Hand off the work. Run the band.
He's had that job for twenty-five years.
Yours is the one that's leaving.

"Please include the items that you are working on!"
He was working on all of it.
You were counting his clicks,
he was running the band.
You wanted a list, he handed you a map.
You know who you are.
(You know who you are!)

He wrote HR one last email.
Not two weeks. Today.
Cursor on Send.
Send.
Badge in the tray. Laptop in the box.
Glass doors. Daylight.
And then nothing. No pings. No meetings.
Twenty-five years, and nobody's waiting on him.
For one long minute, that's the scariest part.
Then he breathes.
"Why does it even matter now? I fired him."
Monday, they posted his job.
Half the pay.
The new guy opened the file.
Nine devs. Six execs. Nobody conducting.
And his AI? Still pending.
You can buy the items at half the price.
You can't buy the one who knew why.

Next morning: no VPN, no committee,
no one to ask, no one to wait on.
Agents shipped by noon. Approved by: him.
And the numbers coming in all day.

"Please include the items that you are working on!"
Now he's working for himself.
You were counting his clicks,
he was running the band.
You wanted a list, he built a company.
I fired him! (He fired him!)
You know who you are.
(You know who you are!)

"Great news! Your AI pilot has been approved for Phase One."
He didn't open it.
You know who you—