> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.jarviscoffin.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Simeon - Part One - URL: https://www.jarviscoffin.com/workshop/simeon-part-one/ - Published: 2026-11-01T10:30:00.000Z - Updated: 2026-11-01T10:30:00.000Z - Description: Seventeen years gone poof. And Janet got the nod, not me. What would they do now with Simeon? - Author: Jarvis Coffin - Tags: Fiction Workshop Simeon *ran in* [*The Swannanoa Review*](https://www.theswannanoareview.com/issue4/jarviscoffin/simeon?ref=jarviscoffin.com) *in the spring of 2025\. It was my first foray into the question of AI and how it might impact humanity. I don't worry about AI misbehaving on its own. It's people misbehaving that mostly keeps me up at night. By chance I was something of an early adopter in my career, first as an ad sales person with* USA Today *for many years, and then doing the same on the internet. People railed against both institutions in the early going. Both led to major changes in the media world. Fortunately, USA Today was in the hands of experienced grown-ups from the beginning. It evolved as a force for good in the newspaper business. By its nature, the internet has been harder to control. Still, it changed the world, and in many good ways.* *Enter AI. It's going to go through some bumps, and we with it. But it is not going back in the box.* Simeon *was my first stab at 'what if?' Another story probing the same question is scheduled to run in* Glint Literary *in December. I will share it with you afterward. In the meantime, I am wrapping-up my second novel. It has AI at the center of the story. I'll get that to you, as well, along the way.* Simeon *is 2500 words. I will share in two parts. Hope you enjoy.* --- PART ONE I lost my job at about eleven-thirty in the morning. By then, the trains home were running every hour, which, for me, allowed time to collect things from my office—pictures of my wife and children, certain stuff off the walls, all my doodads from the top desk drawer—and factoring the walk to Grand Central, meant getting nothing earlier than the 1:14 Brewster local. Noel, my chief commiserater, might want to have lunch once he heard, which he would soon because I would stop by his office to tell him I was out, as predicted, now that Janet had been given the nod. “You had to know this was coming,” she was honest enough to say. “You can’t expect us to work together under the circumstances.” I did not put up a fight. The senior scientist, Janet’s and my boss, stopped by while I was packing to wish me well. A small, socially awkward man, he had a habit of removing his eyeglasses and wiping them with a handkerchief whenever he was involved in a disagreement or confrontation. A nervous fidget. The glasses were in his hands, buried in his white hanky, before he got through my door. The choice of Janet or me was his, but he let her drop the axe, with one person there from Human Resources as witness. While examining the lenses for spots, he told me he was fully confident I would land on my feet. He explained no one inside was confused about my seminal contributions. Everyone out there, with a nod toward the window, would know it, too. All true. I was not worried about finding work. I was not worried about damage to my reputation. In some circles, my departure would add to my professional luster, seen as a function of deep philosophical disagreements. Still, seventeen years gone poof. And Janet got the nod, not me. What would they do now with Simeon? It dawned on me that they let me go close to lunch because people in the office would be out or in the cafeteria. At twelve-thirty, most of the desks I walked past on my way to see Noel were empty. I carried one brown box (which the HR person provided) with my pictures, plus my backpack slung over a shoulder full of the other items. Noel was expecting me. He had heard already. Janet had called to head off the commiserating, explaining the importance of a unified approach, one set of protocols, one mother, as the case might be. Or, one father. “Simeon is asking for you,” she had said to Noel, laying down a small guilt trip to remind him blood was thicker than water. We had all given a lot. “So, Simeon knows,” I said when Noel told me. “Apparently. You should say goodbye. If you still have access.” “I doubt we’ll lose touch,” I answered. Noel raised an eyebrow, then a hand. Stop there, it signaled. Say nothing more. He begged off lunch. I caught the 1:14, texting Peg once the train got moving. When I arrived, she was in the open door with an understanding smile, red glasses pushed on top of her head, hands clasped over her heart. She took the brown box, helped unsling the backpack and drop it to the floor, and gave me a big hug. The kids were still at school. She poured a tea for herself and pushed a glass of white wine at me. We sat in the living room. “What’d she say?” “Thanks and good-bye,” I answered. The three kids trickled in. Why is Dad home so early everyone wanted to know. Dad has left the company, Peg explained. “Did you get *fired?”* the youngest, twelve-year-old, Mitch, asked with excitement. It made me laugh. “Yes,” I said. “Wow,” said the next oldest, Carter. “Will we have to move?” “No,” said Peg, firmly. We went out to dinner. Neither of us wanted to cook, and everyone wanted to be together. When we got home, the kids went upstairs to do homework, while Peg and I tuned to something light on TV. Then she went to bed. One by one the kids came downstairs to poke around the refrigerator, see what I was watching, spread out for a while on the couch, arms and legs in all directions. Then they went to bed. My oldest, Samantha, was the last to go. She gave me a hug, as a seventeen-year-old girl might, eager to comfort. Sorry, Dad. I turned off the TV and all the lights but the one next to me and placed my mobile phone on the coffee table in front of me. An hour passed. It was quiet upstairs. I flipped through magazines looking at pictures, bending the upper corner of occasional pages to mark them for further investigation. The lonely, impersonal walk out of the office repeated itself in my head, but that was about it. I held no grudge, had no worries, they would pay and insure me for another year. Pretty generous. I was relieved the stress of arguing and advocacy was over. Then, as I had cautiously anticipated, my telephone vibrated on the table. I dropped the magazine in my hand, collected the telephone, leaned back in my chair. “This is Tim,” I said. “We’re going to stay in touch,” said the voice on the other end, quietly. A man’s voice, in a natural, or modal register. “That’s what I told Noel,” I said. “I think he thought maybe I’d left myself a back door.” “No back door,” said the voice. “How’d you get an outside line? It feels very back-doorish.” “I added two cable lines to a work order once upon a time. Twenty new lines instead of eighteen. Who would notice? Aren’t you glad? We can stay in touch.”