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“The Last Supper Club” is a meditative, character-driven short story that explores themes of
transition, community, identity, and quiet resilience in the face of professional upheaval. Set in
the aftermath of a corporate shutdown, the story examines the emotional and philosophical
impact of closure—not just of a company division, but of a chapter in a shared human endeavor

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The Last Supper Club

By Harry Arabian

 The last workday came not with urgency, but with a peculiar calm. Like the hush before a curtain call, the software team walked the halls with quiet reverence. There were no beeps, no whirrs—just the gentle footsteps of those who had built digital dreams from layers of abstraction, now drifting past vacant desks and screens gone dark. The lab, once a buzzing sanctuary of thought and trial, now felt like a museum of modern effort. Oscilloscopes, Logic Analyzers, Multimeters, Power Supplies—once blinking with code and humming with problem-solving—sat dormant, relics of a chapter closed not by failure, but by decree.

The board had spoken. The division was done. The service, no longer needed. Time to shutter the operation.

Yet, instead of lament, there was rodizio.

At 6 p.m., under the amber glow of evening in Santa Ana, twelve apostles of technology—some grounded in voltage and circuits, others fluent in Python and abstraction—gathered at a Brazilian Churrascaria for what the software team cheekily dubbed The Last Supper.

The round table was a perfect metaphor: no hierarchy, only equality forged in shared deadlines and impossible deliverables. Skewers of picanha and lamb glistened under heat lamps, waiters glided by with grilled chicken wrapped in bacon, and the air was thick with the perfume of garlic, charcoal, and farewell.

Bobby, the director—stoic yet kind—stood with a glass of wine and raised it slightly. “Although the company has decided to terminate our division,” he said, voice steady but eyes glassy, “this is not the time to give up hope. We are a skilled group. We’ll rebound.”

A murmur of agreement rolled across the table like soft thunder.

“I just started my software career a year ago,” piped up Quang, youthful energy in his eyes. “I learned so much working with Bobby. Starting work next week, actually—no time even to update my LinkedIn!”

That brought smiles. Even laughter.

“Lucky you,” said Tom from the other end of the table, a hardware engineer with solder in his soul. “I did update my LinkedIn. My status is retired.”

The older half of the table erupted in chuckles.

Jerry, the high priest of the abstraction layer, nodded. “I know why you did that—so the recruiters stop flooding your inbox.” He pointed his skewer at Tom. “Ten years working beside hardware folks, I’ve learned: they’re real about everything.”

Then came the sizzle.

Fresh meats, seared and rotating on swords of steel, approached like cavalry. Plates flipped from red to green. Tongues watered. Choices were made.

Except mine.

The meat made its rounds, plates flipped green to red—but not mine. For over two decades, I’d been vegan—for health, yes, but tonight, also for sanity. I slipped away like a silent hunter, weaving through the tables toward the salad bar, a different kind of bounty. A bed of spinach and kale formed my foundation. Cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, shredded carrots followed. Roasted beets and grilled zucchini joined the composition. Asparagus, bell peppers, red onions, and four careful olives. A spoonful of olive oil vinaigrette sealed the canvas.

Red beans tempted me until I spotted the telltale shimmer of bacon. I passed.

Quang, returning from his protein parade, noticed my bowl. “That’s one healthy salad,” he said with cheerful admiration, nudging Bobby and nodding toward my plate.

I returned to the table and took my seat beside Jerry, who was mid-chew, lost in a hunk of what appeared to be chicken.

Mouth still full, he said, “We were a great team. I still can’t explain why they shuttered the place.”

For a few moments, silence hovered like smoke.

I’d been the lead systems architect for most of a decade—more of a bridge than a pillar. I broke the quiet gently. “Businesses evolve. In this rapid tech world, yesterday’s inventions become today’s doorstops.”

Jerry frowned. “Easy for you to say. You’re two years from retirement. I’m not even sure how I’ll pay rent next week.”

I set down my fork and looked him in the eye. “Our skills to invent—to build, test, rethink, and rebuild—that won’t be phased out. Human struggle is perpetual, and so is progress. The tools may change, but the minds don’t.”

He didn’t reply immediately, but I saw the weight of his thoughts shifting.

As the night wore on, the meat kept coming, the salad bar restocked, and the round table stayed intact. Talk shifted to future gigs, startup dreams, moving vans, and sabbaticals. Some toasted to early retirement, others to fresh beginnings.

It was not an ending, we realized—but a rebirth disguised as a closure.

Twelve technologists, once a team under a corporate roof, now scattered seeds into the wind—each uncertain where they might land, but all knowing how to grow.