Chip of Revenge
I am alone in my office for 75% of most days. To spurn off sleepiness and boredom in general I dance around the warehouse and I have a myriad of snacks in my drawer that I munch on for a considerable part of my day. Then came the day that I ran out of pretzels, a day that started out as innocent as any other Tuesday.
My boss is the type of man that makes lesser women cry, or at least flinch. He is the type of man who expects his assistant (me) to speak when spoken to. A rule I find easy to abide by since I prefer to wear my headphones all day as opposed to listening to his sighs of discontent. This is a man whose mood changes faster than the Florida weather and when his moods are bad the air in the office is thick with awkward shuffling of people trying to avoid his fury.
Everyday for lunch my boss’s girlfriend to brings him Subway and a large bag of BBQ potato chips. They sit in strange silence while they eat and they always put the half eaten bag of chips in a box on top of his large bookshelf. Seemingly, forgotten.
The box filled with potato chips called to me. Every trans fat covered one of them chanting my name, begging for freedom from the box upon my boss’s bookshelf. I never let myself purchase these kinds of chips. Because I know they are not simply BBQ chips, they are crack-covered bites of delicious shame.
My boss is the type of man that makes lesser women cry, or at least flinch. He is the type of man who expects his assistant (me) to speak when spoken to. A rule I find easy to abide by since I prefer to wear my headphones all day as opposed to listening to his sighs of discontent. This is a man whose mood changes faster than the Florida weather and when his moods are bad the air in the office is thick with awkward shuffling of people trying to avoid his fury.
Everyday for lunch my boss’s girlfriend to brings him Subway and a large bag of BBQ potato chips. They sit in strange silence while they eat and they always put the half eaten bag of chips in a box on top of his large bookshelf. Seemingly, forgotten.
Until the day I ran out of snacks.
The box filled with potato chips called to me. Every trans fat covered one of them chanting my name, begging for freedom from the box upon my boss’s bookshelf. I never let myself purchase these kinds of chips. Because I know they are not simply BBQ chips, they are crack-covered bites of delicious shame.
It was this day my boss said he was leaving to go run some errands. Leaving just me…and the chips.
I waited until I heard his car pull out and drive away before I ran across the room reaching up and up to the box of chips. Inside were tons of half eaten bags. He would never know I told myself. I grabbed a handful to bring to my desk as to not stand too long at the scene of the crime. Knowing full and well that I would be retrieving about five more handfuls before the hour was over.
So became my ritual of stealing the boss’s chips. But now it was about MORE than chips. These chips represented every rude comment or sexual innuendo I had ever endured in this office. Whenever my boss was snide or crude I knew with satisfaction that those chips would be mine. Ha hA! Damn the man!
All until one day like many of the preceding he pulled the Cadillac out of the parking spot and I rounded his desk for my daily fill of fatty revenge. There I stood behind his desk arm elbow deep in the bag, crunching away when the unthinkable happened. The door swung open and there he stood, two hundred and twenty pounds of un-readable authority. I choked on a mouth full of chips and guilt. Cursing myself for having become so bold to just stand there at the trough! Caught red handed I stuttered something about having nothing to eat like I was an orphan begging for food.
He said nothing. He simply walked around me as I scrambled to put everything back in place and he went to work. Silence, a deafening silence. Horrified, I quickly went back to my desk, the taste of BBQ and my lost dignity heavy on my tongue.
News spread fast through the company. For being a man of few words it sure got around quick to watch your food around the fatty (me). It has now been the long standing joke that every time my boss eats he offers me some of his chips, and then he chuckles to himself, “Unless you’d rather just steal them later”.
And you know what? I say no thank you when he offers. But as soon as he turns his back, like a ninja, I retrieve my greasy glory.
Rosa Parks may have had her bus seat. I have the pilfering of junk food.
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2 comments:
You are truly talented, my friend. I seriously peed a little.
Absolutely hilarious...you have disrupted our office with laughter! And we know the cast of characters! We are now devoted readers...
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