in the company of presidents

Once upon a time, at a previous job...

Someone had slammed the fridge door shut, upending the milk carton in the fridge door in the process. The spill in the fridge had been cleaned up in short order; the milk that had dripped down the door seal, onto the front base, and onto the floor under the fridge was another matter. It crusted up nicely, maturing into a scent not experienced this side of the fourth level of hell. One afternoon, I decided I had had enough; with the help of a colleague, I budged the fridge and attacked the putrid culprit puddle with the meek tools available in your standard office kitchenette. There I was, scrubbing on all fours, my back, or rather my butt to the door, when who should walk in but the company president. He quickly recovered from the initial shock, barely acknowledged my presence, and made himself a cappuccino before retreating to the safe, sane, sanctity of his corner office.

Needless to say, in the year we were in those offices, that was the only time I ever saw him in that kitchenette - our formal break room was at the opposite end of the building and much closer to both his office and the executive boardroom than our little hole in the wall, which was probably set up merely for productivity's sake, to make sure groggy non-morning types like myself didn't spend half the morning trekking between desk and coffee pot.

Tuesday in six: Midterm, dictionaries and the electoral map.

Wednesday: Flat broke - uninspiring but cheap lunches.

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