Stale

In the break room at lunch time, Terry always eats the same sort of sandwich. His ritualized repast begins at twelve-thirty on the dot. A semi-translucent Tupperware container is ceremoniously unsealed, revealing two rectangular assemblages of brown bread whitewashed on one side with mayonnaise then plastered with oval slivers of brick red ham and a square of fluorescent yellow cheese each. Perfect edible geometry not even disturbed by an anarchic flourish of lettuce nor polka-dotted with pickles. It's just sliced bread, mayo, meat and Swiss with no variety of vegetable at all, and methodically chewed through in glum silence. Bonn appetite, Terry. I imagine even condemned men provide more convivial companionship at their last meals, the execution chamber like party central compared to our break room. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if one morning he failed to appear at his desk, having hung himself in his kitchen at home, unable to face the unremitting repetitiveness of the daily grind.

Consequently, I avoid the break room when Terry is there, often eating my own lunch before noon or, if Terry is masticating especially slowly, as late as two pm. He's too reminiscent of the Jonah character in ancient sailing lore, the cursed deckhand destined to bring bad luck and disaster down upon his ship and fellow crew. If only there were a metaphorical desert island where we could abandon him, a remote cubicle located at the other end of the building, isolated from the regular office and its staff. He'd be allowed the Man Friday of an email account but unable to access any kind of visual communication. Then he could munch his monotonous sandwiches in private without depressing everybody else. Perhaps I will suggest this solution to Human Resources, such as they are, although collecting cash from my co-workers to buy him a box of sushi or Pad Thai every now and again would be much easier. Most people would contribute, I think. Just another tax we must pay to stop the insidious contagion of sterility creeping into our own lives.

Comments

[Tatyana]

Like your second option much better, than the authoritarian gag order. Or maybe you just mind your own business and proceed with your own lunch choices - which, may I add, might be abhorrent to Terry, or merely disgusting to members of silent majority - preferably silently. Note, I'm not telling you to choke on your own toxins, I am much too polite.

[Stephenesque]

I also eat the same lunch every day. Chicken salad. But sometimes I have it on a sandwich, sometimes on a bed of greens, and sometimes I just smear it on crackers. The thing is, at least 15% of my colleagues still like me whereas nobody likes Terry. It IS a popularity contest

[Tatyana]

Hopefully, you didn't mention your crackers+chicken salad habit when in Sicily - not a popular choice there, I imagine.