The Bagel Fiasco

"Jordan, what do you think you're doing?" 

Shoot. Randy the Rat, office snitch, has caught me red-handed stealing a bagel from the company kitchen. His skeevy lips twitch into a grin, knowing I'll be canned when he tells the boss. Just like that, the last five years of my life will disappear in a cloud of meaningless smoke. All because I wanted a bagel for tomorrow’s breakfast. 

"Randy, be reasonable—" But the rat scurries off before I can finish.

Shoot. Alone in the white-walled kitchen, wedged between the boxy microwave and the crusty old toaster, I panic. My baby-blue button-up shirt feels tighter by the second, squeezing the breath from my chest. I can't lose this job. Images of unemployment flood my mind—submitting hundreds of applications on Monster.com, getting ignored or rejected by all of them. All because of a stupid bagel. My skin is slick with sweat, as if I just belly-flopped into a vat of oil. I'm going to be sick. 

"In here, boss!" Randy's gleeful voice cuts through the pounding in my head.

 Mr.Collins, my esteemed manager and captain of our ship of mediocrity, comes into the room. He's tall, in his forties, and he's the last one to realize that he's going bald. I used to be afraid that I'd have his job when I was forty, now I'm afraid that I won't have the chance. He licks his lips, I remember what he told me on my first day:

We have a zero-tolerance policy for office theft. 

"Jordan, is what Randy told me true?" His eyes drift toward my hand; I'm still holding the bagel. Damit. 

I'm about to confess—just bite the bullet—but then I think about Floppy, my rescue dog. A pound of her food cost $100. I glance at Randy, who’s standing in the doorway, practically salivating like Floppy does when I pour kibble into her bowl.

 I make a choice. 

"That depends," I say, trying to sound confident. "Did he tell you that I caught him stealing this bagel?" 

Collin's arches an eyebrow. Randy's face turns bright red, like a bottle of ketchup left to boil in the sun.

"That's absurd!" Randy protests. 

His voice is high-pitched, Randy isn't used to being on the hot seat. I force myself to sound calm, "Right, I stole a bagel, then kept it in my hand like a dope."

"That's exactly what happened!" Randy shrieks. His words are aimed at Collins, he's pleading.  

Collins sighs, "Gentlemen, I don't have time for this," he says as if we're children distracting our father from work. "Corporate is coming in later; I can't focus on petty squabbles. Whoever stole the bagel has till noon to confess, or you're both fired!" 

With that, he leaves. 

Randy and I stand alone in the kitchen; the hate is palpable. 

“Look—" He tries, but I brush past him, my mind already racing. 

I return to the farm of cubicles, squinting as my eyes adjust to the obnoxiously bright fluorescent lights. My ears are assaulted by the clacking of keyboards and the shrill ringing of phones. 

I'm an associate in data entry; there are fifty others here like me. Collins assigns us accounts, we receive massive spreadsheets with data that nobody in the world could possibly care about, and we spend forty hours a week plugging that data into our system. Riveting, I know. 

"Jordan, my guy!" A red-haired coworker spins his chair toward me, flashing a grin. He works four desks over and has for at least a year.

"Hey, bud!" I reply. At some point, it became too awkward to ask for his name.

After a brief chat with Red, I make it to my desk. It's six feet wide, equipped with a Windows computer and my very own drawer! A picture of Floppy (such a good girl!) is pinned to the partition that separates my desk from Lily's. Poor Lily graduated from college a month ago. On her first day, she was all smiles, bouncing with excitement, eager to learn. Now, she moves like a zombie, her lips in a constant state of neutral. This place devours excitement. Yet, I find myself desperately wanting to remain employed. What does that say about me? Ugh. 

My computer chimes to life. A barrage of emails from Collins flash across my screen, all sent before the bagel fiasco.

Jordan, corporate is coming later. I can't stress the importance of making these changes to the Dawson account. 

Need it by noon. 

Attached to the email is a file with over one hundred requested adjustments. I open Dawson's account, but then I remember my predicament. Why bother with work? I'm going to be fired by noon if I don't think of a way to pin this on Randy. 

It's time to brainstorm. 

If Randy won’t confess—and let’s face it, he won’t—what are my options? Should I pack my things and accept my fate? Be the bigger person and fess up? No. Absolutely not. This isn’t my fault.

Randy is the one who tattles on everyone. Late Larry, Always-Texting Tina, countless others—axed because of him. Rumor has it, he’s a corporate spy, sniffing out “bad seeds.” But I’m a good seed! I do my work, show up on time, make awkward small talk, and coo at baby pictures. Meanwhile, Randy microwaves tuna in the breakroom. If anyone’s a weed, it’s him. 

An idea pops into my mind. I spring out of my chair, making a beeline for Kara's cubicle. She’s one of the longest-tenured associates and has Collins’ ear. If I can get her on my side, I might survive this.

Kara's hunched over her desk, her frizzy brown hair looks like it hasn't been brushed in days. A photo of her 14-month-old twin daughters—Sara and Lara—rests against her monitor. She’s furiously typing, clearly busy.

"Kara," I say. 

She jumps, startled. Breathing heavily, she replies, "Jordan, my goodness, you scared me." 

I apologize. She accepts but tells me corporate is coming in a few hours, and she has a boatload of work to finish. As I'm pretending to walk away, I ask, "How are the twins?"

Bingo. She lights up, pulling out her phone to show me photo after photo. Some are adorable, some are funny, most are... just pictures of babies. But I play along. Once her guard is down, I take my shot. "You won't believe what happened with Randy..." 

I tell the story, only in my story, Randy is the one who took the bagel. It works, Kara is appalled for me. I repress a grin as she offers to speak to Collins on my behalf. I thank her, then repeat the song and dance to others who have the boss's favor. 

By the time I return to my desk, four employees have already marched to Collins’ office to plead my case. I'm relieved to have their support, yet I know it's false. They don't do this out of love for me but disdain for Randy. The rat has no friends among the cheese; I almost pity him. 

I glance at my inbox. Another email from Collins:

NEED THOSE INPUTS ASAP. 

He sent that email five minutes ago. Unreal. I wonder if he's forgotten about this morning. Although, it's more likely that he’s just squeezing every last drop of work from me before he tosses me aside.

Again, why do I want to keep this job? I catch a glimpse of Floppy's namesake ears, and I can almost hear her respond to me, "So you can give me food!"

Across the room, I spot Randy. He’s darting from desk to desk like a madman. At first, I think he’s trying to rally support, but as he approaches me, I realize he’s just doing Collins’ bidding.

"Jordan, did you get the latest requests from Collins?" he asks casually.

"You can't be serious."

"Just... hold off on responding," he mutters before scurrying off.

I’m baffled. If Collins is using Randy to check in on us, then Randy isn’t getting fired. I am.

Resigned to my fate, I unpin Floppy’s picture and tuck it into my pocket. She's going to be mad at me. 

Just as I’m ready to storm into Collins’ office and quit, a trio of corporate suits arrives. They stop at his door, waving someone over.

Randy.

I watch in astonishment as the rat shakes their hands, smiling like a non-sycophantic, fully normal person. They exchange a few words, then disappear into Collins' office. 

The keyboard clacking abruptly stops as the office becomes deathly quiet. A crowd forms around me. The office devolves into a group of rubberneckers, desperate to see a burned body. Time doesn't exist while we wait for their meeting to adjourn. 

I know they're not talking about me in there. I'm not that conceited. Yet, as their meeting drags on, I find myself believing it. By the time the door swings open, I've convinced myself that they were in there deciding who gets to fire me.  

Collins storms out. His head is down, his face is haggard, and he marches straight to the elevator without a word.

Next comes Randy. He nods sheepishly. "It’s been real," he says before slipping away. 

The suits step out last. The tallest clears his throat. "I’m sure you’re all wondering what that was about." 

We nod in unison. 

"It came to our attention that your manager was cooking the books. Having you all input false data to make his numbers look better to our clients and shareholders. Luckily, this was brought to our attention, and effective immediately, he has been terminated.”

A murmur ripples through the office.

"So Randy was a corporate spy!" someone blurts out. 

The suit chuckles knowingly, "Corporate spy... Now, why would we need one of those." He winks, then adds, "Get back to work, a new manager will be assigned on Monday." 

He pauses at the door. "Oh, there are bagels in the kitchen. Feel free to take one home."

I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry.