Please Pass The Pie One Office to the Left

Here at Retirement Acres Utility District East, we have just undergone a move. Anyone who works in corporate America can tell you this is both a special sort of hell while also liberating.

Between cries of “Has anyone seen my coffee cup/wedding photo/budget for next year?!” are quiet phone calls: “No, I haven’t seen that document since I moved. The movers must have put an entire box in the trash.”

Well, that’s because you marked it as trash, Felicia. But we sympathize.

The move has been well publicized, mostly for the scope. It was all dependent on Dylan moving first. He has been assigned an office with a badge reader on the door. It will not read his badge. After an entertaining couple of hours with the movers, Security was dispatched to open the door. The movers relocated Dylan’s items then closed the door behind them. Fortunately he had his computer. He will be working from the break room, or the Panera, or the new brewery, for the foreseeable future.

Fortunately this happened during the World Cup, so he can grab a table at Taco Mac. We go to meet him for lunch while Le Grenouille explains the rules of the game. We think he’s making them up.

But back to our recent relocation.

Miss Maine moved into Dylan’s old office. USMC-ret moved into Miss Maine’s office. Miss Texas moved into USMC-ret’s cube, while Miss South Carolina moved into the cube formerly occupied by Miss Texas. And Flo-Rida moved into Miss South Carolina’s cube, or will once they move the only desk in the building that will accommodate his 6’5″ frame. Which kicked off a whole bunch of other logistical issues.

You can see where this is headed, right?

The accounting girl scurried into USMC-ret’s office, left a plate of home-baked pie, scribbled a note on the whiteboard, then scurried back out. It’s the end of the month, otherwise it would have seemed weird.

“Do you think she brought enough for all of us?” Miss South Carolina asked wistfully. She had not.

USMC-ret returned from the meeting, having lost the battle with a view towards winning the war. It had been a sacrifice for the greater good. The needs of the many.

The meeting had sucked.

But there was unanticipated pie on his desk and a note relating the location of ice cream to go with same. The day was looking up. He ate the pie before going to yet another meeting; one in an endless series that looked like it would not end before next summer.

As fate would have it, the scurrying pie lady and Miss Maine were both in the next meeting. As the speaker launched into one of his infinite PowePoint presentations, she leaned over.

“Did you like the pie? I saved you a piece.”

Miss Maine turned her attention from a slide that, despite input from numerous groups, was still wrong.

“What pie?”

“I left it on your desk. With a note. Did you find the ice cream?”

“There was no pie on my desk,” Miss Maine replied, puzzled and pieless. “Are you sure you left it on my desk?”

“You’ve had the same desk for nine years,” the scurrying baker-accountant admonished. “I think I know where you sit.”

“I moved two weeks ago.” She turned to USMC-ret, on her other side. “Did you eat my pie and ice cream?!”

“I ate my pie and ice cream that was on my desk. I don’t know who left it. I guess the Scheduler girls brought me back some after they met Dylan at Taco Mac.”

“Mexico lost?”

“They’re still moving on.”

“My pie?”

“It literally did not have your name on it.”

“You would eat something the Scheduler girls brought you? Knowing that one is working this weekend and the other is working the 4th? They’re all but on strike.” She turned back to the pie benefactress. “You didn’t notice the pictures on the desk were girls and not boys? Or that my nameplate was gone?”

“I didn’t even look,” she admitted.

“Wait, there was pie and you didn’t share it with us,” the gambler interrupted. He’s having a bad week because he should not have joined a soccer pool without knowing how it worked. “Rude.”

“It was One. Piece. One,” USMC-ret insisted.

The presenter droned on, undeterred, as Pie-gate raged its way up and down the table.

Finally, the supervisor got tired of the whole thing and dismissed everyone to their respective (new) offices. A hostile tension settled over the office, and it has not abated yet.

We are going to ask Dylan to set up camp by a bakery today, in the hopes of assuaging feelings before the ill wind blows the entire month-end out of the water.

What kind of pie goes best with wrath, readers?

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