Sand Hill Slave

  I used to work for a partner who was incredibly messy. His office was slightly cluttered with papers, which was no big deal, but every once in awhile, when he would eat at his desk, the end result would be an obscene mess that rivaled one of Jackson Pollock’s pieces. Was that barbeque sauce I detected on his phone? Could that be mayonnaise on the couch looking like “leftover change from the money shot”? 

  On the rare occasion that I’d interrupt him, they were instances when I had to – usually for a signature on a time sensitive document. One such time that I walked into his office during lunch, he was sitting there, picking at his teeth without any regard for me being there. Gross. But alas, the worst was yet to come.

  Whether he was or was not proficient in the sport of field archery, his subtle attempt to flick a bit of bacteria laden food off his fingers in MY DIRECTION was not appropriate. The trajectory was way off and I ended up picking that piece of pre-digested medium roasted animal flesh off of my favorite Max Mara pants. Of course, I was more than furious, but remained calm and walked out of the office. Outside, something occurred to me; the distinct possibility that he may have aimed at me on purpose. In that case, I guess all I can say is…well done.