Peanut Time

As I walked down the corridor at work yesterday, I heard a strange repetitive noise accompanied by a faint echo emanating from the boss’s office:

scrape scrape. scrape scrape. scrape scrape scrape.

A mouse once living inside my apartment wall made a similar noise.

Never sure what I might encounter when I enter his office (as in, he could be picking his nose again, in which case my M.O. is to accidentally on purpose drop an imaginary paper clip, direct my gaze toward the carpet and pretend to look for it until the offending digit withdraws from his amphibious proboscis).

Silly me. I had simply forgotten. It was 12 noon. Lunchtime, a.k.a. Peanut time for The Gecko (he bares an uncanny resemblance).

How can this happen


Get to Know the Gecko:

“How can this happen?” — is the pat phrase he uses when anything unsolicited dares disturb the lofty elevation of his self-regard — be it a typographical error made by staff; or the sound of distant drumming penetrating the double-paned windows of his corner office, for which he paid a fortune, from the St. Paddy’s Day parade 10 floors below.

Never one to learn from the error of his own ways (i.e. nose picking, belching, espresso breath), there he sat, as per usual, pawing around inside the immense glass jar of peanuts he keeps stored in the credenza opposite his desk. Right next to the bowl of overripe, odiferous, discount brown bananas he never eats.


Was he counting the amount of peanuts under his jurisdiction? Planning for the holidays in advance? Last holiday season, he gave staff members one can of peanuts each as a Christmas present. Re-gifted, with remnants of tinsel from the previous giftee (him) clinging in evidence at the bottom of the recycled evergreen bag. What kind of lawyer would overlook that?

Not anybody I would hire. Heading back to my desk, I heard him clearing his throat. Soon after, he begin hacking. A few morsels of peanuts must have lodged in his gullet. The half-full styrofoam cup of water on his desk, a proactive remedy always at the ready for nut emergencies, would take care of it. Either that — or let him self-Heimlich.

To quote an erstwhile employee, who, to disavow herself from any disagreeable job put before her, would utter, “It’s not in my purview.”

The Gecko could take a lesson on peanut etiquette from this cuddly chipmunk. But I doubt it would stick. He’s too lizardy and light years away from cute.


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