Notes From The Cubicle Next Door

Chapter 7

Gilbert's sandwich looked like it had been assembled by a toddler having an emotional crisis.

"That's not food," I said, watching him attempt to wrangle what appeared to be three different types of meat and an entire jar of pickles between two sadly compressed slices of bread.

"This," he said, wielding the monstrosity with pride, "is freedom. When your parents name you Gilbert, you learn to stop caring what other people think."

We were sitting in the corner of Pete's Deli, hiding from our coworkers.

Well, I was hiding. Gilbert just liked their pickles.

"Your parents named you after Anne of Green Gables' love interest," I pointed out.

"Actually, they named me after a vacuum cleaner salesman. My mom thought he had nice eyes." He took a bite. Pickle juice dripped onto his keyboard-patterned tie.

"That's worse, right? At least Romeo's got street cred."

"Street cred?"

"You know what I mean. Cultural significance. Literary weight. Better than being named after a guy who sold Hoovers in 1992."

I poked at my own, significantly less ambitious sandwich.

"At least people don't quote vacuum cleaner manuals at you."

"No, they just ask if I can fix their Dyson."

He wiped his hands on a napkin.

"But see, that's your problem. You're fighting it."

"I'm not fighting anything."

"Dude. You made us change the fonts on all the company computers because the default was 'Times New Roman'."

"It's an outdated font."

"It's named after a newspaper, not the Romans."

"I know that."

"You still made us change it."

I threw a potato chip at him. He caught it in his mouth.

"All I'm saying,"

He continued, crunching;

"Is that you're making it harder than it needs to be. Own it. Use it."

"For what?"

"Everything! Office parties. Company softball team. That senior editor who keeps making you rewrite articles until they're perfect."

"June's not—"

"Ah!" He pointed his sandwich at me triumphantly.

"See? You knew exactly who I meant."

"Because she's my boss."

"Because you turn into a walking HR violation every time she walks by."

"I maintain professional boundaries."

"You maintain professional panic attacks. Yesterday you walked into a wall because she wore that blue sweater."

I threw another chip. He caught that one too.

"Look," he said, "I'm just saying. Life got way better when I stopped running from Gilbert and started embracing it. Now I've got this whole eccentric IT guy thing going. People expect me to be weird. It's liberating."

"Is that why you're wearing Crocs with socks?"

"These are orthopedic and fashion-forward."

"They're lime green."

"They match my mechanical keyboard." He gestured with his sandwich again. "Stop deflecting."

"I'm not deflecting. I'm judging your footwear choices."

"Romeo."

"Gilbert."

"Own it."

"No."

He sighed, setting down the remains of his lunch.

"Okay, num nmm nmm mm nmm. Pop. ah."

"Okay, what's the worst that could happen?"

"She's my boss."

"And?"

"And she's way out of my league."

"Because...?"

"Have you seen her? She's like... she's..."

"Using complete sentences helps in journalism, I hear."

I glared at him. "You're not helping."

"I'm helping plenty. You're the one who can't string two words together around her unless it's about harbor regulations or traffic patterns."

"Those are safe topics."

"Those are boring topics. You know what's not boring? That thing you do where you pretend to read emails whenever she's nearby."

"I actually read those emails."

"Sure you do. That's why your phone screen keeps timing out."

I started packing up my lunch, but he grabbed my arm.

"Seriously though. What are you actually afraid of?"

"Besides workplace harassment lawsuits?"

"Besides that."

I sat back down, sighing. "You really want to know?"

"Hit me."

"My parents met in a Shakespeare reading group."

"Cute."

"They got engaged during a production of Romeo and Juliet."

"Adorable."

"They named their firstborn son after literature's most famous lover."

"Following so far."

"And then they got divorced when I was twelve."

Gilbert stopped chewing. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"That's..."

"Ironic?"

"I was going to say traumatic, but sure... let's go with ironic."

We sat in silence for a moment.

A pickle fell out of his sandwich.

"Still," he said finally.

"Better than being named after a vacuum cleaner guy."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"There he is!" Gilbert beamed. "That's the spirit! Now, about June..."

"No."

"But—"

"No."

"What if—"

"I have a stapler, and I know how to use it."

He held up his hands in surrender... dripping more pickle juice.

"Fine. But just remember – Gilbert's Law."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now. Gilbert's Law states:"

"The harder you run from your name, the funnier it is when it catches up to you."

I stood up, gathering my things.

"You just made that up."

"Maybe." He grinned.

"But I'm not the one who spilled coffee all over my desk yesterday because someone wore a blue sweater."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't. I'm your only normal friend."

Looking at his sandwich, his Crocs, and his pickle-stained tie, I had to wonder about his definition of normal.

But maybe he had a point.

Maybe.