Croc Food

Chad

“Oh, absolutely, sir, we can do better than that!” I said eagerly as my boss sat down at the table across from me.

Mr. Van Buren eating lunch with us in the break room?

Now this was a rare treat. And a perfect opportunity to make my case for the upcoming VP promotion he’d been teasing for the last several months. There was only one tiny problem. . .

Mr. Van Buren was owner and manager of the Whispering Sycamores Golf Course, and although he wasn’t the easiest guy to work for, he had a lot of clout in Whispering Sycamores. And I knew that VP job was between Kyle, Zach, and I.

Not only had we all been in the same fraternity, and were now employed as golf pros and salesmen at the same place, but we were all still very competitive, and I could feel the tension rise in the break room as we glanced over at each other.

The coffeemaker bubbled away in the background.

Mr. Van Buren must have some invisible score sheet, and so far we were all tied on presentation, all in crisp collared shirts with luxury brand ties, limited edition belts, and pants ironed so sharp the crease was like a knife’s edge.

Whoever Mr. Van Buren liked the best was undoubtedly going to get this VP job, a massive raise, and that sweet corner office instead of a cubicle. Now, it only faced a concrete wall, but that didn’t matter. It was still sweet.

Our boss settled in with a grunt and placed his lunchbox on the table.

“Well, boys, it sure is nice to have the little wifey to make me a lunch every day. Nothing I love more than a sweet lil housewife, you know?”

He opened his lunchbox with a sigh of contentment and spun it around to display what looked like leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

“I’ve often thought a young man who can run his household well is a young man who will do well in business. They’re the same skills of employee management, setting expectations, and rewards for appropriate behavior.”

“Love having a wife,” I put in since Mr. Van Buren seemed to expect a response to this.

It was not exactly how I would have characterized my relationship with my wife, in fact, it was kind of a weird thing to say about your wife, but, on the other hand, that corner office!

Being able to close the door and not hear Zach’s crappy music or how he blew his nose just like a goose during allergy season.

Priceless. Definitely worth ignoring Mr. Van Buren’s assumption that we all acted like some major-general at home and whistled for our breakfast in the morning.

“Jessica knows exactly what my expectations are and exceeds on her deliverables,” Kyle added, while I tried to avoid glaring at his shellacked skull.

The way Mr. Van Buren talked about his wife was so weird and cringe, but I couldn’t think about that because I was too busy worrying about what was in my lunch now.

In fact, I felt a distinct shiver of trepidation as I took out my gray lunchbox.

Gray was a good color. It gave professional but not boot-licker.

Zach made a face at me. He didn’t have a wife and therefore was eating a burger and Coke from The Sloppy Joe, the cafeteria-style diner on the first floor.

Now I knew the food was damn good there, since my wife Bitsy managed the place, but it wouldn’t please my boss.

He believed in good, traditional cooking. And always homemade from scratch.

Mr. Van Buren tutted to see it. “Young man, a wife would do you all the good in the world. A burger and fries is not enough good red-blood Alpha male power to fuel a sharp corporate mind. Why don’t you get a wife?”

Since Zach was a blonde beefcake who had always been very popular in our frat, I thought him getting taken down a peg or two was pretty funny, but I said nothing because at the same time it would suck to be ripped a new one for not having a wife at 26.

Everyone knew Mr. Van Buren was a big family man and thought having a wife made you more responsible, but Zach had so far resisted the urge to find one.

“Yes, sir,” he said glumly.

Then, Kyle opened his navy-blue lunchbox.

“Very nice,” Mr. Van Buren said approvingly, looking at Kyle’s steak and roasted potatoes. “That little lady knows how to pack a lunch.”

“What about you?” Zach said as I fiddled with the clasp.

Fuck, he had somehow discerned my invisible smirk.

“I-I don’t think I’m hungry,” I tried.

“Now, come on, son, lunch is a very important meal,” my boss blustered, and I nervously opened my lunchbox.

The thing was, Bitsy had to manage the Sloppy Joe all day, which was very basic shit like pizza, burgers, and chicken tenders, so she really liked being creative at home.

And I loved that creativity so much. At home. . .

What greeted me was three globes of white rice arranged so they were in the shape of a skeleton. Beside that was teriyaki chicken skewers made to look like bloody skewered hearts, covered in a spicy red sauce, while boiled eggs cut up in the shape of vampire teeth nestled beside that.

To Bitsy, everything spooky and fall wasn’t just a season, it was a year-round lifestyle. And usually I thought it was the most adorable thing in the world.

But somehow it just didn’t fit in here.

And, most embarrassing of all, there was a big note pinned to the top of the lunchbox in Bitsy’s swirly handwriting, with all the little i’s made with hearts.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

You’re the cutest man alive

Even when you get the man-flu.

“Turn it around,” Mr. Van Buren said jovially as everyone stared at me.

My cheeks flushed in embarrassment. What was everyone going to think of me now?

“Well—” I began, when Zach whirled it around, and everyone contemplated the note and food in silence.

“Not exactly Pulitzer winning poetry,” Zach snorted.

My boss’ hairy eyebrows were almost up to his non-existent hairline.

“Very droll,” Mr. Van Buren said dryly after taking a big bite of his meatloaf.

“This your first day of kindergarten?” Zach put in mockingly, and I was forced to laugh with everyone else. Zach often made these stupid little digs at Bitsy and because Mr. Van Buren thought “roasting” each other was team bonding, I wasn’t able to tell him to fucking knock it off.

“At least I have a wife,” I said, but it landed lamely.

“Yeah, but do you have a wife or a mommy,” Zach mocked, as I gritted my teeth.

“Blue hair is such an extraordinary color for a woman,” Mr. Van Buren said. “I wonder you allow it in your wife.”

I bit back my retort that Bitsy did whatever she wanted.

Mr. & Mrs. Van Buren were supposed to be coming over for dinner in a week and I was nervous as hell about how that was going to go. Bitsy didn’t exactly fit the “sweet lil housewife” idea Mr. Van Buren was always praising as the highest acquirement for a salesman to have.

I was tired of feeling embarrassed at work, and I was never going to get this promotion if Mr. Van Buren didn’t take me seriously. Kyle was discussing their new basement renovation plans as he cut his perfectly done steak.

No note, nothing cutesy, nothing conspicuous at all.

My cheeks burned as I picked up the chopsticks and dug resentfully into the skeleton.

Why couldn’t Bitsy be more like Kyle’s wife?