Job 7:10
T weeeeet! The final whistle saw the Data Processing Deadheads H defeat the Embezzlers from Accounting 21-19 in the South Street Dye Works Six-Person Mixed Volleyball League. Henry, who owned South Street Dye, was the regular referee. He sat down and popped a beer.
Players headed for the showers in the company gym. Spectators departed. And, as usual, a few people from other teams took the court to get in some practice. Nick was among them.
Recently hired, Nick was 50-ish, overweight, uncoordinated, a heavy pipe smoker...and a volleyball freak. He was on the floor every night and always among the last to leave. Watching him, Henry thought: Good for him. That man has true persistence, an athlete's attitude if not his body.
Nick was as good a quality control chemist as he was a terrible volleyball player. In six weeks, he had devised new and more accurate sampling, assay and recording methods that cut rejects by 35 percent. And he always volunteered to do the testing on early morning raw material deliveries. Like every other South Street Dye professional employee, he had his own key to the plant.
Then came the fateful Sunday morning.
Henry, the owner, was an avid golfer. He had a 7:30 tee-time and discovered he'd left his new putter in the office. No problem, he'd pick it up on the way.
He pulled into the back lot at 7:10, and wondered who owned the rusting 17-year~old Sedan de Ville with the cracked windshield and wire hanger for a radio antenna. Probably gave out Friday night and some- body'll pick it up tomorrow, he thought. Anyway, he was in a hurry. He unlocked the door and strode toward his office.
What the hell is that?
Music echoed down the hall. Bob Dylan music. From the technical department.
Henry followed it. There, that office. He pushed the door open, and his jaw dropped like a largemouth bass attacking its dinner.
There sat Nick. In tan pajamas, threadbare bathrobe and fuzzy slip pers. A mug of coffee in one hand, the entertainment section of the Sunday New York Times in the other. Mr. Coffee machine and boom-box on the file cabinet, portable TV on one corner of the desk, hot plate on the other, the newspaper scattered in between and blue-gray pipe smoke everywhere. Both Nick's and Henry's eyes bulged.
"What...is this?" Henry stammered.
"Uh...good morning, sir. Actually, you see, um, I've been living here."
"Living here!"
"Uh, yes sir. I only meant to do it for a couple of days until I found my own place, but it's really not bad. And I'm saving a fortune."
Henry was fascinated. "And nobody noticed?" He piled the newspaper on the floor and sat on the desk.
"The volleyball league solved everything, sir," Nick explained. "After practice I shower and shave, go out to eat and come back around 10.1 set the alarm for 5:30 and get to the lab a half-hour before the early birds."
"Where do you sleep?"
"On the couch in the conference room. It's really pretty comfortable."
"Your clothes?"
"I pick up my suits and shirts from the cleaner as I need them, and use this cardboard box as a dresser." He opened it - socks, underwear and T-shirts neatly folded and stacked.
"How do you get your mail?"
"Post office box, sir. Look, I hope all this isn't a problem, I could pay rent."
It turned out to be a big problem. The lawyers said that Nick's living in his office voided the plant's insurance.
Nick was fired. Plant security was upgraded to an electronic ID system, with a computer to record off-hour entries and exits. All employees surrendered their keys.
But the volleyball league continued. Without Nick.
The old saying that "Home is where you hang your hat" was never meant to include the office.
