Chapter 1: The Melting Pot Meltdown

You never think you’ll become a meme over fondue, but that’s exactly what happened the night I took my coworker to The Melting Pot.

I’ll never forget the splash, the gasps, the way everyone’s forks froze mid-air. Someone shrieked. Someone else started filming. That’s how it started—the infamous "fondue urination incident." The scent of melted cheese and wine hung thick in the air, clashing with the sudden hush after the incident. Candlelight flickered off brass fondue pots, making everything feel both fancy and surreal. What was supposed to be a chill evening—a thank you for a loan and a break from my family stress—became a story for the ages. Not the kind you want retold at Thanksgiving.

The restaurant gave us ten times the meal cost as compensation. As soon as my coworker found out, he cornered me at work and said, "Hey, you’re gonna split that Melting Pot payout with me, right?"

He caught me at the coffee machine, pretending he was just grabbing his lunch. No hello—just straight to the point, eyebrows up, hands drumming on the counter like he was waiting for a jackpot to spill out. He looked at me like I’d hit the lottery with his lucky numbers.

I stared at him, floored. Was he for real?

I blinked, half-hoping this was some kind of joke or office prank. But he just stood there, waiting, like the money already had his name on it.

He waved his hands like he was closing arguments on Judge Judy. "If I hadn’t asked you to treat me to The Melting Pot, how would you have gotten so lucky? You should be thanking me!"

His voice bounced off the breakroom walls, hands slicing through the air as if he was making his case on a reality show. I half-expected a PowerPoint: Exhibit A, my invite. Exhibit B, your windfall.

Funny thing is, he’s the one who asked me to treat him in the first place.

I remembered his text: "Hey, you still owe me a dinner. Let’s make it The Melting Pot, my treat (kidding, you pay)." I’d laughed, not realizing he meant every word.

My mom was sick and needed money. I asked everyone for a loan. He lent me two grand, but made me promise a fancy dinner as thanks. That fondue night set me back five hundred bucks, and he kept joking I’d better pay him back the two thousand as soon as my check cleared.

It was one of those desperate stretches where you learn who your friends really are. He came through, but his goodwill had a price tag—plus interest, apparently, in the form of a high-end meal and nonstop reminders about the debt.

What he didn’t know? I’d already planned to pay him back.

I’d set a reminder on my phone, right above “call mom’s doctor” and “pick up meds.” I’m not the type to dodge what I owe. I wanted to prove I could hold up my end, even with everything else falling apart.

The boss had asked me to lay off staff, and his name was on the list. I was just about to erase his name. My finger hovered over the delete key, the guilt twisting in my gut. Loyalty and survival don’t mix in corporate America.

I told him, "The money’s been transferred, but it’s already in my mom’s medical account."

There was no way I’d use that money for anything else. Every cent was already wired to the hospital in a blur of frantic clicks. My priorities weren’t a secret—everyone at work knew about my mom by now.

He got flustered and snapped, "Why are you using my money for your mom?"

He looked genuinely hurt, like I’d spent his loan on a trip to Vegas. He started pacing, arms crossed, looking like I’d broken the office code.

I actually laughed—anger bubbling up and spilling out, loud enough for the next cubicle to notice. Sometimes, all you can do is let out a bitter laugh—otherwise, you’ll lose it completely.

If it weren’t for my mom, I’d have told him exactly what I thought. Instead, I just shook my head, jaw tight, trying not to lose it in front of half the department. My jaw tightened so hard I thought my teeth might crack. For a second, I felt like I was watching myself from across the room, just to see how much more I could take.

"I paid for the meal. You didn’t spend a dime. If we were splitting the bill, I’d give you half. But why should I foot the bill and you still get half the compensation?"

My voice was flat, but inside, I bit back a sarcastic laugh. People always get generous with other people’s money.

He doubled down, dead serious: "The Melting Pot compensated every customer. I ate there too. I was a victim, so I deserve compensation."

He sounded like he was quoting company policy, as if the universe owed him a check just for showing up. For a second, I thought he might call The Melting Pot himself and demand his own payout.

I couldn’t be bothered to argue. By now, people were overhearing and started chiming in: "We’re all coworkers, don’t fight over it. Just give him a share."

The breakroom, usually a place for sad leftovers and gossip, suddenly felt like a courtroom.

"Dude, just toss him a grand and call it a day," the guy from IT piped up, the same guy who never tips at happy hour. I bit back a retort.

Hearing their advice, I bit back a sarcastic laugh. People always get generous with other people’s money.

The breakroom clock ticked louder than usual, each second stretching out like a dare. The air felt heavier, everyone suddenly experts on fairness when it had nothing to do with them.

I really needed to stay away from these types. Otherwise, when lightning strikes, I might get caught in the crossfire.

I could practically see myself as a cautionary tale: "Don’t let the wrong people get too close, or you’ll be the next casualty." Maybe it was time to update my LinkedIn profile, just in case.