Chapter 2: IOUs and Layoff Lists

With the crowd siding with him, my coworker got even bolder. He puffed up, feeding off their energy like he’d just won a reality TV vote. If he’d had a mic, he’d have dropped it right there. I could see the calculation in his eyes, like he was already spending his imaginary share.

He insisted a thousand wasn’t enough. He’d seen me spend five hundred on the meal, so The Melting Pot’s compensation was five thousand. He demanded I give him two thousand five hundred.

His math was quick, if not exactly fair. He tapped his phone, flashing the calculator app like it proved his moral high ground. I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

I shrugged. "I don’t have the money. Like I said, it’s already in my mom’s medical account."

My tone was flat, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Some folks just don’t know when to quit.

Unfazed, he whipped out a pen and paper and started writing, acting like he was doing me a favor.

He made a show of clicking his pen and leaning on the counter like some big-shot lawyer. The whole thing had the vibe of a playground contract written on a lunch napkin.

I peered closer, realizing he was writing an IOU. He wrote slowly, drawing each number with exaggerated care. I had to lean in, squinting to read it. It felt like I was watching a bad movie in real time.

He solemnly wrote out forty-five hundred, then beamed at me. "You borrowed two thousand before, and now, splitting the compensation, you owe me forty-five hundred. If you agree, just sign here."

He actually slid the paper over with a dramatic flourish, grinning like a game show host. Part of me wanted to crumple it up and toss it, but I knew that’d only make things worse.

Honestly, this move really made my blood boil. My heart pounded, anger making me lightheaded—a mix of hurt, disbelief, and exhaustion. I glanced at the clock again, wishing for a fire drill.

Just then, the boss’s voice boomed from his doorway, slicing through the noise like a gavel. Everyone froze, coffee cups halfway to their mouths. "Meeting in ten minutes. Everyone, get ready."

The timing couldn’t have been more on the nose. His voice cut through the tension like a knife. Suddenly, everyone pretended to be busy, grabbing files or straightening their ties.

I knew what this meeting was about: layoffs. My stomach dropped. The rumors had been swirling for weeks, whispers in the hallway and cryptic emails from HR. I’d been carrying the secret like a stone in my pocket, dreading the fallout.

Headquarters needed a scapegoat for the downsizing. The boss didn’t want to take the heat, so he made me do it. Classic corporate dodgeball: pass the blame down, let someone else be the villain. I got the dubious honor of “transition manager”—HR speak for grim reaper.

To make it easier, he’d already arranged my transfer to headquarters—HR there had agreed, and it was closer to my mom, so I could take care of her. At least there was that silver lining—being closer to home meant I could swing by the hospital after work without a three-hour drive.

Nobody else knew the meeting was about layoffs. They just started getting ready. My coworker, meanwhile, shoved the IOU at me: "The meeting’s about to start. Sign first."

He was relentless, waving the paper like it was a subpoena. The nerve—it almost made me laugh, if it hadn’t made me so tired.

I looked him straight in the eye and said, one word at a time, "I’m not signing."

I made sure he saw I wasn’t bluffing. I held his gaze, letting the moment hang. The whole room seemed to hold its breath.

He looked shocked, as if I’d slapped him. "How can you be so shameless?"

He practically shouted, drawing more stares. For a split second, I thought he’d actually stomp his foot.

I honestly couldn’t see how I was the shameless one here. I wanted to shout back, but instead I kept my voice measured. If I lost it now, I’d only be giving him more ammunition.

"My family’s in trouble. I borrowed money from everyone. You volunteered to lend me two thousand, then demanded a Melting Pot meal, ordered like there was no tomorrow, cost me five hundred. Who’s the shameless one here?"

I ticked off each point on my fingers, making sure he—and everyone else—could follow the math. Some of the bystanders shuffled their feet, suddenly fascinated by the stains on the carpet.

He didn’t even blink: "When people help you, shouldn’t you treat them? I kindly helped you and you turn around and insult me? You’re an ungrateful jerk, aren’t you? I’m telling you, if you don’t sign, I’ll call the cops—they’ll definitely be on my side."

He jabbed his finger at me like he was daring me to disagree. For a second, I could almost picture the 911 dispatcher’s face if he actually made that call.

I doubt anyone expected us to argue to the point of threatening to call the cops, but now everyone stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfold. The place went dead quiet—no one even pretended to shuffle papers anymore. There’s nothing quite like a workplace spat to bring productivity to a halt.

I was angry too. "Let me get this straight: I borrowed two thousand, spent five hundred treating you to a meal, and now you’re demanding money from me and threatening to call the cops?"

The words tumbled out, each syllable laced with disbelief. I could feel my cheeks burning.

He shot back, "That’s right. Problem? If you don’t like it, call the cops yourself."

His smirk was infuriating. He crossed his arms, standing his ground like we were on opposite sides of a courtroom instead of the same office.

I felt like a clown. I could practically hear the Curb Your Enthusiasm theme in my head. How had I let things spiral this far?

Why did I even consider taking his name off the layoff list? Regret gnawed at me. I’d tried to do the right thing, and this was my reward.