Chapter 3: Karma, Company Style

Maybe our voices were too loud, because the boss poked his head out of the office. "What are you two arguing about?"

His voice was sharp, eyes narrowing as he scanned the crowd. Suddenly, everyone looked away, pretending to be deeply invested in their screens.

My coworker jumped in, "Boss, he’s so shameless! He’s an ungrateful jerk!"

He practically shoved me aside to get his story out first, voice trembling with outrage. It was almost impressive, the way he played the victim.

The boss looked at us, stunned. He pointed at me and asked my coworker, "Are you sure you’re calling him an ungrateful jerk?"

The room fell silent. Even the printer stopped whirring. The boss’s tone was odd—half amusement, half warning.

My coworker nodded, dead serious. For a split second, his certainty wavered, but then he straightened, doubling down. He had no clue what was coming.

The boss’s face twisted into a mocking smile. It was the kind of smile that said he was done with the drama, but not above enjoying the show. He shot me a look I couldn’t quite read—something between sympathy and “good luck with that.”

I’d come in early that morning to plead with the boss not to lay off my coworker. The boss had even asked me to write a report explaining why he should stay. I’d lost sleep over that list, trying to find even the smallest redeeming quality.

And now, just a dozen minutes later, here we were. If I’d known then what I knew now, I’d have saved myself the trouble—and maybe a little dignity.

Instead of writing a report to save his job, I was being asked to sign an IOU for forty-five hundred. Life has a weird sense of humor, doesn’t it? One minute, you’re fighting for someone. The next, you’re his scapegoat.

My coworker eagerly recounted the whole saga to the boss. After listening, the boss looked at me with a meaningful smile. "There really are a lot of ungrateful jerks."

He said it with a slow, deliberate drawl, letting the words sink in. The irony was lost on my coworker, but not on me. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking.

Then, probably fed up with the noise, he shut his office door. It was as close to a mic drop as you get in corporate America—leave the mess to someone else.

My coworker, oblivious that the boss was talking about him, turned to me: "See? The boss is on my side. You’d better sign."

He gave me a self-satisfied wink, as if he’d just secured a witness for his imaginary lawsuit. The others, thinking the boss was backing him, started to pressure me too.

"He helped you in a pinch. It’s only fair to treat him."

"Five thousand—why not split it?"

"Yeah, or just deduct his share for the meal and give him two thousand two hundred fifty."

A chorus of half-baked suggestions filled the air. I could feel my patience thinning, like a rubber band stretched too far. I looked at their eager faces and silently took note of each one.

Every face was a mental post-it: Not to be trusted. If I was the villain in this layoff story, at least I knew who’d never have my back.

All of them could end up on my layoff list. I’d been the outsider long enough to know where the bodies were buried—and who’d buried them.

It’s funny how quickly alliances shift when money’s involved. The same people who’d begged me to go easy last week were now ready to sell me out for a free lunch.

My coworker was so pleased with himself. He grinned, "The people have spoken. If you don’t sign, you won’t last long here."

His arrogance was suffocating. He acted like the whole office was his personal jury and he’d just won the verdict.

He had no idea he was the one about to be out of a job. Sometimes karma wears a suit and tie.

Looking at his smug face, I couldn’t believe I’d ever spoken up for him to the boss. I wanted to shake myself. Where had all that misplaced loyalty gotten me?

Blame it on my own naivety, thinking that when someone helps you, you should repay them. I’d been raised to believe in gratitude—to pay forward every kindness. It hurt to realize some people only help you when there’s something in it for them.

But who could have guessed that under the guise of helping, he’d go out of his way to screw me over? It’s the oldest trick in the book: offer a hand, then demand your pound of flesh—and a tip for the trouble.