Chapter 4: The Last Straw

“What’s the problem this time?”

My words came out clipped, barely holding back the anger.

“Boss’s rule: monthly reimbursement limit is $750. You’ll have to split this up over nine months. Go redo the forms.”

She didn’t even bother to look apologetic. The fluorescent lights glinted off her glasses as she returned to her stack of paperwork.

I struggled to keep my cool, taking a deep breath.

I stared at the old office clock, its second hand ticking like a countdown to my last ounce of patience.

“Ms. Carter, can’t you just tell me all the issues at once?”

My voice cracked a little, the strain obvious. Every question felt like pulling teeth.

“The company’s financial policy is posted right there on the wall. If you don’t read it, what do you want me to do?”

I looked up—sure enough, there was a notice. But who comes to the finance office just to read the wall?

The poster was yellowed and curling at the edges, with tiny print no one bothered to read. It was like the company’s very own Rosetta Stone—deliberately indecipherable.

I was about to explode. My voice got louder.

“This reimbursement is money I advanced for the company. It’s money the company owes me, not a bonus or salary. I spent nearly $7,000—why do I have to get it back over nine months? Are you going to pay me interest?”

She just repeated, “That’s the boss’s rule. As long as he signs, I’ll reimburse you anytime.”

The boss again.

Her expression didn’t change, but I swore she almost smirked. I could feel a headache blooming behind my eyes.

I realized arguing was pointless, so I went to the boss once more.

The carpet was worn in a trail from my desk to his door. I wondered how many times I’d made this walk—too many to count.

“Boss, finance says there’s a new rule—reimbursements capped at $750 per month?”

“That’s right. That’s the rule.”

He didn’t even pause his scrolling, eyes glued to his phone.

“I’m on business trips every month, no time to come back and claim. I’ve accumulated over half a year’s worth, even at company rates it’s over $6,000.”

He didn’t even look up. “Then split it up and claim a bit each month.”

His indifference felt like a slap. I wanted to scream, but all I could manage was a shaky breath.

“But I’m on business trips every month, and each trip costs almost $750. According to company policy, I’ll never get back all $6,000! This is money I advanced for the company!”

Finally, he looked up slowly. “Sam, no rules, no standards. A big company needs systems. If you didn’t claim on time, that’s on you. Besides, I already told you—I’ll make an exception this once. Why are you here again?”

His tone suggested I was the problem for not bending time and space to fit his rules. I wondered if he practiced that look in the mirror.

“Boss, every month I have to be at the client site for project meetings at the end of the month. I really can’t come back. How can I claim reimbursement?”

My palms were slick with sweat. I could hear the elevator ding down the hall, but all I could focus on was the boss’s bored expression.

“See, Sam, you’re always so absolute. Did you even try to find a way? If you haven’t tried, how do you know it’s impossible?”

I bit back a sarcastic retort. I’d tried every workaround—emailing scans, asking a coworker to help, even mailing the forms in a bright red envelope to avoid getting lost.

“The client requires me to be at the meeting. I really can’t come back.”

“You can fill out the forms and mail them in.”

Seriously? How was I supposed to know the company would come up with so many ridiculous new rules?

It was like running a marathon only to find out the finish line kept moving. I mentally calculated how many more hoops I’d have to jump through.

And I had mailed them before, but the accountant said my receipts weren’t taped on the forms horizontally, so they just sat in the office for months. But if I brought that up, he’d just say, “Why can’t you tape them horizontally?”

There’s always a reason.

I could almost hear him saying it already, like a broken record. My patience was running on fumes.

I left the boss’s office fuming. I had no choice but to try to get $750 reimbursed first. I still had to pay off my credit card and eat. My entire salary had gone to travel expenses—I was flat broke.

My reflection in the elevator doors looked a little more haggard every time. Even my mom would’ve told me to lay off the late nights and stress-eating.

Finally, on my fourth attempt, the finance department accepted my claim. Ms. Carter, still expressionless, said, “Manager Sam, this reimbursement form is finally correct. Looks like you can follow financial rules now?”

Her words were as cold as the office AC set too low in January. I nodded, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

If I hadn’t been desperate, I might have lost it. I forced myself to ask calmly,

“Thank you, Ms. Carter. When will the reimbursement be paid?”

I tried to keep my tone polite, but my voice sounded thin, frayed around the edges.

“If things move quickly, it’ll be paid with next month’s paycheck.”

But it was already the end of the month. Next month’s paycheck wouldn’t come until mid-month, so I’d have to wait nearly two months to get my money. I was stunned. I was counting on this reimbursement just to eat. Last month’s paycheck had gone straight to paying off my credit card—I was really penniless.

My head spun as I did the math. Rent was due in two weeks, and my fridge contained little more than half a jar of peanut butter and some questionable string cheese.

“Ms. Carter, is there any way to get it sooner? I really have no money left.”

I wasn’t above pleading at this point. My pride was long gone, replaced by a gnawing, anxious hunger.

“Manager Sam, that’s the reimbursement process. We have to verify the receipts and do the accounting. It can’t be done any faster.”

Process, process, process. What’s the point of all these steps—just to make life hard for people like us?

I imagined some faceless auditor hunched over a spreadsheet somewhere, gleefully finding new reasons to deny me.

I tried to compromise. “Ms. Carter, can I get an advance on this month’s salary? I honestly don’t have money for food.”

As expected, the same answer: “As long as the boss signs, I can do it.”

I wanted to bang my head on the counter, but instead I nodded, feeling the last bit of energy drain out of me.

“Ms. Carter, can’t you see things from my side? I’ve been paying out of pocket for work for over half a year. My salary and savings are all gone to travel expenses.”

She kept her poker face, repeating,

“If you have the boss’s signature, I can advance it immediately.”

I started to wonder if Ms. Carter was a robot. Every time, it was the same: as long as the boss signs, I’ll do it.

With no choice, I went to the boss again.

My legs felt heavy, like I was wading through knee-deep snow. I could almost hear the soundtrack from "Office Space" playing in my head.

This time, he didn’t refuse. “Sam, you should understand that advancing salary has a financial cost. If I left the money in the bank, it would earn interest. Since you’re broke and need an advance just to eat, I can’t stand by and watch you starve. But even among family, accounts must be clear. You’ll have to cover the interest loss. I’ll approve $750 for you, at 5% interest. So you’ll actually get $712.50—the $37.50 is the interest.”

He said it with a look of paternal concern, as if he were doing me a grand favor. I wondered if he practiced that look in the mirror. I pictured him tallying up the extra interest in his head while I counted my dwindling cans of Campbell’s soup.

So this guy knows all about capital costs, but never thought about paying me extra for holding my reimbursement for so long?

The irony stung. My chest tightened, but I kept my face blank.

Today, I’ve really seen it all. From start to finish, I’ve been played like a fool. I’m literally paying to work. Thinking about how I was about to run out of money for food, I had to swallow my pride and say, “Thank you, boss.”

I forced a smile, the words tasting like sand in my mouth. Maybe someday I’d laugh about this. Not today.

“No need to thank me. Work hard and repay the company with your actions.”

Repay? Just wait. I’ll pay you back double, you can count on it.

I walked away, my resignation letter already half-written in my mind. Next time, someone else could pay for their own damn lunch box.