I am no bike-riding, relaxation-podding, ping-ponging Googler.
I am no car-expensing, sushi-ordering Goldman drone — nor construction-dodging J.P. Morgan-Chaser.
In my line of work, the perks are many, but reserved for the few. I am an in-house graphic designer in the marketing department of a global law firm; a cost-center-of-cost-centers either wholly misunderstood or outright loathed by those with whom I make daily contact.
It’s a different world from that of the client-wooing, noon-arriving lawyer. When I catch a glimpse into the lifestyle of my firm’s better half at the annual Christmas party, even the associates do not know my name. A pack of guffawing suits once got up and left a table the moment I sat down. As far as freebies are concerned, I sit physically and metaphorically as far away from the Haves as possible.
The free lunches are never for me. The swag is never for me. The stipends and flights to other offices, the ethereal stuff of dreams.
My caste is affirmed every day when, daring to take to the hallway en route to the bathroom, I happen to pass a Doctor of Laws. They avert their gaze every time.
I am an unsung corporate warrior with no tchotchkes to show for it. The perks within my grasp are few and far between.
But the hummus — it’s all mine.
I don’t have company miles on my AmEx, and I can’t get tickets to our box at Yankee games. The fridge in the break room, however, is left open to just about anyone. Including me.
Plastic containers of mashed chickpeas stack skyward, flanked by phalanxes of diet soda. In formation, they salute when I open the fridge. They recognize a man of the people.
Consumed by the frenzied greed of an upper-middle-class striver, I behold the golden-beige tower of perks before me, and I take one. I take another. Another.
I am encumbered with free hummus, and — pockets bulging with the fun-size bag of free pretzels I fought a secretary for this morning — I stagger to a seat in the completely empty cafeteria. A lawyer enters, eyes downcast, and dejectedly makes a coffee in my presence. I do not see him. I only see the walls of my fortress of hummus stacked around me.
The flimsy aluminum foil peels easily and rips up the middle almost immediately. I don’t care. I curl my fingertips under the foil portions and rip violently, and my fingers emerge capped in bean mush that I did not — could not, will never — pay for. My eyes dart left and right before I lick it off.
The pretzels, stale and crushed, sing in crackling rejoice when I open the bag. I plunge the first offering into the swirled, spiced corporate mana, and time and space dissolve around me. I am the King of the firm — nay, the Chief Hummus Officer. I want not for looser work-from-home allowances, nor for cushier office space or a desk close to a window.
The hummus is free.
I am free.