Snack Attack!

Twenty-three Gummi Bears are missing today. That makes 268 Gummi Bears since last Friday. The company is in a state of panic.

How many were lost before Friday we may never know. This is what we do know: On Friday it was discovered that our snack budget, already quite generous, had been exceeded by 1700%. We’re spending more on Gummi Bears, licorice ropes, and tasty bite-sized Goldfish than on Boxsters for new recruits. We are assured this is no small amount. “This is no small amount,” the email reads, in bolded blue, for emphasis.

We now sign out all snacks. Six pretzels, 18 chocolate-covered raisins, one starlight mint. I tally my selections and check the appropriate boxes. I am nearing my raisin quota, and it’s only Wednesday.

I learn I am the chief suspect. Gummi Bears, it is thought, are particularly attractive given my low salary and lack of Boxster. Each weekday, when I arrive for work, I am weighed in. They weigh me again before I leave. Snacks are still being consumed at an alarming rate.

We have now exceeded the snack budget by 2400%. At this rate, the Boxsters will soon be repossessed. A special board meeting is convened. After dining on caviar and salmon puffs, the board makes an announcement: There will be no more snacks.

We return the next day to a darkened, snackless office. No amount of switch-flicking or mouse-clicking will get the computers or lights to turn on. After examining my teeth, the engineering staff announce what they believe to be the source of the problem: Rats.

D-Con and large traps are ordered from the same Price-Costco where we get the bulk Tootsie Rolls and Danish butter cookies. The next day, we find no dead rats. However, my laptop is missing.

I’m called into the CEO’s office. “About your email last night,” he says, closing the door. He shows me a printout: “RATS NEED SNACKS.”

I explain my missing laptop. “The email was most likely written by the rats,” I tell him.

He re-examines the paper. “They have a good command of the English language, for rats.”

I shrug. “They’re probably using the built-in spellcheck.”

If the Internet was designed to withstand a nuclear attack, it is pointed out, then why should we grind to a halt over some overgrown mice? The engineers hold up frayed cables. Nuclear weapons, they explain, are not capable of destruction such as this.

We call in a rat expert. “In my expert opinion,” he says, “the rats have been driven into your office by the vast amount of construction in the area.” For blocks around, old warehouses are being replaced by open-plan office space, all prewired. We ask him how we might rid ourselves of the rats. “In my expert opinion,” he says, “stop the construction.”

More notebooks gone. The desktop machines remain untouched, but for their chewed cords. They must prefer the smaller keys.

The engineers devise new, more efficient ways to kill rats. One calls for a redesign of the traps, to include an Ethernet port; another involves a giant Tesla coil. All will take at least 16 weeks for design and development and another two weeks for testing.

A secret committee is formed, to seriously discuss the rat issue. We meet near the epicenter of construction, to keep the rats from spying. “What?” I continually say, deaf but for the sound of jackhammers. The meeting is not a success.

The last of the notebooks are gone. The rats have also taken our conference room white board and a supply of dry erase markers. Jack, our VP of Business Development, has become lead negotiator. He returns with a list of demands: More snacks, a seat on the board, and their own Humvee.

We are slow in our response. The rats attack our database server. They take all our customer records, including credit card numbers. We accede on the snacks, but continue to stall on the remaining items. Jack brings in a mediator. The rats refuse to compromise.

The engineers demonstrate a prototype of their Internet-ready rat trap. “This is where you connect it to the network,” the lead engineer explains, pointing out the RJ-45 jack. We nod and marvel at their ingenuity.

The rats announce their soft launch and invite our entire staff to the party. Many of us attend. Snacks are served in empty boxes of D-Con. Who knew they had such a great sense of humor?

Today I submit my resignation. Tomorrow I start work for the rats. They offer an incredibly competitive options package, and they’re very generous with the snacks.

9 July 2000

Written by Carl Steadman. Edited by Nick Sweeney.