RE: Sugar Scott Lambridis
Time Commitment: 5 minutes
Originally Published In:
The Newer York

On Feb 14, 2011, at 10:42am, Caitlin Sass wrote:

Mom,

Take a look at the email I just forwarded to you before you read this.

I took your advice. I’ve never sent a message like this before at work, but as you said, there are many more ways to stay unnoticed than there are to get noticed, and you have to embody success if you want to find it. So I wrote this email, and as I sent it, I was filled with pride. Maybe Joseph will only read it and chuckle and get the sugar packets and that’ll be that, but what if he reads it, and in my request he recognizes my value as an analytical thinker, or how easy it is for me to think of ways of saving our company money, the way I pay attention to the bottom line in everything I do. I know he’s just a facilities manager, but he has access to the same emails that we all do, so, what if he forwards mine on to someone more important, like my boss, or my boss’s boss, or even the CEO? It could only help Joseph as facilities manager. It would show that he recognizes talent. That he realizes that if I had this idea for saving money in just a casual walk to the office kitchen, then just think what else I would think of if put in a position of more power. And think of what he could do, having such ability in recognizing talent, if he was made, oh, Human Resources Manager or something. We’re both valuable. We could be listed as assets on the balance sheet. They just needed to put us to good use, and I’ve provided them with that option. Luck favors the prepared, right? Perhaps the CEO would start to wonder what type of person I really was, and what it was that they hadn’t seen in me in my initial interview, through all these subsequent annual reviews. What if he even desired me? What if it led something even more than just a raise or promotion, but a romance, or a family?

I know this is ridiculous. But I couldn’t deny these thoughts as I hit send and waited.

Within the hour, I received the following reply from Joseph:

“Caitlin, really? That long of an e-mail about sugar? Not to be rude, but I did not read this. If you want raw sugar just request it and I will see what I can do.”

Mom, there is no humor in the corporate world. I will probably die here.

Love,

c


On Feb 14, 2011, at 3:01 PM, Marcus Lintner wrote:

Caitlin,

As CEO, I rarely read messages from our facilities manager (as I’m sure you know, he spends a disproportionate and inappropriate amount of time emailing the other hundred and fourteen employees of our agency about proper dishwashing etiquette); however, when our new CFO Rochelle forwarded your message to me, and I read it, I have to tell you that I cried.

No, not just cried. I broke down. I had to lock my office. The excess of my tears transformed the light blue streaks of my new tie to something resembling dried blood, a dark reddish purple, I don’t know why, something with the intricate stitch pattern or perhaps these new synthetic fibers, I don’t imagine they think to tear-proof them. I even thought about calling my mother, but the reason for my tears is not the type of thing I would tell my mother.

Rest easy though. I do not hold you responsible.

You could never have known this, of course, but I recently lost someone dear to me. A brother of sorts. Her name is Jenny. She had two brothers with whom I was very close as a boy, but they might as well have been three brothers given Jenny’s boy-ish sensibilities (she could beat any of us up, and would much rather hide in the dirt playing war games than bother with nails or shopping). The four of us became inseparable, and went to the same college where, through a blood pact, they took me into their family. It began with an inebriated conversation standing over a red pedestrian bridge well known for the prevalence of suicide jumpers in our college’s business program, but when sobriety eventually raked itself back again and we faced each other, the pact remained unbreakable. Whichever of us died first, the others would procure and clean the skull of the skull of the deceased and drink wine out of it as if it were a chalice (we hadn’t specified the type of wine, we were potheads and drinkers then, even if we were 4.0 students). That night and the following morning was one of the happiest of my life. Of all of ours I believe. We belonged to each other. We always would. We could do anything, and just thinking about our pact on that bridge and the look on each other’s faces in the morning, those half-smiles, Jenny’s bite-marks on her lip, and then our consecutive nods, well, it fills me with that same ocean’s volume of wind that inspired me to form this agency.