The candy jar at work remains a mystery. It is filled up sporadically with varied options. The rhyme and reason for who fills it with what is a mystery. Mars bars? Someone loves me. Strawberry-cordial filled dark chocolates? Who did John* screw over this time? Unfortunately, much of the time there’s nothing to wonder at; the jar sits empty, its cheery orange lid covered in a layer of dust.
On a recent day a coworker walked purposefully toward the candy jar, and stopped abruptly in front of it. He held it up to the light and shook it, as though the clear plastic sides, which showed no candy within, were playing tricks on his eyes.
“Why is there no candy?” he called out, tossing it up forlornly. It was empty because he’d eaten the last of the candy two weeks early, and no one had refilled it since.
“I have m&ms,” I called back. “Do you want some?”
“YES!” he replied, in a tone far different from his usual funereal inflection.
He took a handful, and munching happily, asked, accusatorily, “Why are you hoarding candy?”
“I don’t think it’s called hoarding when I buy candy and eat it,” I suggested.
“It is if you don’t put it in the candy jar,” was the reply.
“Ooh! Can I have some?” pipped in a third coworker, ending our standoff.
I suspect that it’s my coworker’s love of candy, rather than the unpredictable nature of the jar’s filling, that leads to it sitting empty. The candy jar, and now my candy stash as well.
*I don’t work with anyone named John. Even though the security guard told me this week that his brother’s buddy John – handsome and tall – works in the same office. I’ll take his word for it.