Post-it Problem

A stack of Post-its lands perfectly in front of me.

“Good,” our precise-armed new boss says. “Write it down and put it in the jar.”

I haven’t seen Post-its in ages, and in my day they used to be yellow only. This stack is yellow on top, then pink, orange, and finally green. Someone’s gone all out.

“Anyone else,” he says and tosses out stacks for everyone. I thought I was done with team building. But no. New boss, old ideas. First thing on the agenda, find new company values. I wonder who started this bullshit about values. Whoever you are, your work was in vain. No employee in the world cares.

I write down my word, and holy shit, it looks like a ten-year-old wrote it. I knew it was going to be bad, but this… I pride myself on being thorough. That I have my life in order. This handwriting though. Let’s just say it says otherwise. The others are focusing on our boss; I slowly rip off the Post-it and try one more time. This time really focusing. The new note may have passed as something a twelve-year-old would have written. Fuck it, it doesn’t matter. Everyone’s handwriting is shit; we’re all using iPads and computers. Hell, I brought my iPad to this very meeting. I tear off the Post-it with my word, but I can’t get myself to put it in the jar.

It does matter.

I fill my two cups, placing the water carafe and the coffee pot strategically in front of me. No one seems to think twice about it. They’re still trying to come up with words. Eagerly fighting to impress. I Google cursive on the iPad; it’s not what I’m looking for. More like half cursive? Print, that’s what it’s called. I find a good example and try again. I can’t. It’s just fucking impossible. This is ridiculous.

“By the way,” our boss exclaims. “I’m making the best words into a picture to hang in every office. The Post-its.” He takes one out of the jar. “These ones. To make it authentic, the ones you made. So you better come up with something good. Yeah, and don’t manhandle them.”

I can’t take my eyes off the note he holds up. The word isn’t that good, productive, but the writing. For fuck’s sake. The guy next to me says my word; I look up. That fucker Greg.

“I already said that,” I say with a smile and toss the Post-it in the jar. “Just had to figure out the best color.”

“And you went with yellow?” Greg the thief says

“I like the classics,” I say. Now I’m fucked though, the one I delivered was the first one, the worst one. It’s unrealistic to believe I can teach myself typography in fifteen minutes. My slacker youth comes back to haunt me. The problem is, this is the first time my new boss gets to see anything I’ve done. The first impression that will forever outline the way he sees me. An imprecise guy with no pride in his work. A drop of sweat land on the stack. I’m sixteen again, mom is disappointed, teachers are disappointed. But my slacker youth always managed to get by, always found a way out. I wipe my forehead and remove the now wet top Post-its, and smile.

The Post-its are just transparent enough so that I can find the letters on my iPad and trace them over. Just like when I faked my mom’s signature in high school. I hide behind my coffee and carafe fort, taking my time. It still doesn’t look perfect, but I understand my problem now. The characters are way too far apart.

“Can you pass me the coffee?” Sven from accounting asks just as I finish the grown-up-looking Post-it. Perfect timing. I hand it over with a smile.

“And the water?” Sure. I’m exposed, but it’s fine. The note is beautiful; Mom would be proud. Or maybe not. I stand up to do the switcheroo when I notice. Oh fuck, my perfect Post-it is also on a yellow-colored note. There goes my excuse for switching them out. People stare.

“Just had to stretch my legs a bit,” I say.

“We all do. I think we’re about done, no?” The boss says. Desperate times make for desperate measures. I knock my coffee cup down, it lands in Greg’s lap. The word thief. Chaos ensues, the boss, who’s closest to the door, heads to the bathroom to get paper towels. I say sorry and smoothly with my left hand take out my yellow note from the jar, and replaces it with the grown-up one.

“What the fuck?” Greg says in his outside voice, it shuts the room up. “I saw that,” he says. “Did you lie about my word so you could put it in there?”

“No,” I look at the others. “I was the first one to come up with a word.”

“That’s true, I remember,” David says. A couple of other guys nod.

“Then what the fuck was that all about?” Greg says with more of an inside voice. The boss returns with paper towels. No one says anything. I write a note to Greg saying I’ll pay for his fucking wall-mart clothes. I leave out the fucking wall-mart part. He rolls his eyes.

“Time to look through our words,” our boss exclaims and empties the jar. A note catches his eye.

“Wow, the handwriting on this one. Whose is this?”

I hold my hand halfway up, faking shyness. Greg looks down at the note I gave him and the note the boss is holding. I don’t have any more coffee to spill. He clenches his jaw, probably thinking about his first impression. He keeps his mouth shut, deciding not to be branded the office rat.

“This is definitely going up there. Our first company value.” He holds it up.

Honesty.