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frol lisabelle's lj
Okay. So.
There's this guy, Jim, who worked here, on my floor. And he died last weekend. Jim seemed like a pretty nice fella, even though I didn't know him well; lots of people I work with knew him, though, and so it was a pretty sad deal. He had suffered from some sort of bone cancer (I think) for about two years; it had gone into remission, but it came back, and unfortunately, they found it too late the second time around. Anyway. He was pretty young, and it was really sad.
I just walked into the kitchen on my floor to heat my lunch. On the kitchen counter were about twenty-five unopened bottles of root beer. I examined them to find that they're ALL different, and almost entirely brands I've never heard of.
The woman who was already in the kitchen said to me, "You're welcome to the root beer."
"No, thanks, I don't really care for it." (This is true. I hate root beer. Except for root beer flavored Bottle Caps, but that's a different story.)
"Well, it's free to take, anyway."
"Where on earth did they come from?"
"They were Jim's. Apparently he collected root beers. Got them at the memorial (that we had here at work). His family brought them for us to have."
I was too stunned to say much at this point. Here I am, checking out a dead man's root beer, and suddenly feeling like I'm tampering with something very personal, like a place setting that shouldn't be broken up. I focused my attention to the microwave. Finally, I stammered out, "So... he collected all of these?"
"Oh, goodness, this is about one-fourth of his total collection. Some of them are twenty-five years old..."
If I liked root beer before today, I think I would have lost my taste for it at that moment.
Don't mess with the man's root beer. He'll come for it, one day.
Okay. So.
There's this guy, Jim, who worked here, on my floor. And he died last weekend. Jim seemed like a pretty nice fella, even though I didn't know him well; lots of people I work with knew him, though, and so it was a pretty sad deal. He had suffered from some sort of bone cancer (I think) for about two years; it had gone into remission, but it came back, and unfortunately, they found it too late the second time around. Anyway. He was pretty young, and it was really sad.
I just walked into the kitchen on my floor to heat my lunch. On the kitchen counter were about twenty-five unopened bottles of root beer. I examined them to find that they're ALL different, and almost entirely brands I've never heard of.
The woman who was already in the kitchen said to me, "You're welcome to the root beer."
"No, thanks, I don't really care for it." (This is true. I hate root beer. Except for root beer flavored Bottle Caps, but that's a different story.)
"Well, it's free to take, anyway."
"Where on earth did they come from?"
"They were Jim's. Apparently he collected root beers. Got them at the memorial (that we had here at work). His family brought them for us to have."
I was too stunned to say much at this point. Here I am, checking out a dead man's root beer, and suddenly feeling like I'm tampering with something very personal, like a place setting that shouldn't be broken up. I focused my attention to the microwave. Finally, I stammered out, "So... he collected all of these?"
"Oh, goodness, this is about one-fourth of his total collection. Some of them are twenty-five years old..."
If I liked root beer before today, I think I would have lost my taste for it at that moment.
Don't mess with the man's root beer. He'll come for it, one day.