The freeloader in cubicle seven

You know how every office has that one person? Well, let me tell you about ours.

I work at a small marketing firm in suburban Ohio — just thirteen of us in a cozy open-plan space. For years, we've had this simple system: everyone chips in twenty bucks a month for the communal coffee, tea, creamer, and snacks. It's nothing fancy, just a Folgers tin, some Lipton, a jar of Coffee-mate, and whatever cookies are on sale at Kroger. But it means nobody has to lug stuff from home, and there's always something waiting when you stumble in on a Monday morning.

Then Tyler arrived.

He's twenty-six, same as me. Married, no kids yet. Seemed nice enough at first. When he started mid-month back in September, we didn't ask him to contribute. Why would we? He'd barely unpacked his desk plant.

October came. Payday rolled around. I watched Sarah go desk to desk with the envelope, and Tyler suddenly became very interested in his spreadsheet. We figured maybe his first paycheck was tight — we've all been there, right? So we let it slide.

But here's the thing: Tyler wasn't shy about enjoying the benefits. Every morning, two cups of coffee with three sugars. Afternoon tea. And the Oreos? That man could demolish half a sleeve during a single conference call.

November. Same thing. December. Nothing.

Then came the holiday party.

Now, we keep things simple — just dinner at Applebee's, everyone pays their own tab. I half-expected Tyler to skip it, given his apparent financial situation. But no. He ordered the ribeye. The ribeye. Plus two Long Island iced teas and the brownie sundae. Paid without blinking.

My coworker Beth and I exchanged a look.

We wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he'd been saving up? Maybe this was his one splurge?

But then came the Super Bowl office potluck where he brought nothing and ate everything. And the Valentine's Day thing where he grabbed three of my homemade brownies before I'd even set the plate down.

It's March now. Payday is tomorrow.

The whole office is watching. Will he finally contribute? Or will we have to do the uncomfortable thing and tell a grown man that the coffee pot is suddenly off-limits to him?

I hate that it's come to this. Twenty dollars a month — that's less than his fancy ribeye. But it's not really about the money anymore, is it? It's about respect. It's about being part of a team.

My husband thinks I'm being petty. "Just let it go," he said last night, loading the dishwasher. "It's coffee."

But it's not just coffee. It's watching someone take and take while the rest of us give. It's the principle.

Tomorrow, we'll know what kind of person Tyler really is.

And honestly? I'm not optimistic.