M I T C H E L L’ S M A L A R K E Y By: T. Mitchell Panter
Lewis Thomason, P.C.
VOLDEMORT STRIKES AGAIN Earlier this year, I wrote about my dear friend and colleague, “Voldemort,” and his intolerable knack for poor tipping. The reviews of that column were a mixed bag. Some, including Voldemort, felt I came on too strong or that it was in poor taste to write a smear article in a trade publication. Others applauded the effort, emailed to guess Voldemort’s true identity, or made fun of me for being a server at Cheddars. Despite the differing thoughts on my delivery, most agreed that Voldemort’s pretax method of calculating a tip is (a) stupid and (b) unacceptable in a civilized society. While I derived some independent benefit from slamming Voldemort in my column (catharsis), my primary motive was to stage an intervention of sorts. With all that scrutiny and moderate backlash (several of you figured out Voldemort’s true identity), Voldemort would surely see the error of his ways, repent, and be redeemed, right? Sadly, that was not the case, and Voldemort’s parsimony rages on. Earlier this month, for example, Voldemort’s long-time assistant announced that she would be retiring at the end of the month. There are no hard and fast rules on retirement parties, but our office customarily throws some kind of send-off for retirees on their last day. Usually informed by the retiree’s preference, send-offs run the gamut of a sheet cake in the breakroom to a full-blown party. It’s also common for someone to circulate a greeting card around the office for everyone to sign, and those closest to the retiree often start a collection plate for a cash gift or solicit money for some kind of personalized gift. Despite those norms, Voldemort offered no gifts, circulated no offering plate, and to my knowledge, never offered a greeting card for goodbyes. That’s not to say, however, that he did nothing. At 2:06 p.m. on his assistant’s last day (which was a Thursday, by the way), Voldemort sent the following email to everyone in the Knoxville office: “In honor of [my assistant’s] last day, we have some Ham ’n Goody’s cookies in the 5th floor kitchen. Enjoy.” Like the hyenas circling Scar at the end of The Lion King, the mere suggestion of free food draws out the most animalistic instincts amongst my colleagues. Voldemort’s invitation was no exception. People came from afar (i.e., the fourth floor) and quickly descended on the kitchen, arranging like a mob of suburban moms at Kohl’s on Black Friday. One by one, people entered, grabbed their cookies, and exited the kitchen in pure delight. Quickly, however, the line began to jam, and people at the front began hissing. It wasn’t immediately clear what had happened, but as the aggrieved worked their way back to the door, I overheard someone say, “We’re already out of cookies.” I asked myself, “How could that be?!” Voldemort clearly invited everyone, and although I hadn’t been there for the start of the frenzy, I was at the kitchen within 5 minutes of his email. “Surely people weren’t hoarding cookies. This has to be a mistake.” I thought to myself. As I collected my thoughts, I started to suspect the obvious: Voldemort. So, I left the kitchen, searched the halls for Voldemort, and on my second round near the scene of the crime, there I spotted him. He was surrounded by at least two other co-workers with the same objective: finding truth. “What’s going on?” I asked. “I didn’t think there were that many people here today,” Voldemort August 2022
responded. “How many cookies did you buy?” I questioned. “Eighteen! I bought Eighteen, okay! I don’t want to hear it! There’s hardly anyone here, and I thought that would be enough.” Voldemort exclaimed. Contrary to Voldemort’s perception, the office was mostly at full steam that day, and very few people were out of the office. To compound issues, our office has grown significantly, and in the last six months, six attorneys have lateralled to our firm with their respective support staff. At present, the Knoxville office is home to 43 attorneys, three law clerks, 20 legal assistants, 13 paralegals, and 14 administrative staff members (accounting, IT, HR, etc.). I did not take an exact headcount on the date in question, but I assure you that of the 93 employees in our firm, at least sixty percent were here and could have enjoyed a delicious lemon cookie. Aside from Tony Perkis’ weight loss plan at Camp Hope, there’s literally no circumstance in which a normal person faced with those numbers would think 18 cookies is sufficient. Enter Voldemort. For those of you who may be wondering, “How much are Ham ’n Goody’s cookies?” I and several of my colleagues have investigated the issue, and the answer appears to vary by volume. At most, though, a single cookie costs roughly one crisp, American dollar. Doing the math, that means Voldemort publicly slighted his assistant, maligned 91 of his colleagues, and set himself up for this and other public shaming all to save, at most, $38.00.1 Add to that the rising cost of inflation, and the ever-diminishing value of the dollar, it seems abundantly clear to me that Voldemort’s decision was, well, dumb. Fortunately, three of my colleagues saved the day by purchasing four dozen more lemon cookies—two dozen for those on the fourth floor and two dozen for the fifth. Just so it’s clear that I’m not the only person in my office who’s fed up with Voldemort’s stinginess, here’s an email from the Three Musketeers announcing their purchase, which was sent to the office at 2:41 p.m., roughly forty minutes after Voldemort’s invitation: Good afternoon, all, In actually honoring [the retiree’s] last day, rather than buying just enough cookies for a table full of 4th graders to share, [the Three Musketeers] travelled to Ham ’n Goody’s, and we have placed 4 boxes (2 on 5 and 2 on 4) in the firm’s kitchens. Please enjoy these afternoon treats, and continue to deservedly mock [Voldemort’s First Name] “Pinchin’ Pennies” [Voldemort’s Last Name]. We will miss you, [retiree]. In sum, to those of you who criticized my prior column on Voldemort, I look forward to receiving your apologies . . . . 1
DICTA
Rounding up, sixty percent of 93 employees is 56. Less the 18 cookies he actually bought, that leaves 38 for purchase at one dollar each.
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