The Great Sandwich Heist: A Tale of Office Treachery and Tuna

The Great Sandwich Heist: A Tale of Office Treachery and Tuna

It all started on a Wednesday — which, if you work a desk job, you already know is the emotional equivalent of dry toast. Not terrible, not great, just there. Except this Wednesday would go down in history.

My name’s Arjun, and I work in accounting. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills and gives me just enough existential dread to feel alive. Every Wednesday, I bring a very specific lunch: tuna sandwich on rye, one slice of cheddar, light mayo, lettuce, tomato, and a small bag of sea salt chips. It's my personal ritual. My midweek joy.

I made it that morning with the precision of a Michelin-star chef and stored it in the break room fridge — right behind Carol’s terrifying Tupperware full of mystery stew.

At precisely 12:32 PM, I strolled into the break room, humming Coldplay like the background character I am. I opened the fridge, reached for my sandwich, and...

It was gone.

Vanished. Stolen. Kidnapped. Sandwich-napped.

I blinked, shut the fridge, reopened it — like maybe the sandwich had burrowed behind the oat milk or teleported. Nope. It was truly, tragically gone.

That’s when it hit me. Someone in this office stole my sandwich. And I was going to find out who.

The Interrogations Begin

I started with Carol.

“Carol,” I said, eyes narrow, “have you seen a tuna sandwich on rye?”

She didn’t even look up from her knitting. “No, but someone left fishy crumbs on the microwave. Probably Dave.”

Ah, Dave. The office wildcard. Known for wearing mismatched socks and once microwaving salmon at 9 a.m. I marched over to his desk.

“Dave. Tuna. Rye. You?”

He looked genuinely offended. “Do I look like I eat rye? I’m keto, bro.”

I wasn’t convinced, but he made a point. Dave's diet was more intense than a CrossFit instructor with a caffeine addiction.

Then I thought of Karen from HR — the same Karen who once filed a complaint because someone brought peanut butter within sniffing distance of her desk.

I crept past the cubicles until I saw it. Crumbs. Crumbs on her keyboard. Rye crumbs.

She caught me staring. “Can I help you?”

I went full Sherlock. “Did you eat a tuna sandwich, Karen?”

She blinked. “What kind of monster do you think I am? I’m vegan.”

Right. Vegan. I backed away slowly.

The Plot Thickens (Like Mayo Left Out Too Long)

Just when I was losing hope, I saw it.

The intern, Tyler. Barely out of college. Hoodie. Headphones. And on his desk — an empty sandwich wrapper. Brown paper. A hint of tomato left behind.

I leaned in. “Tyler. Where’d you get your lunch today?”

He looked up, deer-in-headlights. “Um… I thought it was free? It was just there in the fridge…”

The audacity. The betrayal. The hunger.

I launched into a speech about sandwich rights, fridge etiquette, and personal boundaries. Tyler apologized at least six times and offered to buy me another one. I refused. Because justice isn’t something you can slap between two slices of bread.

Epilogue: A Man and His Mayo

Tyler eventually became a full-time employee. Every Wednesday, without fail, he brings me a tuna sandwich on rye. And every Wednesday, I remind him of the time he ignited a lunchtime war.

We laugh now. But I keep my lunch in a cooler under my desk, just in case.

Moral of the story? Label your sandwich. Trust no one. And never underestimate the power of tuna.