Forsythe had been hoping for a promotion ever since the day he became an associate at the law firm Brixton Forban.  That was 7 years ago. But still, every day Forsythe woke up and hoped that this would be the day..

Even at 7 AM, Forsythe Dorff could tell it was going to be a particularly miserable day.  The road was covered in hail, and a rather large piece had dented the hood of his Cadillac.  He was very proud of his car but never told anybody that he purchased it at a gas/repair station for $8,999.99 (tax not included).  He didn’t know why he was so distrustful of the gas station owner.  Maybe it was because his office was a pickup truck with the engine running.  The reason Forsythe was heading out in his car at that eye-watering hour was simple, he liked to get to work early.

When he got to work he sat down at his cubicle, right beside the squeaky washroom door and the two chatterboxes who were constantly talking over his head as though he was not there.  The paralegal offices were just across from him, and he could always hear partners and associates noisily voicing their demands. Quite frankly he was sick of it.  He was sick of the irritating noise, the unpleasant smells, all of it.  But still he stayed in at lunch to work.  Not by choice though, he had been spurned for life from going out for lunch with the other members of the firm ever since a certain unfortunate incident regarding yak’s milk and a senior partner’s coffee.

Even though Forsythe had always hoped for a promotion, he had never considered that he was being overlooked.  But today, as he sat down at his cramped noisy, unpleasant smelling desk for the 2,527th time (but who's counting) he considered that he just might be getting passed up.  Once he realized, he called his only sort of half friend, Ima Ture on the phone.

“Hey Ima,” said Forsythe.

“Forsythe?” said the voice on the other end.

“Yep,” said Forsythe “Listen, I’d love to chat but I need to get right down to business.  I
feel that I am being passed up for a promotion.  Can you tell me why?”

There was a pause, “I don’t think you want to hear this Forsythe....”, said Ima

“Maybe so, but I need to,” was the reply.

“You haven’t been promoted yet because people don’t like you.”  All Ima heard was a beep as Forsythe’s phone hung up.  After a few seconds his phone rang again.

“What do you mean?” Forsythe demanded as soon as Ima picked up the phone.

“Exactly what I just said,” said Ima somewhat timidly. “I mean, you’re nit-picky, you’re condescending, and a bit boring.”

“Thanks for nothing,” said Forsythe, angrily hanging up the phone again.

But as he sat at his desk, still fuming, he thought, maybe there’s something to that.  So for the first time in his career, maybe his life, Forsythe sat at his desk, ignored his work and daydreamed. By the time it was lunch, he had achieved nothing, but had devised a plan to become a partner.

His idea wasn’t overly complex but he was sure it would work.  Or at least as sure as an OCD perfectionist like him could be.  His logic was that his superiors would not put him in a position of leadership over people who don’t respect him.  Therefore if the associates respected him the managing partners would be far more likely to make him a partner.  After a bit of research he devised that the best way to get people to like you is to buy them things.  And so it started.  Now, as we know, Forsythe has few interests aside from work and competitive ping-pong and he fully realized ping-pong was not realized by the masses as the endeavor of skill and perseverance that it was he decided to buy people office supplies.    The first person he targeted was Jack, the unfortunate victim of a misunderstanding involving xanthine and a thermos full of lemonade.

As Jack saw Forsythe approaching he instinctively pulled away his glass of water.  “What do you want now, Forsythe?” Jack said a touch bitterly.

“Well, I wanted to reward you for your good work on the Jennings-Hathaws merger, so I got you this,” said Forsythe removing what appeared to be a very large stapler from his bag.

“A stapler.” said Jack dryly.

“But not just any stapler,” said Forsythe, “ it’s the Lazac 400 deluxe.”  Jack gave him a blank look.  “It has 40 pounds of pressure, is able to staple 250 pages with one staple, and has a laser sight on it so you know exactly where your staple is going to go.”

“Thanks, I guess,” said Jack somewhat furtively.

“Alright, bye,” said Forsythe, walking away.

It proceeded thus for many months, and lo and behold, the office was rife with expensive and high quality office supplies (tempered with the occasional ping-pong paddle). Indeed there were some good tidings for a certain Forsythe Dorff from his colleagues.  But, as tends to happen over long periods of expectancy, Forsythe grew impatient.  He would spend all day waiting for the managing partner to call him to their office to congratulate him on making partner.  He even made a little speech to say to all the senior partners, about his gratitude, and that he would not disappoint them.  Why, he had even packed up his possessions in a box so as to be ready to move to his new office.

But days turned into weeks, and finally weeks into months, and Forsythe had still not been promoted.  He fidgeted at his desk, muttering to himself sourly, and jumping at the slightest sound.  He had blown $2316.97 on niceties and had nothing to show for it but a bad credit score and an empty wallet.  He just didn’t get it.  He had bought people gifts he had complimented them on their work and still, there he was, in his dingy little cubicle, miserable again.

One day he decided that he’d had enough.   He came to work with a megaphone and as soon as he walked through the door, he turned on the megaphone and shouted in a voice barely reminiscent of his usual mousy timbre. He shouted, “All right everybody, listen up!  As you all know my name is Forsythe Dorff.  While some of you may question my character, none of you could question my work.  I have given 7 years of toil to this firm, and all I have to show for it is this,” he said pointing to his cubicle, “And this,” he said opening his newly emptied wallet for all to see.  This went on for a deafening and tiresome half hour.  By the end he was red faced, fuming and had a voice that sounded like a dying frog.  But as he tucked his megaphone under his arm and headed for his cubicle, he heard on the intercom,

“Mr. Dorff to managing partner’s office.”  He wasn’t quite sure what to expect as he made his way up to the forty-third floor office that he had been summoned to.

“Forsythe,” said James Brixton as he walked in, “While somewhat uncalled for your little rant has opened my eyes to the fact that you feel overlooked.  Coincidentally I have been looking for the right person to take on a very important case.  If you do well on it, you’re a lock for partner.” Said Mr Brixton as he slides a folder toward Forsythe.  Forsythe read it out loud.

“Wrongful dismissal of Reuben Cufilen against Pulushin Oil,”  He opened the folder and a knowing smile spread over his face as he said to James Brixton, “Somehow I think I can handle this.”