Out-of-Office, In-Person

A hand-lettered sign on the snack table: “BREAKROOM REPUBLIC — SPEAKER’S CORNER.” A crooked stapler stands in as a gavel. The camera finds DANA arranging a sad stack of napkins like official documents.

“The chair recognizes... whoever washed their mug and put it back.”

OWEN slides in with a manila folder labeled “EMERGENCY.” He sets down a single granola bar like evidence.

Madam Speaker, I move to adopt the Unclaimed Snack Reclamation Act.

PRIYA looks up from her coffee with the calm of someone about to ruin a life.

Define “unclaimed.”

Simple. Any snack left on the table after close of business becomes communal property.

MARCUS, leaning by the fridge, perks up.

That’s… actually coherent.

That’s also theft with formatting.

It’s not theft. It’s governance. We have a tragedy of the commons—except the commons has *two* stale mini pretzels and one yogurt that’s been “temporarily” here since February.

He points at a lumpy yogurt cup like it’s a war crime.

I object on procedural grounds.

On what grounds?

Paperwork.

She reaches into her tote and produces a thick packet with a bright yellow cover sheet.

PRIYA (CONT'D)

Form B.R.-27: “Petition for Table-Top Reclassification.” You cannot convert private snacks into public goods without filing an inventory affidavit and a ninety-day comment period.

There’s a form for—

I made it. This morning. While you were “arranging napkins.”

DANA blinks. The camera catches her, quietly impressed and angry.

We are not doing a comment period on a granola bar.

Then we are not doing your law.

Priya’s whole vibe is: if you can’t beat the rule, build a bigger rule around it until it suffocates.

Fine. I’ll just… enforce it.

He slides the granola bar toward the center like it’s entering committee.

OWEN (CONT'D)

This bar was left here yesterday. Unclaimed. Therefore—

Therefore it requires a chain-of-custody sticker.

She slaps a neon sticker onto the granola bar: “EVIDENCE — DO NOT CONSUME.”

OWEN stares, betrayed by adhesive.

Okay. New motion: everyone relaxes.

Denied. I have the floor.

She unfolds a second page—smaller, pettier.

PRIYA (CONT'D)

To prevent accidental communization, I’m implementing a Temporary Snack Hold Protocol. All snacks must be tagged with owner name, date, and intent to return.

Intent to return?

Yes. Like… “I will be back for my pretzels.” Not all of us snack like anarchists.

This is a filibuster in sticker form.

It’s compliance.

MARCUS opens the LOST-AND-FOUND bin on top of the fridge. It’s a junk drawer ecosystem: lonely keys, a scarf, three mystery chargers, and a single immaculate bag of kettle chips.

Question. If something is unclaimed… does it go to communal property?

Yes.

And lost-and-found is… unclaimed.

No, it’s pending claim.

How long?

Thirty days.

What if the item is labeled “urgent”?

He holds up the kettle chips. The camera zooms: a label reads “FOR MARCUS — DO NOT TOUCH.” Under it, in tiny print: “Placed here 31 days ago.”

Marcus… did you—

I forgot them. Then I remembered them. Then I forgot them again. Democracy happened.

OWEN, lit with opportunism, reaches for the chips.

Unclaimed. Communal. I will now redistribute—

Objection! That label constitutes intent!

Actually… the label doesn’t have a date stamp.

PRIYA freezes. Owen grins. Dana rubs her temples like she’s negotiating a ceasefire.

We are not litigating the ontological status of chips.

Madam Speaker, I request immediate opening of the bag in a ceremonial act of shared prosperity.

If you open that bag without proper disposition, you set a precedent that collapses snack sovereignty.

That’s the point.

There’s more in the bin. We could... accelerate governance.

He lifts a Tupperware container, cloudy and ancient.

MARCUS (CONT'D)

Also this. It’s… biologically unclaimed.

The container seems to exhale.

Okay. New ruling. Lost-and-found is hereby its own committee. Marcus, you chair it. Priya, you draft... whatever stops us from dying. Owen—

Yes?

If you start a coup with kettle chips, at least do it after lunch.

OWEN clutches the chips like a campaign promise.

Fine. I’ll wait. But the people will remember who freed the snacks.

PRIYA is already slapping date stamps onto everything in sight—napkins, cups, a banana.

And the people will sign in triplicate.

MARCUS, quietly delighted, drops the kettle chips back into the bin… then slides the bin forward, center table, like a throne.

Committee convenes.

DANA looks into the camera, deadpan.

No one’s in charge. That’s the problem. And… somehow also the job.