Breakroom Treaty (Revised)

A cramped, fluorescent cave. A wobbling table. The sacred BREAKROOM CHAIR at the head like a throne. A documentary CAMERA finds Migs at the microwave, holding a plastic container like it’s volatile.

It’s not fish. It’s… ocean chicken.

He pops the lid. Inside: reheated salmon and rice.

Ocean chicken is fish with branding.

YVETTE (already standing)

I’m not breathing that. I have rights.

Migs slides it in. Hits START. The microwave HUMS.

JOLENE sits in the sacred chair, eating from a bag of popcorn, eyes sharp like a judge.

Nobody panic. If it stinks, we litigate.

The microwave BEEPS. Migs opens it—

A WAVE of fishy heat punches the room. Everyone recoils in sync.

Oh my God. It has notes. It’s… layered.

That’s not lunch. That’s a workplace incident.

Court is in session.

She slaps a handwritten sign onto the table: “MICROWAVE COURT.”

In this breakroom, we don’t have policies. We have Jolene. It’s like… if a traffic cone could do parliamentary procedure.

Jolene points her popcorn bag like a gavel.

Charge: olfactory assault. Defendant: Migs Halprin. Exhibit A: the air.

Objection. The air is biased.

I want a ban. No fish. No eggs. No “cabbage moments.”

Can we add “anything with the word ‘stew’”?

We need evidence. Migs, your intent?

I’m bulking. Protein. Also I found it half-off in the manager’s fridge.

That’s not a defense. That’s a confession with a side.

Jolene turns to Yvette.

Remedy requested?

A treaty. A written agreement. And if he violates it, I get his Friday shift swap forever.

That’s punitive. That’s colonialism.

Quiet. Jury will deliberate.

She gestures to Grant.

JOLENE (CONT'D)

Grant, you’re the jury. One-man system. We trust your neutrality.

I am famously neutral.

He immediately picks up the popcorn bag, sniffs it, then eyes Jolene.

GRANT (CONT'D)

What is that?

Popcorn.

That is not popcorn. That is… campfire regret.

YVETTE leans in, sniffs Jolene’s bag. Her face tightens.

Oh. That’s the smell. It’s burnt.

It’s… artisanal.

Your Honor, Exhibit B is literally on your lap.

Jolene freezes. The camera zooms slightly on the blackened kernels.

Watching Jolene get caught is like seeing a cat fall off a counter. You’re not happy. But you will remember it forever.

Grant stands, dramatic.

I move to dismiss fish charges on grounds of equal-opportunity stink.

Denied. I deny that.

I— I can explain the popcorn.

Please do. In court.

Jolene sits up, recalibrating. She slides the popcorn bag into a trash can with a SEALING flourish.

New ruling. We don’t ban foods. We ban behaviors.

What does that even mean.

It means: if you make it smell like a haunted pier, you eat it in the hallway.

And popcorn?

Only if it’s… light to medium toast.

So the treaty is: “No Crimes of Odor.”

JOLENE grabs a marker, writes on a scrap of cardboard:

“BREAKROOM TREATY (REVISED)

1) NO FISH.

2) NO BURNT POPCORN.

3) IF IT MAKES SOMEONE SAY ‘WHAT IS THAT,’ TAKE IT OUTSIDE.

SIGNED: EVERYBODY, UNDER DURESS.”

She shoves the marker toward them.

I’m not signing “under duress.”

That’s the most truthful part.

One by one, they sign.

Can I still microwave my rice?

Rice doesn’t have a backstory. Yes.

And if someone violates it?

Then we convene court again.

Grant looks at the camera, deadpan.

We are so close to being adults.

Jolene lifts the treaty like a sacred document.

Court adjourned. Air freshener as reparations.

Migs pulls out a tiny thrifted floral spray bottle from his pocket like he’s been waiting.

Already got one. Two dollars. Smells like… grandma’s secrets.

He SPRITZES. The fish smell and floral fight for dominance.

Now it smells like a funeral at an aquarium.

They all sit in the stink anyway, strangely satisfied.

Leadership is hard. Sometimes you have to sacrifice popcorn for the greater good. And sometimes… you have to pretend it was never yours.

She looks off-camera, defensive.

JOLENE (CONT'D)

It was not mine.

The trash can lid POPS slightly from trapped heat. A faint burnt-popcorn ghost escapes.

Everyone clocks it at once.

Your Honor—

Don’t.