The Untouchable (a.k.a. The Last of the Cokehicans)

Do you remember the time that you came home from school, came in from playing ball, or came in from mowing the lawn on a hot summer day; waiting with anticipation for the refreshing, cold Coke that would be waiting behind the refrigerator door - only to find its aluminum exoskeleton drained of the precious nectar inside? Maybe it was your punk-kid brother, or perhaps it was the bum that you had the honor of sharing your college dorm room with, who, when confronted said something like: "Geez, Sorry,"; "I didn't know it was yours,"; "You mean, that was the last one?"; or simply, "Heh, I know." Those jerks! Why, if you like Coke sooo much, then why didn't you eat the can, too? Here, I'll help you!

I think memories like these (not necessarily the ultra-violent fantasies we had afterward) shape our behavior in our adult lives. We try to be kind, considerate, and giving to others. We want people to think of us as being fair, generous, and honest. We don't want to be the guy who takes the last Coke... This is why I believe the last Diet Coke in our office refrigerator will remain there for the rest of eternity.

For those of you that don't know me, I work in a small, three-person engineering firm. The refrigerator at the office is apparently the final resting-place for a small package of frozen chicken nuggets, a half-used bottle of Italian vinaigrette, and several fast food condiment packages. Oh, and there is one lonely Diet Coke can, separated from its former carton compatriots for over three weeks. His comrades have all moved away, were consumed in their jobs, and are spending their retirement together in the recycling bin. The only respite from the chilly darkness of the top shelf is when one of us opens the door. As the light comes on, and the warm air rushes in, you can almost hear him, "Oh, thank you! Please, please take me out of here! I can't take it anymore! I'm delicious and refreshing! I know you want me! Wait, no! No, don't close the door aga-" Day after day, the routine continues. As long as nobody takes the last Diet Coke, no more will take its place. This has compelled me to actually wish that someone, anyone, would take the last can. Please take the last Diet Coke! It's the only way! (It's the complete opposite sentiment of yesteryear.)

This is not a unique story. It has happened countless times during the past four years that I've worked there. Someday, somebody, filled with reluctance and self-loathing, will do their duty and take the last Diet Coke. Soon two or more cartons will take up residence in the refrigerator, though assuredly one can will have the miserable experience of being The Untouchable.