I am at work right now. We just got out of a meeting. Normally, I don’t attend meetings, as I am the dregs of the company that I work for. However, today, an executive assistant was out sick and they called upon me to come in and take notes. By the by, a “paid internship” is modern-day lingo for “serfdom.”

I rolled into the conference room two minutes early, pen and notebook in hand. The room was filling up and I took an inconspicuous seat away from the main table, in the corner, where I could listen without being noticed. Just as the meeting was about to start, a guy I didn’t know, a familiar face without being anything more, sat down next to me.

He couldn’t seem to get settled, shifting his weight around in the chair. Then, just as someone else started to speak and I started to scribble, nameless dude swung his leg up to rest his ankle on his knee…and let one rip like a car backfiring.

I pressed my lips together to seal the swell of laughter rising in my throat. At the same time, I couldn’t help but look at the guy to see how he was dealing with the situation.

I expected him to break out in a cover-up coughing fit. Or maybe he’d just be looking at the ceiling with a puzzled expression, desperately trying to convince people that a vent was acting up.

Strangely enough, I found him staring directly back at me. His face wore an expression of disgust mingled with shock. He was looking at me as though …as though I had been the one to–no! This couldn’t be happening. But it was. This guy was trying to frame me for his backdoor outburst!

While passing gas in public might rank as one of my all-time worst fears, close behind it is the paranoia that someone else will drop a bomb, but that everyone will think it’s me. As I looked the guy in the eye and saw that frenzied, desperate expression in his eyes, I knew that I was in the midst of living out my paranoid nightmare.

I looked around the conference room. Although the suit conducting the meeting continued to talk, most eyes were on—uh—me, with an expression similar to the one that this nameless dude had so seamlessly painted on his face.

I realized that although my laughter had recoiled down my throat, my lips remained pressed together as I met the alarmed eyes and poorly-hidden smirks of the people in the room. Do you know what pressed lips look like? They look guilty. They are a universal symbol for “Oops. I wish I’d kept that to myself.” I was done for; I had been framed.

I longed to point a finger at him and wave my hand in front of my nose, but alas, I find myself powerless; the sting of the company caste system leaves me wincing. I just hope that the next time I’m present when wind breaks, it blows in the other direction.

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