Poison Control and Justice

You give someone a taste of their own medicine, and suddenly, you’re the villain in their made-for-TV movie. They act like you laced their morning coffee with arsenic when all you did was let the mirror talk back.

I remember this fella I used to work with—let’s call him Larry because that was his name. Larry had the kind of personality you could sand paint with.

Real abrasive, barking at folks, calling them names that didn’t quite rise to the level of profanity but danced around the edges. Larry was the kind of guy who’d call you “brain-dead” for using the copier wrong, then jam it himself five minutes later and blame it on you.

For a long time, we all just let it slide. Small office, small town—rocking the boat meant everyone got wet.

But one Tuesday morning, after Larry called me a “dimwit in khakis” because I parked in his unofficial, unmarked parking spot next to the dumpster, mind you, I decided maybe it was time Larry had a sampling of the stew he’d been ladling out.

The next day, when he spilled coffee all over the report he was supposed to deliver to our supervisor, I looked at him and said, “Nice work, Einstein. Real brain trust move.”

You’d have thought I slapped his mama. He blinked at me like I’d spoken in tongues. “What’d you say?”

I leaned in, grinning. “Just saying you might want to take that Mensa application off your desk for now.”

That was it. The man sulked the rest of the day.

He didn’t call a soul stupid. Larry didn’t even insult Margie’s homemade potato salad at lunch. He sat there chewing and stewing, nursing his wounded ego like a baby bird fallen out of its nest.

Later, I overheard him in the break room, telling someone I’d “crossed a line.” Said I was mean-spirited.

That’s when it hit me–some folks are real generous with their cruelty, right up until they have to sit at the table and eat what they’ve been serving. They can dish it out, but Lord, help them if it comes back around on a lazy Susan.

That’s the funny thing about those kinds of people. They walk around with a spray bottle of vinegar, misting everyone else’s day, and then act shocked when a drop gets in their own eyes.

I’m not saying revenge is noble, but sometimes mirrored behavior is the only language some folks understand. You show them what it feels like, and they want to talk about boundaries and respect—two words they’ve never used unless they were spelling them wrong in an angry email.

In the end, Larry stopped calling people names for a while. He took up crossword puzzles instead.

He said they helped him “channel his wit more productively.” And I suppose that’s fine, as long as he doesn’t start calling others four-letter words again.

If he does, well—I’ve got some fresh medicine ready that tastes just like a Size 8.