The Coworker Who Watered The Plastic Plant
In the corner of our office lobby, tucked away right next to the water cooler and the reception desk, stood a five-foot-tall fake ficus plant. It was an office staple that had been there for three years before I even started. It had these unnaturally shiny, waxy green leaves that never shed, never wilted, and definitely never required a drop of moisture. It was a sturdy, inanimate piece of decor that blended into the beige walls perfectly. Nobody really paid it any mind until Dave arrived. Dave was our new guy in the accounting department, a man whose earnest desire to be helpful was only matched by his total lack of botanical knowledge. From his first day, Dave took his office responsibilities seriously. He was the kind of person who tidied up stray pens and insisted on organizing the communal supply closet. Then, that first that day rolled around. I was sitting at my desk, sipping coffee and scrolling through emails, when I noticed movement near the lobby. Dave walked over with a half-full plastic water bottle. He stood over the ficus, unscrewed the cap with a look of intense focus, and poured the contents into the plastic pot. I blinked, confused. I looked over at Sarah, our office manager, who was sitting at the adjacent desk. She saw it too. She just gave me a faint, amused smile and a shrug. We didn’t say anything. We weren’t his parents, and frankly, it felt a little awkward to point out that he was essentially watering plastic. We figured he would realize it sooner or later. But we were wrong. The weeks turned into months. every week like clockwork, Dave would make his rounds. I started looking forward to it. I would intentionally glance toward the lobby at 10:00 AM just to watch the ritual. Dave would pull out his water bottle, pour it with precision, and sometimes even reach out to gently dust the fake leaves with his thumb. He checked the dirt, tilted his head in confusion when he didn’t see the water soaking in right away, and then marched off to the breakroom to fetch more. He was so dedicated. I once overheard him whispering to the plant, saying things like, Hang in there, buddy, you look a little dry today. It was surreal. Two months passed, and by then, the office had turned it into a sort of secret spectator sport. We all knew, but we just couldn't bring ourselves to break his heart. One humid, sweltering day, the atmosphere in the office changed. It was one of those days where the AC was struggling and the air felt heavy. Dave was walking by my desk when he suddenly stopped, wrinkled his nose, and sniffed the air deeply. He looked around with a genuine sense of alarm. Is something rotting in here? he asked, looking genuinely concerned. Sarah, who was busy typing, barely looked up. She just shook her head and said she didn’t smell a thing. Dave kept pacing the lobby, his nose twitching. He eventually walked over to the corner, kneeled down by the base of the plastic tree, and looked even more distressed. It smells like a swamp, he announced to the room. I felt a surge of nervous energy. I walked over, and a few others joined me. Dave was hovering over the pot, looking like he was trying to solve a crime. When he went to shift the plant to get a better look underneath, the base tipped. A massive, murky, gray-brown puddle of stagnant, weeks-old water mixed with soggy dirt spilled out across the carpet. It was an absolute mess. It smelled like a damp basement that had been flooded for a month. Dave jumped back, his eyes wide. Why is there so much water in here? he asked, sounding genuinely panicked. He looked at us for answers, clearly expecting us to have seen a plumbing leak or something mysterious. The room went dead silent. I felt terrible for him, but I couldn't keep the charade going. Dave, I said, trying to be as gentle as possible, the plant is plastic. It doesn’t need water. It never has. Dave went completely still. He looked at the plastic branches, then at the puddle on the carpet, then back at me. You all knew? he asked, his voice cracking slightly. I nodded, and Sarah stepped in to apologize, explaining that we didn't want to embarrass him but that it had gone on way too long. Dave just stood there, looking defeated, while the rest of us scrambled to find paper towels. We spent the next thirty minutes on our hands and knees, scrubbing the damp, smelly carpet and wringing out soaking wet rags. It was an exhausting, humbling ordeal. To make it up to him—and to prove that we didn't think he was a total idiot—we decided as a team to chip in. We went to the local garden center and bought a real, honest-to-goodness peace lily. It was beautiful, lush, and very much alive. We placed it right on Dave’s desk as a peace offering. We told him he was the official office gardener now. He looked at the plant with a mixture of suspicion and pride. Now, whenever I watch him water the peace lily, it is quite the spectacle. He doesn't just dump water in anymore. He stands there with his index finger poised, hovering over the soil, testing the dampness with the caution of a bomb expert. He looks like he’s trying to disarm a volatile device, checking and rechecking the moisture levels as if he fully expects the new plant to sprout plastic leaves or explode into a puddle at any moment. He’s learned, but he is definitely taking no chances this time.