One day Charles came to me and said “what’s your poison?” I said “oh, well, I like gin.” “Try Aviation” he said and walked off.

Charles and I bonded. I would usually get into the office around 6:30. Charles would come in around 7:30 or 8:00, when I was blasting my all jazz block of music. Usually he’d come up and we’d talk jazz.

Charles is probably the only person who gave less of a shit about his job than me. I admired him for that. I merely didn’t give a shit, but for Charles level of DGAF, it was an effort.

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People usually bitched about him. Feelings about Charles seemed to vary from “what the fuck does he do?” to “He’s a mother fucker.” I never heard anyone say anything good about him. He knew this and gave ever fewer fucks than usual.

Somehow, I developed a reputation for being able to work with him. Usually it went like this, we’d fuck around, I’d say something like “can you help me with this?” and he would and we’d fuck around a little more.

Charles was easier to work with than any millennial I’ve ever encountered.

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On my last day, there was a party. Charles didn’t show up, he hated everyone and his appearance at any of these things was never expected.

That morning though, Charles comes to my office, hands me that bottle of gin, and goes “good luck” and walks off.

To quote Ron Swanson, “I once worked with a guy for three years. I never learned his name. Best friend I ever had. We still sometimes don’t talk to each other.”

I’m at about a twentieth of that bottle. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it once it’s empty, but I’ll keep it, because it’s one of my most prized gifts.