Today, she cornered me in the breakroom, clutching her oversized Starbucks cup like a medieval chalice. “Legally, I can’t operate standard equipment, friend. HR has to provide accommodations.”

By lunchtime, her “customized forklift” arrived. It had extra-wide seats, padded armrests, and a suspiciously expensive cupholder for her triple caramel macchiato. Keisha climbed aboard like a queen ascending her throne.

Tabitha, chewing on a Subway meatball sub, gave me her trademark death glare. “Evan, if you question this, it’s a liability. We’re not getting sued over a forklift, friend.”

Keisha spent the rest of her shift in slow-motion joyrides, shuttling a single pallet of chips back and forth across the store. Customers gawked as she beeped around corners like a circus act, occasionally stopping to snack from the very pallet she was moving.

Meanwhile, I was left to restock shelves alone, dodging her wide-turning-radius adventures. At one point, she blocked an aisle for 20 minutes, forcing a BBW Karen to abandon her cart and yell, “You’re lucky I’m in a rush, or I’d be writing a complaint.”

Keisha, unbothered, leaned back in her forklift and shouted, “Safety first, friend!”

Finally, as I clocked out late, hands sore and back aching, Keisha cruised past me on her throne. She slowed down just enough to smirk and say, “You could use one of these, Evan. Protect that spine, friend.”

Leaned against the stockroom wall, muttered, “Yes, friend. This is fine.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630888&forum_id=2Elisa#48314937)