Prologue: Lunch Is a Mirror
If you ever want to know who you really work with, don’t look at their résumé. Don’t waste time with HR assessments or team-building seminars.
Watch what they do at lunch.
Lunchtime is when the masks slip. When people unbutton their shirts, let down their hair, or—occasionally—drive to a motel. Over the years, as an employee, a business owner, and a consultant, I’ve seen some outrageous things unfold when the lunch bell rings.
This is a collection of those stories.
Chapter One: Sex
Let’s start with the obvious: sex.
People don’t realize how common it is to leave for “lunch” and end up in a broom closet, the backseat of a car, or a cheap motel. Or not even leave at all.
Take one company I worked with: one day, a woman came back into the office looking wide-eyed and stunned. She’d walked in on the operations manager—a woman—getting bonked by one of the warehouse guys. In a dusty corner of the warehouse, mid-shift.
Apparently, this wasn’t a one-time occurrence. She was also sleeping with the president of the company. I remember her well—very pretty, kind of had a Condoleezza Rice look. Name escapes me now. But she made an impression.
Then, if you can believe it, same warehouse guy, different day—same act, different partner. This time, it was the president’s wife, who also worked in sales. So yeah, this warehouse guy? He had range.
Company had about 100 employees.
Everybody knew.
Now, I’ll admit something.
My girlfriend at the time, who later became my wife, also worked at that company. And yes, we had a few long lunches of our own. But at least we had the decency to take it off-site—to a little motel a couple of miles away.
It was discreet, quiet, and no one ever got caught.
More on that motel later.
Chapter Two: Lies
People lie about lunch all the time. I don’t know why—it’s as if “lunch” is the magical excuse that nobody questions.
One of the funniest (and most infuriating) things happened when I was running my computer service company. We had back-to-back service appointments: 8:00 AM, 10:00, 11:00, 2:00, 4:00. That was back when Miami traffic still allowed you to get anywhere on time.
I get a call from my 11:00 AM client—they say my techs never showed up. Then the 2:00 PM client calls. Nothing. No shows. No calls. No explanation.
I start to worry.
Maybe they were in an accident?
By 4:00 PM, I’m genuinely concerned—until they waltz into the office laughing.
“Where the hell have you been?” I ask.
“Oh,” they say, “we decided to go to lunch in South Beach. It was so nice, we just stayed the whole day.”
That was the last time they worked for me.
I called them Tweedledee and Tweedledum—or Dumb and Dumber, depending on my mood.
Some people don’t just lie.
They lie so casually, they forget they’re even lying.
Chapter Three: Videotapes
Let’s bring it home.
Another one of my technicians—Juan—was in his early 30s. Married. Responsible. Reliable. Did five or six calls a day. Always made me money. I barely supervised him because… well, why mess with what’s working?
Then the phone calls started.
Dozens of them. From different women.
These weren’t customers. They were girlfriends. Side chicks. Occasional flings.
It was like running a soap opera hotline through my business line. The receptionist even started taking notes like it was a hobby.
At one point, I realized—if you filmed Juan’s day-to-day, it’d make for a hell of a series.
“Juan of Miami”—available now on Netflix.
Remember that motel my girlfriend and I used to sneak off to?
Well, eventually I got an office just three blocks away—same street, one-way road. I drove past it every day.
Sometimes I’d look in the parking lot just for curiosity.
And yes—sometimes I saw my own employees parked there during lunch.
But hey, if they got their work done, I wasn’t going to micromanage anyone’s afternoon delight.
Then came the day of the shooting.
Apparently, Juan’s wife had finally had enough. She tracked him down—right there at the motel—with one of his girlfriends and tried to shoot them both.
Here’s where it gets juicy.
When the police arrived, guess who else was there?
Someone from the mayor’s office.
And a pretty high-ranking officer from Miami PD.
(Not the chief, but someone you’d expect to be at City Hall, not Room 207.)
And here’s the kicker:
Turns out the motel had hidden cameras in nearly every room.
Everyone who ever went there for a little “lunch” was starring in their very own videotape.
Life is weirder than fiction, the whole thing got covered up since no one was hurt, and this was Miami, a random shooting wasn’t a big deal unless multiple people died.
Epilogue: The Truth About Lunch (and Us)
I’ve come to understand something over the years:
Humans are sexually driven creatures.
They’re weird. They lie. They sneak off.
But most of all, they’re just animals—clever ones—with jobs and hormones.
Lunch?
Lunch is just the ritual hour when the wildness slips through the cracks.
There’s nothing wrong with that.
I don’t judge. I just observe, and I laugh.
And every once in a while, as I’m driving past a place like that motel, I find myself wondering: “I wonder who’s having sex for lunch today?”
Unfortunately, it isn’t me.
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