Chapter 1, Changes are Made
"No," said Sam, stopping just short of stamping his foot, "The problem here is that you're an evil, soulless bastard."
The Devil made that face Sam hated, the one that clearly said, C'mon, buddy, you know me better than that. Because Sam did know him better than that. In fact, he knew him well enough to know that for all The Devil was giving him a face that also said This is a game, the look in his eyes said This is a game you have already lost. Badly.
They were behind the Brick, standing next to the dumpsters. Sam had been out with the guys, celebrating another more-or-less successful soul-capture. More successful because the soul was, in fact, captured, and less successful because here was The Devil, giving him shit about it. Sam had peeked out the emergency exit looking for Sock—sometimes if there was a line for the men's room (and sometimes even if there wasn't) Sock just whizzed behind the dumpsters, and Sam was always telling him not to because homeless guys slept back here, and it wasn't cool to pee where other people had to lie down—and there was The Devil.
His complaint was kinda-sorta legit, but Sam wasn't going to admit that anytime soon. Its just the soul's girlfriend had been so sad, and she had these two kids, and they were crazy about the guy. And, well, the guy was just plain crazy—he'd butchered dozens of people, Sam had watched him get ready to slice-and-dice Sock, ranting about threats to society—but even crazy people had loved ones. So he had let the soul back out one more time to say his final goodbyes. It sounded like disaster waiting to happen, and it probably was, but it had all worked out okay this time. And The Devil had always been pretty focused on the here-and-now, so Sam didn't get what his damage was.
"The quality of my soul isn't in question here, Sammy," said The Devil. "Remember who you're talking to. I own your soul, not the other way around."
"I wouldn't touch your soul with a ten-foot pole, asshole," Sam sneered. "Who knows where it's been."
"Ouch!" The Devil said, clutching a hand over his heart. Or where his heart would be, if he even had one. That wasn't so much a question of morality as a question of biology. "Zing! But sometimes I think you don't really grasp the gravity of our arrangement. That's understandable, of course. You're very young, still innocent and fresh-faced. And it's almost not a nauseating quality for you. But if I thought youth was a good reason to spare anybody, well, social workers and youth counselors would be out of jobs, and how would that be fair to anyone?"
In the dimness of the alley, the small glass jar The Devil brought out from behind his back shimmered dully.
"Are you threatening me with an empty jam jar?" Sam asked. "Do I smash my beer bottle against the wall and fight you hobo style? I'm sorry, I normally follow your train of thought a bit better."
The Devil laughed, and rested the palm of his hand affectionately on Sam's chest. Sam wondered why he was doomed to attract people with no respect for anyone's personal space bubble.
"Oh, Sam. You've got spunk, and I like that about you, but spunk and soul seem to be inhibiting your performance as an employee of Hell. What kind of boss would I be if I let you continue work under the influence of a dangerous substance? One of the two has to go, and it just so happens that while I don't control your spunk--"
"Please stop talking about my spunk," Sam said.
"—I do have complete ownership of your soul. And I can take that away whenever I want."
Sam frowned. "Yeah, I know. You've had my soul since before I was born."
"No," The Devil said, shaking his head slightly. "I've had ownership, but up until now I was letting you hold on to your soul. Your soul and your identity don't become one and the same until you shuffle off the mortal coil, you see? As a living human being…"
Sam was suddenly aware of an uncomfortable feeling where The Devil's hand was resting, like someone was smearing Vick's vapor rub there, except the feeling kept going, deep under the skin and into his chest, slick and cool.
"… You can be made to part ways, and your guts and muscle…"
Sam's eyes finally slid down to his shirt.
"… Will just keep chugging along without you," The Devil finished.
His hand was inside Sam's chest.
It was like that scene in Indiana Jones, where the crazy priest was pulling out the heart of some unfortunate native and then fire and screaming and Sam wasn't really sure, he'd only seen it once when he was ten and he'd hid his face in the arm of Sock's mom's couch while Sock laughed and told him to stop being such a little kid. Only now it was happening to him and he couldn't look away, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything except gape dumbly at the point where The Devil's wrist intersected impossibly with his button-down. Inside he could feel something being moved, something sliding loose, and then The Devil's hand was withdrawing.
In his fist was a handful of fire. It was a brighter shade of blue than the gas burners on a stove, but it was definitely fire. He opened the lid of his jar and let it slide in.
Sam stared at it, his hand rubbing the spot where The Devil had just pulled out his soul. The soul in the jar lit up the whole alleyway.
"Cool," Sam said.
The Devil beamed.
--
If Sam had been asked to guess beforehand what might happen if The Devil ever separated his soul from his body, he probably would have figured that his consciousness would follow his soul. But if that had been the case, he'd be riding around in The Devil's coat pocket or sitting in a drawer or whatever right now, not lying in his own bed, staring at his alarm clock.
Not having a soul was both a lot different from having one and not really that different at all. It was different because normally he'd be upset that The Devil had dicked him over again, and not really for any good reason, but he didn't feel like he was missing anything. It would have been pretty awesome if he'd become like an insane, soul-reaping zombie instead. This was fairly mundane.
Bummer.
Ben had turned the news on in the living room when Sam finally found his way to the coffee pot. All three of them were due to clock-in at the Bench in twenty minutes, but Sock still didn't have any pants on. He did have his shoes on, though, so maybe he was just going to work without pants today.
At least that would be interesting. The thought of trudging through another day at the Bench seemed more unbearable than usual. Maybe that's what a soul was for, Sam thought, making your horrible job seem worth the effort. That wasn't a very impressive function for a soul.
On the TV the newscaster was segueing from something about traffic jams to a report about breakfast.
"It's the most important meal of the day," the newscaster said with a serious-looking tilt of the head, "but it could be killing you."
"I could be killing you, you plastic turd," Sam told the television screen. "Why do I let you breathe my oxygen?"
Sock hauled his butt up on the kitchen counter. His boxers had Batman on them, which was pretty cool, but Sam wished he wouldn't put his ass that close to Sam's face while he was eating. He dug his elbow into Sock's thigh.
"Someone's in a grumpy mood today," Sock chided him. "Did you fall out of bed again? I told you, Benji and I don't mind tucking you in at night."
"Yeah, man, we're there for you," Ben said, saluting Sam with his coffee cup.
"I'm not in a bad mood," Sam said, confused.
"Nine out of ten recent studies indicate that breakfast may be the cause of our obesity crisis," declared the newscaster, concern etched into the two remaining muscles in his face that actually moved.
"YOU'RE a crisis!" Sam told the television, and threw the remote at the screen.
Ben and Sock stared.
Sam scratched his neck. He wondered if those looks they were giving him right now would bother him if he still had his soul. Oh, wait, yeah.
"Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you," Sam said, "The Devil took my soul away last night. I guess if I'm acting different, it's a side-effect? He didn't really explain anything, as usual."
Ben's mug slanted too far to the left and coffee dribbled into his lap.
"So… you know," Sam said. "Head's up."
--
The traffic jam the news had been covering, as it turned out, was on the same thruway Sam took to get to the Bench whenever he was running late. Which he was. And not that he really wanted to get to the Bench, but being stuck in the Prius felt ten times worse right then, stretching out agonizing moment by agonizing moment, making his legs itch and his teeth grind against each other. God he was so bored, he couldn't ever remember being this bored, it was like torture. He wished he could at least see the accident that was turning what should be a five-minute commute into a twenty-minute-long death march; at least then there would be people getting arrested or bleeding or, fuck, anything. He'd even take people arguing about insurance information over this.
"Well," Ben said, "At least we're in a hybrid, right? Like, we're killing the earth a little less."
"Right on, Benji," said Sock, pumping his fist. "There may be like a thousand cars with their engines running all around us, but it only takes one man to make a difference. We can be that one man. Together."
"I wish something would explode," Sam said, digging his fingers into his face. "Because I am going to die of boredom otherwise."
"Um," said Ben.
"Haha, ha, yeah," Sock said nervously. "And then other people would die. Of… not boredom."
Ben shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, Sam, you have to be careful. You have those crazy reaper powers; one day wishing something might make it true."
Sam waved his hands at the dashboard. "I wish my Prius had monster truck wheels!"
Nothing happened.
Sam threw a pointed look at Ben. "Nope, not today," he sighed. "Better luck next time."
Then a miracle happened. Nothing changed in the outside world, but a light clicked on in Sam's brain. He gasped and sat up straight. Sock and Ben got, if possible, even more nervous-looking.
"The grass," Sam said, gesturing.
"Is it… talking to you?" Sock guessed.
"Nobody drives on the grass!" Sam cried, getting more excited. "There's not even a guardrail here, and it's flat all the way up to the turn-off near the Bench! It's genius, I don't know why everyone else isn't doing it!"
"Um, because you're not supposed to?" Ben said, but it was too late, Sam was already pulling out onto grassy barrier between the North- and South-bound lanes. It only took moments for the other drivers on the road to realize what Sam was up to, and by then he was already accelerating.
Then the honking started.
Fortunately the accident, and thus the central knot of the traffic, was a good thirty yards short of their turn-off, because Sam hadn't really thought far enough ahead to reach the point where he would need to cross back through those two lanes of congested traffic he had just swiftly bypassed. And also fortunately, the accident in question was a pretty nasty-looking affair and there weren't enough cops on the scene for any of them to bother doing more than shouting and waving angrily and Sam swerved around their squad cars, spitting up turf and rocks onto the charred remains of a school bus.
"IS THIS ROAD RAGE?" Ben asked over the hundred-car horn chorus Sam was inciting. "IT FEELS LIKE ROAD RAGE, BUT YOU'RE LAUGHING TOO HARD FOR ME TO BELIEVE THAT YOU'RE REALLY ANGRY."
It was good to be alive.
--
Thirty minutes later, it was less good to be alive. The Work Bench's time clock rounded up in sets of fifteen, so being one minute late was as bad as being fourteen, and, in Sam's case, being forty-five-and-a-half minutes late was as bad as being an hour late.
"It's okay, fellas," Ted said bracingly. "You can just work through your break."
"I'll break you," Sam snarled under his breath when Ted turned to leave them, standing among the fruits of a two-pallet shipment of ornamental door-knockers.
"What was that?" Ted asked, swiveling his head around so fast Ben winced in sympathy.
Sam narrowed his eyes. "I said--"
"—Thank you!" Sock blurted. "He said, 'I'll thank you,' Ted." He laughed nervously.
"Yeah, don't you have, like, three inspirational posters about teamwork and manners and all that… good stuff?" Ben chimed in.
For the first time, Sam could clearly see what was going on in Ted's head. Normally Ted's thought-processes were so obscured to Sam by a difference of mindset that Sam actually wondered if Ted had thought-processes, or if he just had a series of syllogistic commands programmed into him by some company-sponsored brainwashing retreat. But now everything was illuminated by the same small light that had flickered on in Sam's brain out on the thruway, and Sam finally understood both what had to happen here and how to make it happen.
He smiled shyly. Ted's stare flickered uncertainly.
"Yeah, I mean," Sam started, rubbing his neck, "I know other managers would really take us to task for that and I appreciate that you're letting us be flexible with our schedules."
He stared at his shoes for effect.
"We should really learn to manage our time better."
Ted clapped his hands in satisfaction. "Good! Exactly! Remember," he pointed at them with both fingers and tilted his head in the same serious way the newscaster had earlier that morning. "You don't learn anything about sea-travel if your parachute is only one color."
"My granddad used to say that," said Ben knowingly.
Ted left.
"Your granddad was senile," Sock replied.
--
Sam hadn't been totally conscious of formulating a plan after talking to Ted, but never the less his plan went into motion in the Bath Fixtures aisle two hours later, while he was standing on the lid of a floorshow toilet to reach the top row of novelty bathroom hooks. The top ones were creepy fingers, crooked in permanent come-hither gestures, and Sam was arranging them to look even creepier, because if you were going to sell tasteless things you might as well go all the way.
"Excuse me," said someone standing behind Sam, just to the left of the padded toilet seat display. Craning his neck around without letting go of the bath hooks, he could just make out the brow of a man in his mid-forties, his balding head reflecting the fluorescent lights. Sam turned fully around to get a better look, intrigued by this opportunity to not be so bored it felt like his brain was trying to escape from his head.
"Can I help you, sir?" he said, and crossed his fingers behind his back. Please be something involving explosions or driving the forklift, he thought fervently.
"Yes, yes you can," said a small woman, skittering in mysteriously from the direction of the fancy shower curtains display and taking the man's arm in hers. "We were just looking at ceiling fans, and we think we're ready to make our final decision but we'd like some assistance." She cocked her head and smiled, saying with her body language, if you'll just follow me and listen to me remake my decision eight times for twenty minutes and pretend to give a crap about ceiling fans?
Why did they even have a ceiling fan aisle? Who bought ceiling fans anymore? Off the top of his head Sam could think of at least four things to do with the middle of your ceiling that were less of a waste than ceiling fans. Creepy marionette display, large disorienting mirror, meat hanger, disco ball. Bam! Why were people so boring.
He smiled weakly and glanced up at the security cameras Ted had made him install. They fed into a monitor in the security booth, but no one went into the security booth unless the store had reason to believe someone was actively trying to sneak a hot tub or lawnmower out of the store. He glanced back at the couple and tossed out his best apologetic grimace.
"I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to move from this spot." He gestured vaguely at the toilet lid he was still standing on. He liked it, it made him feel tall.
The woman gave him a small, disbelieving shake of her head. "It'll only take a moment! No one will even know."
The man gave him a big, cheery wink. "We won't tell if you don't." That was almost skeevy enough to convince Sam to follow them and keep making child abduction jokes until they got uncomfortable and left, but not quite.
Sam made another show of warily eyeing the security cameras, in case Mr. and Mrs. Obsolete Home Décor hadn't picked up on that the first time. They looked confused. He decided to be generous and help. "The cameras," he clarified, leaning in cautiously. "They watch us always."
Mrs. Obsolete Home Décor bobbed her head back disbelievingly again, like an agitated chicken. Suddenly this was way more fun than orchestrating disturbing bath hardware displays.
"One time my manager told me to stay with the designer-brand citronella candles, and when I left to use the bathroom he was furious," he elaborated. "The next day he made me spend a whole ten-hour shift with it, and I passed out from the fumes. Fell face-first into the Astroturf on our camping supplies display. I'm not allowed to take breaks anymore." Sam spread out his hands in supplication. "But you don't hear me complaining. I've got it easy. But most of the others here are migrant workers, and I worry about them. The manager locks them in the garden supply shed at night to keep them from trying to leave before they've repaid their debts to the coyote that brought them here."
Mr. Obsolete had hunched his shoulders all of the way forward, leaning towards Sam in conspiracy. Mrs. Obsolete's head had frozen at an improbable angle at some point during her chicken-head-bobbing.
Sam pointed at Ben, who was arranging plastic flamingos in a fan around a circle of garden gnomes. "My friend Benji escaped brutal political oppression in… um, Guatemala. He sends every penny he earns to the orphans he grew up with, but he hasn't set foot off Work Bench property in nearly two years and sometimes at night he cries for the loss of his beautiful homeland."
Mrs. Obsolete had her hand pressed against her mouth. Sam went in for his punch line.
"And my friend Sock? He's been working here since this store was a Home Depot, back in '91. His mother wanted to send him to America to escape Communism in the Soviet, but the people she paid to transport him to safety sold him to the management for fifteen American dollars, and he's been here ever since." Sam nodded tragically. "He knows no life but the life of home supply retail."
"How does no one know about this?" Mrs. Obsolete asked, every line of her body language speaking to complete and utter dismay and total, unshakeable faith in a sales associate she had just met.
"They do," Sam intoned, glancing once again at the cameras. "But no one wants to admit there's a problem. Without us, Seattle's economic structure would fail. Where do you think coffee house baristas come from?" He shook his head. "I've already said too much. If Ted sees me talking to you for this long, he'll get suspicious again. I'm sorry I can't help you with your…" Sam had to reach far, far back into his memory. "… ceiling fan."
On their way out of the store, Mrs. Obsolete Home Décor stopped next to Ben (now angling lawn jockeys symmetrically), rifled through her purse, and, holding back tears, handed him a crisp fifty. Then she and Mr. Obsolete hurried out through the automatic doors.
Ben turned to stare incredulously at Sam. Then he stared back down at the bill in his hand. The plastic flamingoes all collapsed simultaneously.
Sock crawled out of a hot tub on Sam's right.
"That was amazing!" he marveled. "Oh man, Sam, I am so sorry I thought you were possessed by an evil spirit before in the car," he said, wrapping his arms around Sam's waist. "It's like you're the best friend I always wanted now, instead of the best friend I made do with because I was scared I would break you by accident!"
Sam raised an eyebrow. If he'd still had his soul that might have offended him, but now it was kind of funny.
"What did you do?" Ben asked, still holding the bill in his hand. "You didn't promise them I'd do something, did you? Is this gonna be like that time I had to dig holes in some lady's yard for three days? I don't think I can handle it if both my best friends are Socks now."
"You don't have to do anything, Ben," Sam reassured him. "That's money for all those orphans you grew up with in Guatemala."
"Sam here just pulled the conniest con ever in Work Bench history!" Sock crowed. "I couldn't have gotten two sentences into that load of crap before they woulda' called the cops on me, but they totally bought it!"
"It wasn't a con," Sam corrected, fists on his hips, eyeing the two of them from his vantage point. "It was the beginning of revolution."
Sock cocked his head. Ben looked worried.
"Things," Sam said with a smile, "are going to change."
--
Unfortunately for Sam, the next step on the road to change was in Ted's hands, and until Ted figured that out Sam was stuck amusing himself.
… Actually, this was mostly okay by Sam now that he had figured out how to amuse himself, but Ted would be regretting it later, particularly when he went to investigate why the sprinkler system in the Garden Center wasn't turning on and off automatically anymore. Sam had already greased every doorknob in the store, got every television in the Media Center to pick up Pay Per View and strategically hidden Ben's garden gnomes in dark, secluded corners. It was like the whole world was an amazing playground of opportunity now that he no longer had a soul to worry about, although for the life of him Sam couldn't quite place his finger on why there would be such a differ—whoa there was a hand in his face.
Sam pulled his head back in surprise. The hand belonged to Andi. She was looking at him oddly.
"Was this you?" she asked in disbelief.
Sam re-examined the palm of her hand. It was smeared with dark, greasy oil.
"Only if it got that way after you tried to turn a doorknob. If you just woke up like that I can't help you." Sam paused. "I forget, is that one of the things that's supposed to happen if you masturbate too much? Or was that just hair?"
Andi frowned at him, but it was still mostly a confused, half-smiling type of frown, and Sam could work with that. "I can't get it off," she said.
"I guess that would be a motivation to keep trying, but I don't want you to go blind, too," Sam replied.
"Sam!" she laughed, which was better, although the frown was still there. "Seriously, what brand did you use? I don't want to just try pouring paint thinners on my skin, you know?"
Sam shrugged. "I kind of mixed them all together. I also coated the ramp on the loading dock, before I leave I'm going to set it on fire and see what happens."
Andi stared. The laughter/frowning ratio had swung sharply against Sam's favor.
"Um," Sam said, and tried to think of a way to fix this. He grabbed her palm and sprinkled some of his glitter on her grease stain. "There! Now your hand's still dirty, but it's got sparkles on it. Who doesn't like sparkles, right?"
Still staring.
"Now when you high-five people, you spread the sparkle love!" Sam said, spreading his arms. "Nobody really high-fives anymore, but this could be your chance to bring it back, Andi!"
"Why… do you have glitter?" she asked, looking at him with something akin to calculation.
Sam gestured at the Garden Center's sprinkler system, which he had been pouring glitter into. "Spreading the sparkle love. I think Ted would look good covered in glitter, don't you?"
"Sam," she said slowly, "Ben said he thought you might be sick. And Sock said he thinks you might have 'amazing super powers' now. What's going on?"
Sam tried to think of a lie that wouldn't upset her, because he was pretty sure I have no soul would reduce his chances of getting laid to nil, and possibly encourage her call the cops on him, or the psych ward. "I… uh, attained enlightenment the other day," he tried. "Now my consciousness exists on a higher plane, unaffected by trivial concerns?" This was good, especially because it was kind of true, but she didn't look like she was buying it. Sam wondered what the difference was between Andi and Mr. & Mrs. Obsolete. Exposure to Sock, probably.
Then the voice of God rescued him.
"SAM OLIVER TO MANAGEMENT," Ted's voice boomed over the store's PA system. "SAM OLIVER TO MANAGEMENT RIGHT NOW."
Sam laughed in relief. Andi was still looking at him weird, but she would probably get over it. "Well, I guess I have to go have a little pow-wow with Ted, now. Here," he handed her the glitter. "Finish my good works."
"He's going to fire you if you're not careful, Sam," Andi called at his retreating back.
"No, he won't," Sam assured her. "Things are going to change!"
--
"Oh Ted," Sam said, leaning through the door of Ted's office. "Hearing your voice is my reason to continue living."
"Shut the door, Oliver," Ted said tightly, gripping the armrests of his swivel chair.
"I thought you'd never ask!" Sam cried, shutting the door and pulling the blinds with a flourish. Ted's face flushed a dull red. He wrapped both hands around his empty Best Boss coffee mug—Sam was pretty sure he had bought that for himself— as if he could simultaneously use it to keep from strangling Sam and use it as a protective shield between them. Sam thought about smashing it over Ted's head and just being done with it, but decided to leave that as a last resort. Instead he sat on the edge of the desk and leaned forward eagerly, surreptitiously knocking over Ted's Motivational Quote of the Day calendar. Ted made a face and compulsively straightened it.
With his free hand he pointed at Sam once again, but this time there was no newscaster head-tilt, just a fierce scowl. "I just received a very interesting phone call, Mr. Oliver. From a local labor and civil rights organization." Ted paused to grit his teeth. "They're threatening to investigate this branch of The Bench. Apparently someone out there thinks we're abusing our employees." Ted cocked his head and gave Sam the crazy eye. Ted did a pretty convincing crazy eye. "Why do I have a feeling you're somehow involved in this?"
"Oh man, Ted," Sam said forcefully. He made a distressed face. "I had no idea this would go this far. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."
Ted's crazyeye turned into a you're crazy? eye.
"I was just talking to some customers while I was helping them, and it came up in conversation that I was working through my break today," Sam said apologetically. "They kept pressing the issue and I wasn't really thinking anything of it. You know how activist types get, they kind of fixate, right?"
Ted made his confused face. "Someone is threatening legal action against us because you're skipping your lunch break?"
"I know, I know!" Sam said. "I mean, I mentioned some other stuff, but it sounds like they really took it, you know, out of context."
"What other stuff?" Ted asked, eyes narrowed.
"Well, it's really none of my business. It's just something that we've all noticed about you, and sometimes it's a little uncomfortable. But that's my damage, right? I mean, I'm totally tolerant." Ted blanched. "It just gets a little weird when you, you know, forget yourself."
Ted stared at him. "What are you talking about?"
Sam looked at him sympathetically. "Ted, I know about Eagle Scouts."
Ted gasped. "Bobby said he'd never tell anyone about that!" Sam had been shooting in the dark there, but apparently not having a soul gave him metaphorical Daredevil powers, like a bat's sonar bouncing off of hidden repression. Sock was right, this was like having amazing super powers.
"And you're kind of, you know, obvious sometimes," Sam said, glancing over his shoulder to check on the door. "I mean, you are my boss, so I guess if you really want…" Sam put his hand on Ted's knee.
Ted's whole face was red again, which was an interesting thing to see. "I can't—employee relations, I—don't want to be inappropriate." His voice cracked on the o in inappropriate. This was too easy.
"It's kind of too late for that, Ted," Sam said. "Everyone's seen how you look at me. Most people already think we're doing it, which has been a little awkward for me, lemme tell you." He smiled sadly for a moment, then stopped and widened his eyes. "I really hope those labor organization people don't talk to anyone who works here. It'd be hard to convince them otherwise after they talked to enough people all telling the same story, right?" Ted's face cycled back to white for a second time. "That'd be pretty embarrassing, huh," Sam said.
"Oh sweet fancy Moses," Ted said, raising his hand to his face.
"But I mean, hey," Sam offered, "It's my word that really counts, right? So as long as I say nothing happened, there's not much they can do."
Ted didn't seem to really be listening anymore. Both of his hands were pressed to his face and he was staring at his Motivational Calendar with a look of dull terror. "I'll be ruined," he whispered. "All of my hopes and dreams, crushed."
"… Yeah," said Sam.
"If something like this gets out, I'll never rise above managerial position."
Sam had no real idea what was above being the manager at the Work Bench, but whatever. "It would be a tragic loss for the entire organization," he agreed.
Ted focused on Sam again. "This has to stay between us, okay, Sam?"
Sam made an uncertain face. "Are you still gonna be all, you know?"
Ted had never actually been all, you know, not really, but Ted obviously didn't know that, because he quickly pulled back the hand that had been resting on the desk next to Sam's thigh and looked guilty. So guilty Sam idly wondered if Ted actually had been hitting on him and he just hadn't noticed. "No," Ted said quickly. "There will be none of that. I just have to, ah. Well, I'll figure something out."
"Thanks," Sam said. "Maybe I should just stay out of your way? Except you're kind of always here, and it would suck if I had to cut down on my hours because of, you know."
"No, no," Ted said. "I'll take care of it. You just do what you have to do to be a happy, productive employee. A pride of lions can't change a zebra's stripes without looking at the sun."
Sam smiled. "I'm glad we had this talk, Ted." He slapped Ted on the shoulder. Ted looked uncomfortable. "You're the best boss I've ever had."
Ted looked confused again. "I'm the only boss you've ever had."
"Um," said Sam. "Right."