12 Office Disgrace

I get back to my cubicle — eventually — and start moving numbers around on my spreadsheet.

And, like every cubicle monkey before me, my brain begins to wander.

If no one leaves and no one needs to sleep, who put food in the refrigerator? Does anyone actually need to eat? Or is it just part of the simulation? How about the coffee? Would the machine actually work?

…Is this a simulation? Or did the algorithm somehow tap into some kind of weird alternate dimension? Is there any difference, functionally?

The fridge had pizza ads on it. What if I actually tried to call one of those numbers? Ordered a delivery? Would it have ever come? Would the delivery person just magically appear?

Something makes my forehead twinge. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and squeeze the bridge of my nose.

Data, data, data. I'm trying to make bricks without cl—

A notification pops up. Outlook says I have an email.

…The bossman wants to see me.

Well, crap.

And the twinge in my forehead gets a little worse.

I stop outside the boss's office. I'd say I'm stalling, but I don't have anything to stall with.

Besides making sure my tie is straight. Which takes a whole five seconds.

I hate getting called on the carpet.

For various complicated reasons, which I should probably discuss with a therapist.

…I wonder if this job has health insurance?

I read - past tense - a lot of Dilbert, so I got the impression that your average boss's office is set up to impress. Mostly, it's to impress the peons who he or she deigns to grant an audience too.

And maybe other managers or superiors or guests, with carefully picked indications of personality. Like Harvey's office on Suits, with the basketballs.

Does the boss have…?

I low-key check the shelves as I walk in.

Yep. Golf trophy.

This ain't my first rodeo, by the way. I've been called on the carpet before. Mostly at home, sometimes at school or work.

Though when your uncle is the Dean of your high school, there's not much difference.-

There's this power move. The subject has to stand, while the disciplining superior gets to sit. Of course, the boss can invite the subject to take a seat, offer a mint, to put them at ease.

Which may make the subject even more upset, if the boss doesn't usually do that.

Once, my cousin was in trouble, and my aunt and uncle called him to account in their bedroom. They were on the bed and a chair.

So he sat on the floor.

Just to mess with 'em.

Like Harvey, the boss has a corner office, except his has a lovely view of the grey nothing outside.

I walk up to his desk, and stand behind the two chairs in parade rest, which is about the sum total of what I learned from the Cub Scouts. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

He looks up from his desk. "Ah, Floyd." He waves a hand at the chairs. "Sit anywhere you like."

The nameplate…is the same unreadable text from the elevator.

I take the chair on the right, sit up straight, put my hands in my lap, and try not to cringe. The boss looks at me for a few seconds, fingers steepled.

If I had the ring, I'd be able to read his emotions. Sadie's even been working on microexpressions. So I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way.

I sit forward, and try on my best Eager Subordinate Smile for size. Bossman smiles right back. Seems…patronizing? Uncomfortable?

Maybe I'm imagining it.

Maybe not.

And he starts talking.

And I immediately tune out.

Over the years, I've gotten really good at listening without listening. It's easier with Sadie, but I'm no slouch.

Even with all the sleep I haven't been getting lately.

I stay locked on to his eyes. Eye. There's this old trick where you look someone in the eyebrow. Not so obvious on a normal person.

But something tells me he'd definitely notice.

He says he's been checking my metrics lately, and he's not satisfied with my production rate. He understands that new employees require an adjustment period, but, frankly, I need to shape up.

I've heard it before.

Like I said.

Not my first rodeo.

When I'm not looking him the eye, I'm looking at the paperwork on his desk. And his fancy pen. Looks like one of those executive pens that costs as much as a small moped, or this year's Jordans.

Except the clip shape makes my teeth itch. Kind of like the elevator.

...Something's off.

And it's not just the pen.

It's not just the fact that I've been in this situation. Why does this feel so—

The Matrix.

There was that scene in The Matrix where Neo ends up standing...here, right here, while the boss dresses Neo down for being late. Good foreshadowing.

I peek at the window. No window cleaners. Nothing but grey blahness.

Mr Anderson, you have a choice. You can either be here, at your desk, on time, from this day forth...or you can find another job. Are we clear?

"Are we clear, Mister Clapton?"

I nod, on spinal reflex. "Yes, sir."

He gives me a Look. I try to look him in the eye. There's an old trick if you have issues with eye contact; look them in the eyebrow. Most people can't tell the difference.

With the size of his eyes, I don't want to take the risk.

And if he doesn't decide to give me a "describe X in your own words" pop-quiz—

He leans back a little, reaches into his top right drawer, pulls out two pieces of paper, and puts them on his blotter. Then he makes sure they're properly parallel and lined up.

My eye twitches. Get on with it!

He looks up at me. "Do you know what these are?"

I put a curious look on my face, and lean over.

Still can't understand the language, but I recognize company headers and blank, underlined spaces when I see them.

I also recognize the space at the bottom, with...the boss's signature?

I say, "They're…forms?"

"They are, in fact, forms." He taps the signed one. "This form is to release you."

Interesting choice of euphemism.

"You are on probation, Mister Clapton. You are dancing on a knife's edge. And my patience. And this one—"

Tap, tap.

"—is for a lateral move. A transfer, to some other department. Where you will become someone else's problem."

He picks up the pen, and taps the tip on the form. Nice dramatic touch.

"…Am I clear?"

I smile. "As crystal."

"Good. Wouldn't want to send you for a chat with HR."

I stand up - not too fast, don't want to look desperate - and head for the door.

And pause in the doorway, with one hand on the frame.

Boss ain't the only one with drama senses.

"Sir?"

He looks up. "Yes?"

"I was just having a word with Mel."

Is that fear in his eyes?

I go, "Do you happen to have the form for mailing large items?"

"Y-yes." He nods jerkily, like there's a hitch in some gear, someplace. He reaches down, touches the…second drawer on his left? I'm not sure if he realizes he did it.

"Got a good supply?"

"Yes. Yes I do."

I smile at him. "Good! Just checking."

He doesn't know it yet, but he just gave me the last piece in my brilliant plan.

To get fired.

Once, when I was a wee bairn, Daddy bought home some Wendy's. It was cold by the time he arrived, and I tried to heat it up in the microwave.

In the wrapper.

This is a bad idea, even if the wrapper isn't foil.

I saw one flash from the microwave, and lunged for the stop button.

There was a faint burned smell in the microwave, but the sandwich was fine.

By coincidence, I had just read a blurb in some kids magazine about how metal in microwaves causes arcs, so I very seriously explained to my parents what had happened. The microwave itself seemed fine too.

And ever since then, I've been really, really careful about putting foil in microwaves.

Like the one in the break room.

But first, I go to see Marci.

I find Marci's cubicle. Eventually. Looks a lot like mine. I take a second to watch her type, until she stops. Smiles a little.

"See anything you like?"

"The mug's nice."

She looks at the WORLD'S BEST EMPLOYEE mug with her pens and pencils in, and then she looks at me. "What's up?"

"Pop quiz; have you ever seen anyone get fired?"

She narrows her eyes. She's not looking at me anymore, she's looking past me. "N…No. Just one person. Went to have a chat with HR. And they never came back. I walked past the desk one day, and it was empty."

...Well, crap.

My mouth says, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you a tech specialist, instead of a normal coder? You could be a CTO. Forbes 30 under 30."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Well, okay, one." She holds up her index finger. "Have you seen the housing market in the Valley?"

…She's got a point. "Heh."

She holds up her middle finger. "Two, I did. For a while. This?" She draws an imaginary circle with her fingers. "Just kind of…happened."

I stare at her for a few seconds. Then I nod. "Yeah. Lotta 'just happened' going around."

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm just curious." I look around. No heads peeking over the cubicle walls. The hive is quiet. My mouth says, "How did you figure out what to do here?"

"I didn't. I asked for help."

"You asked for…?"

I don't know what she sees on my face, but she smiles. "The people here are nice, if you talk to them."

If I—

"...Did you ever really try?"

Um—

She lowers her voice, scootches a little closer. "So you have a plan?"

What?

"If you have a plan, what is it?"

"Um-"

"Is it dangerous?"

Just answer her, you idiot.

"Um…maybe?"

"Hm." She looks at me for a few more seconds, and drops her voice even more. "And you don't want me to get hurt?"

My throat's a pinprick. I'm not sure why. I swallow. Swallow again.

"Look, I get it." She reaches out, squeezes my hand. "You messed up. Someone got hurt. You're human. Congratulations."

I look around - no one's watching - and whisper, "L-Look. I think I have a plan."

Her eyes light up, and she barely remembers not to shout. "Really?"

"Really."

"It…it's stupid. It could be dangerous. I could go al-"

She reaches out, and squeezes my hand like she's on her fourth hour of labour. "No."

"No?"

"No. You can't leave me—" She looks down for a second. "Please."

I— "All right."

"Good. Good." She looks down, blinks, lets go of my hand. "What do I do?"

…This is probably a bad time for jokes, but I can't resist.

"You? You've got Mail."