The Office Oracle by Dean Opseth
A new vending machine dispenses advice that changes the atmosphere in Nick's office.
Cheese crackers, that was my thing. I braved the break room back in the day - the pushing, the crowding - just to claim a place in the vending machine line, waiting for my turn with the stainless steel god. Secret fact: never cared for the taste. Cheddar dust on a communion wafer. I was in it for the receipts. An advice junkie. Still got a stack in my desk drawer, folded soft at the corners like an old Bible. I didn't realize how out of control I was - how much of it wasn't even my idea - until I became something else.
For years, the break room at Alignment Solutions Group wasn't a hotbed of vending machine commerce or life-altering wisdom. Just a break room: coffee machine, buzzing refrigerator, the tired smell of old food and boredom. I used to hang out back there when my crush was nuking her lunch. Moira kept her conversations short, like she was always editing them in her head. Efficient. Precise. You never got a second sentence unless you earned it. Someday I would get my chance.
We had a vending machine back then too: The Snack-O-Matic - a culinary relic from the previous century, something you might see at the Smithsonian, right next to an Edsel or cotton gin. It kept its opinions to itself. No receipts, no change, no thank you. We had no clue everything was about to change.
"Right there by the sink." Nicolas Wolfe, my floor manager, pointed to a dusty corner where the Snack-O-Matic had stood before it was kidnapped in the night. Two men in overalls - guys I'd seen working down in the parking garage - rolled a huge, shiny machine into the room.
"Used to be on the third floor," one of them announced.
"That's some promotion," the other said.
They laughed and settled the replacement into place.
"Watch yourself. It bites," the first guy added with a smirk.
Nick stood in front of the IntelliSnack Pro3000, hands on his hips.
"This floor is really going places," he said to the whole room, somehow ignoring me at the same time. Then he called into the hallway, "Hey, Moira, check this out!"
I started to say something, but he cut me off. "Enough, Hensley." Nick took a deep breath. "That's the smell of advancement."
Advancement. The word stayed with me longer than it should have.
Then a call pulled him from the room.
Standing alone with the IntelliSnack Pro3000 for the first time, I felt a flicker of intimidation. It smelled like a new car, but stronger - chemical, intentional, like something trying to convince you it was clean. It caught the fluorescent light at odd angles, a shimmering junk food beacon. It stood there predatory, waiting. At six and a half feet tall, with a sharp metallic chassis, blinking LEDs, and a sexy screen, it was easily the best-dressed worker in the office.
Moira walked into the room with an empty mug and jumped when she saw the machine.
"Christ, that thing's ugly," she said, pushing her glasses back up.
"Advancement." I stepped toward her. "Looks like we're going places." She rolled her eyes. "You sound like Nick." Then she flitted away, like a sparrow from a windowsill.
I cursed under my breath. "What am I doing wrong?"
The IntelliSnack blinked at me - a quick, flashy pattern. No explanations, no witnesses.
I approached the dispenser cautiously and shrugged.
A dollar sign appeared on the LCD screen.
One swipe later, I had a pack of cheese crackers in my hand.
Then the receipt printed out:
LET HER FALL.
BE SEEN HELPING HER UP.
The words were so specific, so directed. A little calculating, maybe. A fortune cookie tailored to this exact moment. It wasn't kindness, exactly. It was strategy. But if it took strategy to get close to her, I could live with that. I folded the slip into my pocket and went back to my desk.
After lunch, when our floor had settled into a sluggish afternoon drone, the custodian came through to empty the wastebaskets and vacuum around the plants. I sat low in my chair, scrolling through old accounts, chewing on a pencil, watching the clock.
Moira stood up with a stack of folders. I quietly tracked her path across the room as she turned down my aisle, headed for Nick's office, unaware of an electrical cord stretched across her route. The setup was too perfect, too obvious. Was the IntelliSnack omniscient?
I could have warned her.
But I didn't.
Moira wandered into the trap right on cue, stumbling over the cord with a heavy lurch forward. As I jumped up to her rescue, she staggered a few steps, balancing her folders like a circus act. I met her face to face in the aisle, hands on her shoulders, steadying something that had already righted itself.
The room held its breath.
Her eyes widened.
I froze, hands still on her, as a single ballpoint pen rolled off the stack in slow motion and dropped on her foot. As the heat rushed to my face, I realized my hands were gripping a female coworker - no consent, no reason, no HR approval.
We locked eyes.
Moira was not happy.
She pulled back, eyes narrowing. "You certainly got here fast."
Across the aisle, a few women stared me down.
I released the indignant damsel from my clutches with nothing to say for myself but, "Glad to be of service."
She walked around me and snapped over her shoulder. "Just let me fall next time."
At 4:45, the message came through:
A dollop of discipline on top of my heaping plate of humiliation. Fifteen minutes before freedom, I made the walk, braving sideways glances and slitted stares, past office mates whispering at their desks at the end of the day.
Nick was on his phone when I entered. He waved me to a seat, talking energetically to upper management, emphasizing key words like synergy, transformation, kombucha.
A University of Phoenix diploma hung proudly on the wall. Through the narrow window, the words STILL STUCK? peeked from a half-obscured billboard.
Nick hung up and rubbed his overgrown five o'clock shadow.
"They're restructuring upstairs," he said, loosening his tie. "Creating a new role - Director of Optimization." He moved to his keypad and spoke casually. "Hensley, I got an email from HR. Something about inappropriate physical contact." Scrolling down his screen, Nick clicked his tongue. "Anything to say for yourself?"
"I don't know what happened." I forced a dry cough. "One minute she tripped. The next minute she was in my arms."
He nodded his head in unconvinced agreement. "You're ready for action. I can appreciate that."
"Just fast on my feet, I guess."
Nick stood and closed the blinds facing the outer office. "Hensley, are you interested in Moira?"
My shoulders tightened. "C'mon, it was an accident."
He sat, pointed at me with a sterling silver pen. "A word of advice." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "This girl is very clingy."
Then, raising his eyebrows, "Believe me... I know from experience."
I slouched in my seat like a fifth grader in the principal's office, reeking of guilt with nothing but stuttering excuses.
Once the floor settled into its rhythm the following morning, I slipped into the break room for a one-on-one with the IntelliSnack. The previous advice had failed me, or maybe the other way around, but I didn't want to give up on the process.
I wasn't alone.
Turning into the room, I found several co-workers - people I'd never seen this animated before - had beaten me to the punch. Four of them stood around the space, laughing and comparing notes.
"Mine says IDENTIFY WEAKNESS AND USE IT." Humberto held his receipt up. "Don't even know what that means."
"Oh, yeah?" One of the new guys read his: "ATTENTION IS CURRENCY. EXTRACT VALUE." He laughed.
A woman I didn't recognize took a bite of a Twix. "The crazy part is - it's right."
No one disagreed.
I edged past them and took my place before the altar. While they carried on behind me, I swiped my card and whispered a secret prayer. "How can I make Moira want me?"
A flash of the lights and one cheese cracker later, the answer came:
FOLLOW THE LEADER,
THEN REAP THE REWARDS.
That would be Nick. She followed him around like a desperate schoolgirl. Remodeling myself into Nicholas Wolfe would take work. Spiritual, possibly surgical. As I stood there in deep thought, someone leaned over my shoulder:
"Hey, what'd you get?"
I gripped the paper to my chest. "Nothing." I sidestepped their enthusiasm toward the doorway. "Said to call my mother." A grotesque laugh escaped me. "Silly, right?"
They waited for me to join in.
But I slipped back out to my desk.
I committed fully to the role of a lifetime and woke up early the following morning. Standing in front of the mirror, I shaved my neck and left the rest - a stubbly hipster beard just like Nick, only without the square jawline. I didn't own a silk suit, but I could simulate Nick by loosening my tie for that casual authority he wore so easily. Leather shoes with no socks - a little squishy at first, but manageable. I blocked out the thought of athlete's foot.
I practiced his posture until it felt natural.
Until mine didn't.
The meeting room was bustling and overcrowded with people spilling from the big table, lining the walls, notebooks out like hymnals, phones silenced. Half the floor had crammed in: research, accounting, even Moira. Nick sat near the head.
An assistant exec from upstairs - a little bigwig, more toupee than man - clicked through a PowerPoint on profitability and margins - a team huddle to prepare for the third quarter earnings report. I stood against the side wall, studying Nick, Moira sitting one chair to his left, freshly made up and fawning over her handsome mentor.
The slide show bumped along with bar graphs and timetables and interest rate predictions, but it felt identical to the last quarter. Gary Shepherd spoke at length about maximizing profits and mitigating risk:
"What we're really looking for at Alignment Solutions Group is optimization at the behavioral level."
Nick sat relaxed, attentive, fingers thoughtfully caressing his cleft chin. I mirrored him, only the standing version, my elbow fighting gravity. His hair had an almost imperceptible sheen of product, his beard cut perfectly short like a freshly mowed lawn.
At the far end of the table, Dave, an employee two years my junior, also caressed his stubbly chin with thumb and forefinger. His maroon tie hung loose around his neck, like Nick's but sloppier, brazen. A little too much if you ask me - like his shirt might fly off his body at any moment. A coincidence? No, a conspiracy.
Gary showed us the numbers, then asked the room for feedback.
Nick spoke first, of course. He cleared his throat and leaned casually on his elbow, posing for a Fortune 500 cover:
"Margins are tight. We need to stay disciplined on efficiency without slowing output."
The room absorbed it.
I looked around and took my chance:
"Right - efficiency without slowing movement."
It sounded thinner coming out of me - like a photocopy, but no one seemed to notice.
Then Dave butted in. "Yeah - best if we keep things moving."
I did a double take.
Then another voice spoke out, Nora standing on the other side of the room. "Movement is... efficiency." She leaned boldly against the wall on one elbow, her tie loose around her neck. In the far corner, her face was clearly shadowed - face paint, Rogaine, or something.
Several heads nodded in unison as if something had been decided.
I huffed, scanning the room. No one seemed to notice this mockery, that is except Moira. She wrinkled her face like some outrageous smell had drifted into the room. Muttering the words, "Goddamn parrots" under her breath, she gave me a sharp look, then settled back down to company business.
Gary powered the projector down, still talking as he packed his bag. He encouraged us all to take ownership of the company, to devise methods to improve the workflow.
"Personal initiative leads to advancement." He stood up, displaying himself as an example. "Anyone have any ideas?"
We all turned to Nick. He paused, then opened his arms.
"We need more visibility into what's actually happening."
I jumped right in. "Right - visibility gives us insight."
Dave opened his hands out, a little too wide. "And insight increases visibility."
Of course, the bearded lady had to get her last word in. "Yeah, when things are visible, we can see them."
I dared not check if she had any socks on.
Someone was writing it all down. Word for word.
The room suddenly felt very crowded.
Moira sneered at all of us. Everyone stood up from the table, shaking hands and nodding their heads in mirrored agreement. Nick clapped Gary lightly on the shoulder. Dave clapped Nick lightly on the shoulder. Someone clapped me on the shoulder.
"Good meeting."
"Good meeting."
"Good meeting."
I turned towards Moira as she gathered her notebook.
"You know what the creepy part is?" she said quietly.
I stopped.
"None of you sound human anymore."
Then she walked out.
Nobody watched her leave. Not even Nick.
The line was already in the hallway when I got in the next morning.
Two dozen people must have been in there, checking their watches, inching forward to receive their daily blessing. Enlightened devotees squeezed out of the room, eating Oreos and reciting their printed mantras like corporate parishioners.
I grabbed my place in line.
Everyone was buzzing. A woman in front of me turned around as if we were already mid-conversation.
"At first I thought it was about my mother." She spoke with a caffeinated tick. "But it's about patterns."
The woman ahead of her nodded quickly. "It always is."
Someone behind me chimed in. "This thing is gonna replace therapy."
"It already has," another voice said.
The line moved.
A man stepped out of the crowd, tearing open a pack of Oreos.
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For years, the break room at Alignment Solutions Group wasn't a hotbed of vending machine commerce or life-altering wisdom. Just a break room: coffee machine, buzzing refrigerator, the tired smell of old food and boredom. I used to hang out back there when my crush was nuking her lunch. Moira kept her conversations short, like she was always editing them in her head. Efficient. Precise. You never got a second sentence unless you earned it. Someday I would get my chance.
We had a vending machine back then too: The Snack-O-Matic - a culinary relic from the previous century, something you might see at the Smithsonian, right next to an Edsel or cotton gin. It kept its opinions to itself. No receipts, no change, no thank you. We had no clue everything was about to change.
"Right there by the sink." Nicolas Wolfe, my floor manager, pointed to a dusty corner where the Snack-O-Matic had stood before it was kidnapped in the night. Two men in overalls - guys I'd seen working down in the parking garage - rolled a huge, shiny machine into the room.
"Used to be on the third floor," one of them announced.
"That's some promotion," the other said.
They laughed and settled the replacement into place.
"Watch yourself. It bites," the first guy added with a smirk.
Nick stood in front of the IntelliSnack Pro3000, hands on his hips.
"This floor is really going places," he said to the whole room, somehow ignoring me at the same time. Then he called into the hallway, "Hey, Moira, check this out!"
I started to say something, but he cut me off. "Enough, Hensley." Nick took a deep breath. "That's the smell of advancement."
Advancement. The word stayed with me longer than it should have.
Then a call pulled him from the room.
Standing alone with the IntelliSnack Pro3000 for the first time, I felt a flicker of intimidation. It smelled like a new car, but stronger - chemical, intentional, like something trying to convince you it was clean. It caught the fluorescent light at odd angles, a shimmering junk food beacon. It stood there predatory, waiting. At six and a half feet tall, with a sharp metallic chassis, blinking LEDs, and a sexy screen, it was easily the best-dressed worker in the office.
Moira walked into the room with an empty mug and jumped when she saw the machine.
"Christ, that thing's ugly," she said, pushing her glasses back up.
"Advancement." I stepped toward her. "Looks like we're going places." She rolled her eyes. "You sound like Nick." Then she flitted away, like a sparrow from a windowsill.
I cursed under my breath. "What am I doing wrong?"
The IntelliSnack blinked at me - a quick, flashy pattern. No explanations, no witnesses.
I approached the dispenser cautiously and shrugged.
A dollar sign appeared on the LCD screen.
One swipe later, I had a pack of cheese crackers in my hand.
Then the receipt printed out:
LET HER FALL.
BE SEEN HELPING HER UP.
The words were so specific, so directed. A little calculating, maybe. A fortune cookie tailored to this exact moment. It wasn't kindness, exactly. It was strategy. But if it took strategy to get close to her, I could live with that. I folded the slip into my pocket and went back to my desk.
After lunch, when our floor had settled into a sluggish afternoon drone, the custodian came through to empty the wastebaskets and vacuum around the plants. I sat low in my chair, scrolling through old accounts, chewing on a pencil, watching the clock.
Moira stood up with a stack of folders. I quietly tracked her path across the room as she turned down my aisle, headed for Nick's office, unaware of an electrical cord stretched across her route. The setup was too perfect, too obvious. Was the IntelliSnack omniscient?
I could have warned her.
But I didn't.
Moira wandered into the trap right on cue, stumbling over the cord with a heavy lurch forward. As I jumped up to her rescue, she staggered a few steps, balancing her folders like a circus act. I met her face to face in the aisle, hands on her shoulders, steadying something that had already righted itself.
The room held its breath.
Her eyes widened.
I froze, hands still on her, as a single ballpoint pen rolled off the stack in slow motion and dropped on her foot. As the heat rushed to my face, I realized my hands were gripping a female coworker - no consent, no reason, no HR approval.
We locked eyes.
Moira was not happy.
She pulled back, eyes narrowing. "You certainly got here fast."
Across the aisle, a few women stared me down.
I released the indignant damsel from my clutches with nothing to say for myself but, "Glad to be of service."
She walked around me and snapped over her shoulder. "Just let me fall next time."
At 4:45, the message came through:
Hensley
Report to my office before you go home.
- Wolfe
A dollop of discipline on top of my heaping plate of humiliation. Fifteen minutes before freedom, I made the walk, braving sideways glances and slitted stares, past office mates whispering at their desks at the end of the day.
Nick was on his phone when I entered. He waved me to a seat, talking energetically to upper management, emphasizing key words like synergy, transformation, kombucha.
A University of Phoenix diploma hung proudly on the wall. Through the narrow window, the words STILL STUCK? peeked from a half-obscured billboard.
Nick hung up and rubbed his overgrown five o'clock shadow.
"They're restructuring upstairs," he said, loosening his tie. "Creating a new role - Director of Optimization." He moved to his keypad and spoke casually. "Hensley, I got an email from HR. Something about inappropriate physical contact." Scrolling down his screen, Nick clicked his tongue. "Anything to say for yourself?"
"I don't know what happened." I forced a dry cough. "One minute she tripped. The next minute she was in my arms."
He nodded his head in unconvinced agreement. "You're ready for action. I can appreciate that."
"Just fast on my feet, I guess."
Nick stood and closed the blinds facing the outer office. "Hensley, are you interested in Moira?"
My shoulders tightened. "C'mon, it was an accident."
He sat, pointed at me with a sterling silver pen. "A word of advice." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "This girl is very clingy."
Then, raising his eyebrows, "Believe me... I know from experience."
I slouched in my seat like a fifth grader in the principal's office, reeking of guilt with nothing but stuttering excuses.
Once the floor settled into its rhythm the following morning, I slipped into the break room for a one-on-one with the IntelliSnack. The previous advice had failed me, or maybe the other way around, but I didn't want to give up on the process.
I wasn't alone.
Turning into the room, I found several co-workers - people I'd never seen this animated before - had beaten me to the punch. Four of them stood around the space, laughing and comparing notes.
"Mine says IDENTIFY WEAKNESS AND USE IT." Humberto held his receipt up. "Don't even know what that means."
"Oh, yeah?" One of the new guys read his: "ATTENTION IS CURRENCY. EXTRACT VALUE." He laughed.
A woman I didn't recognize took a bite of a Twix. "The crazy part is - it's right."
No one disagreed.
I edged past them and took my place before the altar. While they carried on behind me, I swiped my card and whispered a secret prayer. "How can I make Moira want me?"
A flash of the lights and one cheese cracker later, the answer came:
FOLLOW THE LEADER,
THEN REAP THE REWARDS.
That would be Nick. She followed him around like a desperate schoolgirl. Remodeling myself into Nicholas Wolfe would take work. Spiritual, possibly surgical. As I stood there in deep thought, someone leaned over my shoulder:
"Hey, what'd you get?"
I gripped the paper to my chest. "Nothing." I sidestepped their enthusiasm toward the doorway. "Said to call my mother." A grotesque laugh escaped me. "Silly, right?"
They waited for me to join in.
But I slipped back out to my desk.
I committed fully to the role of a lifetime and woke up early the following morning. Standing in front of the mirror, I shaved my neck and left the rest - a stubbly hipster beard just like Nick, only without the square jawline. I didn't own a silk suit, but I could simulate Nick by loosening my tie for that casual authority he wore so easily. Leather shoes with no socks - a little squishy at first, but manageable. I blocked out the thought of athlete's foot.
I practiced his posture until it felt natural.
Until mine didn't.
The meeting room was bustling and overcrowded with people spilling from the big table, lining the walls, notebooks out like hymnals, phones silenced. Half the floor had crammed in: research, accounting, even Moira. Nick sat near the head.
An assistant exec from upstairs - a little bigwig, more toupee than man - clicked through a PowerPoint on profitability and margins - a team huddle to prepare for the third quarter earnings report. I stood against the side wall, studying Nick, Moira sitting one chair to his left, freshly made up and fawning over her handsome mentor.
The slide show bumped along with bar graphs and timetables and interest rate predictions, but it felt identical to the last quarter. Gary Shepherd spoke at length about maximizing profits and mitigating risk:
"What we're really looking for at Alignment Solutions Group is optimization at the behavioral level."
Nick sat relaxed, attentive, fingers thoughtfully caressing his cleft chin. I mirrored him, only the standing version, my elbow fighting gravity. His hair had an almost imperceptible sheen of product, his beard cut perfectly short like a freshly mowed lawn.
At the far end of the table, Dave, an employee two years my junior, also caressed his stubbly chin with thumb and forefinger. His maroon tie hung loose around his neck, like Nick's but sloppier, brazen. A little too much if you ask me - like his shirt might fly off his body at any moment. A coincidence? No, a conspiracy.
Gary showed us the numbers, then asked the room for feedback.
Nick spoke first, of course. He cleared his throat and leaned casually on his elbow, posing for a Fortune 500 cover:
"Margins are tight. We need to stay disciplined on efficiency without slowing output."
The room absorbed it.
I looked around and took my chance:
"Right - efficiency without slowing movement."
It sounded thinner coming out of me - like a photocopy, but no one seemed to notice.
Then Dave butted in. "Yeah - best if we keep things moving."
I did a double take.
Then another voice spoke out, Nora standing on the other side of the room. "Movement is... efficiency." She leaned boldly against the wall on one elbow, her tie loose around her neck. In the far corner, her face was clearly shadowed - face paint, Rogaine, or something.
Several heads nodded in unison as if something had been decided.
I huffed, scanning the room. No one seemed to notice this mockery, that is except Moira. She wrinkled her face like some outrageous smell had drifted into the room. Muttering the words, "Goddamn parrots" under her breath, she gave me a sharp look, then settled back down to company business.
Gary powered the projector down, still talking as he packed his bag. He encouraged us all to take ownership of the company, to devise methods to improve the workflow.
"Personal initiative leads to advancement." He stood up, displaying himself as an example. "Anyone have any ideas?"
We all turned to Nick. He paused, then opened his arms.
"We need more visibility into what's actually happening."
I jumped right in. "Right - visibility gives us insight."
Dave opened his hands out, a little too wide. "And insight increases visibility."
Of course, the bearded lady had to get her last word in. "Yeah, when things are visible, we can see them."
I dared not check if she had any socks on.
Someone was writing it all down. Word for word.
The room suddenly felt very crowded.
Moira sneered at all of us. Everyone stood up from the table, shaking hands and nodding their heads in mirrored agreement. Nick clapped Gary lightly on the shoulder. Dave clapped Nick lightly on the shoulder. Someone clapped me on the shoulder.
"Good meeting."
"Good meeting."
"Good meeting."
I turned towards Moira as she gathered her notebook.
"You know what the creepy part is?" she said quietly.
I stopped.
"None of you sound human anymore."
Then she walked out.
Nobody watched her leave. Not even Nick.
The line was already in the hallway when I got in the next morning.
Two dozen people must have been in there, checking their watches, inching forward to receive their daily blessing. Enlightened devotees squeezed out of the room, eating Oreos and reciting their printed mantras like corporate parishioners.
I grabbed my place in line.
Everyone was buzzing. A woman in front of me turned around as if we were already mid-conversation.
"At first I thought it was about my mother." She spoke with a caffeinated tick. "But it's about patterns."
The woman ahead of her nodded quickly. "It always is."
Someone behind me chimed in. "This thing is gonna replace therapy."
"It already has," another voice said.
The line moved.
A man stepped out of the crowd, tearing open a pack of Oreos.
"MIRROR THEM. REPLACE THEM," he read while he chewed.
Behind him, a woman followed, already scanning her slip.
"REMOVE FRICTION. REMOVE RESISTANCE."
She smiled to no one in particular.
The line crept forward.
The machine stood tall in the room - emotionless, capable - dispensing wisdom to the starving congregation. I was suddenly privy to a side of my coworkers I had never known before. When it was my turn, I didn't hesitate.
Swipe.
Crackers.
Receipt.
I stepped out before anyone could see.
The water cooler was empty. I opened the paper.
KEEP THINGS MOVING.
SHE WILL COMPLY.
I let the words sink in. How could I keep things moving?
A hand landed on my shoulder.
"Yo, Hensley, you're here early." Nick was freshly showered after his workout downstairs. He gave my tie a small tug. "Looking sharp. Finally getting with the program?"
"Oh... yeah." I put a hand on my hip and leaned against the cooler. It bubbled. "Just finding my groove."
Nick lowered his voice. "You know, some of us are going out for Korean barbecue tonight with Shepherd." He moved in closer. "Might be a good chance for you to connect with the top floor."
My mouth strained for the correct response. All that came out was, "Groovy."
He shrugged it off. "I don't know. Someone's going to have to take my place when I move up."
I took a step back.
His eyebrows lifted, just slightly. "Moira will be there."
That was all the convincing I needed.
I spent extra time in my bathroom experimenting with hair gel while a video of Korean barbecue terms played - pronunciations, cuts of meat, ordering etiquette. After practicing Nick's gait in front of a full-length mirror, I finally arrived at Jincook Steakhouse fifteen minutes late. Luckily, our party of seven still hadn't been seated.
Keep things moving was my mantra tonight.
I sauntered past the gang and slipped right in front of the hostess stand.
"Honey, can you please get us our table now?" I slid a folded twenty her way.
Turning around, I was greeted by Nick's approving nod. "Hensley, have you met Gary Shepherd?"
As we shook hands, he looked up at my hair.
I made the rounds - Humberto, Lily, and Imani. Imani and I had clashed before, and tonight she was draped over Moira, whispering and cuddling in close. This would take some light footwork.
When the hostess walked us to a table, I stepped in.
"This one's a little tight." I pointed to a booth by the window. "We'll be more comfortable over there."
No one objected. I even managed to arrange the seating - Gary at the head, Nick beside him, Moira within reach. I placed Imani across from me, far enough from my crush.
When Junho, our waiter, showed up with pickled appetizers, no one was ready. Nick and Gary were locked in conversation. The others squinted at their menus, so I spoke for the table.
"Junho, we'll start with galbi and bulgogi. Kimchi stew on the side." I pointed down the line. "Cass for everyone?"
Humberto hesitated.
"You prefer Kirin?"
He nodded.
While waiting for the meat to show up, our table found its rhythm. Nick and Gary stayed sealed off in their own conversation. Moira leaned toward them, waiting for an opening that never came. Lily, Humberto, and Imani traded stories about the machine - how it had changed things around the office.
I took my chance. "You like Korean food?"
Moira turned, expression flat. "We've been here before."
I leaned on one elbow. "It's my first time."
"What a natural."
She turned to her boss, hovered a minute or two for an opening, and then spun back to me with a measured smile on her face.
"I like the new look," she said. "The confidence."
Her eyes flicked past me - to Nick. Then back.
"You always seem to know what to do."
A kick hit my shin under the table.
I didn't look down.
"Some of the girls have been talking about you," she added.
"Good things?"
She put her arm around my chair. "They think you're... cute."
Another kick. Harder.
I shifted my leg.
When Junho arrived with our food, Nick paused just long enough to take his plate. He gave me a nod to move things forward, so I put some meat on the grill and reached for the bowls.
"Who wants stew?"
Everybody got a bowl. Everybody took a bite. Everybody liked it.
Across the table, Humberto sat a little straighter.
"Ever since I started dressing the part," he said, "people treat me differently."
"Like what?" Lily asked.
"Like I'm already there."
"Go with the flow," she said. "You'll swim with the big fish."
Moira turned sharply. "But now you look like everyone else."
The table paused, just for a second.
She looked at me again. Not playful this time. "Hensley, you weren't like this." She yanked my tie. "What happened?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just focused."
"Focused on what?"
I flipped a strip of meat. "Moving forward."
She let out a short breath. "That's what I mean." Her voice sharpened. "None of you are actually saying anything."
No one responded.
She scanned the table. "It's the same sentence over and over."
Moira tapped Nick's shoulder. He gave her half an eye.
"This is a bore."
He turned back.
She pulled his arm, forced him to face her. "Let's get out of here."
He met her eyes, calm. "Sometimes you take one for the team." He resumed his meeting.
Moira sat for a few ticks, the pressure building. She looked at each of us, one by one, as the conversation continued.
When she finally stood, her chair scraped hard against the floor. "Listen to yourselves." Her eyes moved around the table. "Visibility. Efficiency. Movement. You sound like a training video!"
No one answered.
"That thing in the break room..." she said quieter now, almost to herself. "When did you all stop thinking?"
She shook her head, decision made. "Enjoy your dinner."
Moira marched past the tables and out the front door. For one fragile moment, restaurant commotion filled our silent void.
Nick didn't budge.
Uncertain, I started to stand.
Another kick to my shin, and Imani nodded to the burning meat. I sat back down and flipped it over.
"Let's keep things moving," I said.
"As I was saying," Humberto continued.
And just like that, everything moved along.
The office felt strangely efficient on Monday morning. No birthday chatter. No weekend stories drifting over cubicle walls. Everybody moving with the same brisk sense of purpose, like the building had finally found its proper speed.
Walking down the center aisle, I stopped at Moira's cubicle. It was empty. Cleared out completely. No photos, no ceramic frog pencil holder. Even the indentation from her desk chair had disappeared from the carpet. Like she'd never worked there at all.
Two desks down, Imani looked up.
"Morning, Hensley."
"Where's Moira?"
She pointed down with her thumb. "Transferred."
"What?"
Imani shrugged once. "Alignment issues."
I stood there another moment, expecting something - anger, maybe, or guilt - but all I really felt was anxious. Anxious to move the day along.
Nick's blinds were drawn. The door was closed, light shining from the crack underneath. His voice sounded muffled, agitated on the other side.
I turned down the hall to the break room.
The IntelliSnack Pro3000 was gone. In its place, a rectangular footprint, dust-free on the linoleum floor. A memo was taped to the wall:
I stared at it for some time, the refrigerator buzzing softly behind me.
Then someone entered the room - a junior employee, probably an intern from another floor. Young guy. Cheap shoes. Nervous posture. He stopped when he saw the wall.
"Where'd it go?"
I turned, giving him a quick once-over: The uncertain smile. The eager eyes.
"You don't need it," I said.
He frowned.
Behind him, through the break room window, I could see the office floor moving in synchronized patterns. People standing when others stood. People laughing half a second after someone else laughed. Nick emerging from his office with a purpose, others filing in behind, like a corporate train, chugging across the office floor.
I gestured, doing my best Nick impression.
"Simplify yourself," I said. "People trust consistency."
It came out loose. Almost conversational. The kid just stared at me.
I stood up straight and tried again - clean this time, impersonal:
"Simplify yourself. People trust consistency."
He nodded enthusiastically, typing it on his phone.
"Got anything else?"
Then I looked at him - really looked. The way he stood. The way he waited.
"Don't ask twice," I told him. "It makes you look unsure."
He straightened immediately. "Right." Then he left.
I watched him disappear into the flow of the office. A strange silence settled into the room, and for one moment, I half expected the sound of a receipt printing. Instead there was only the hum of fluorescent lights.
I turned toward the empty space again. Toward the absent machine. And slowly - without meaning to - I realized I was already thinking about what advice I would give next.
Behind him, a woman followed, already scanning her slip.
"REMOVE FRICTION. REMOVE RESISTANCE."
She smiled to no one in particular.
The line crept forward.
The machine stood tall in the room - emotionless, capable - dispensing wisdom to the starving congregation. I was suddenly privy to a side of my coworkers I had never known before. When it was my turn, I didn't hesitate.
Swipe.
Crackers.
Receipt.
I stepped out before anyone could see.
The water cooler was empty. I opened the paper.
KEEP THINGS MOVING.
SHE WILL COMPLY.
I let the words sink in. How could I keep things moving?
A hand landed on my shoulder.
"Yo, Hensley, you're here early." Nick was freshly showered after his workout downstairs. He gave my tie a small tug. "Looking sharp. Finally getting with the program?"
"Oh... yeah." I put a hand on my hip and leaned against the cooler. It bubbled. "Just finding my groove."
Nick lowered his voice. "You know, some of us are going out for Korean barbecue tonight with Shepherd." He moved in closer. "Might be a good chance for you to connect with the top floor."
My mouth strained for the correct response. All that came out was, "Groovy."
He shrugged it off. "I don't know. Someone's going to have to take my place when I move up."
I took a step back.
His eyebrows lifted, just slightly. "Moira will be there."
That was all the convincing I needed.
I spent extra time in my bathroom experimenting with hair gel while a video of Korean barbecue terms played - pronunciations, cuts of meat, ordering etiquette. After practicing Nick's gait in front of a full-length mirror, I finally arrived at Jincook Steakhouse fifteen minutes late. Luckily, our party of seven still hadn't been seated.
Keep things moving was my mantra tonight.
I sauntered past the gang and slipped right in front of the hostess stand.
"Honey, can you please get us our table now?" I slid a folded twenty her way.
Turning around, I was greeted by Nick's approving nod. "Hensley, have you met Gary Shepherd?"
As we shook hands, he looked up at my hair.
I made the rounds - Humberto, Lily, and Imani. Imani and I had clashed before, and tonight she was draped over Moira, whispering and cuddling in close. This would take some light footwork.
When the hostess walked us to a table, I stepped in.
"This one's a little tight." I pointed to a booth by the window. "We'll be more comfortable over there."
No one objected. I even managed to arrange the seating - Gary at the head, Nick beside him, Moira within reach. I placed Imani across from me, far enough from my crush.
When Junho, our waiter, showed up with pickled appetizers, no one was ready. Nick and Gary were locked in conversation. The others squinted at their menus, so I spoke for the table.
"Junho, we'll start with galbi and bulgogi. Kimchi stew on the side." I pointed down the line. "Cass for everyone?"
Humberto hesitated.
"You prefer Kirin?"
He nodded.
While waiting for the meat to show up, our table found its rhythm. Nick and Gary stayed sealed off in their own conversation. Moira leaned toward them, waiting for an opening that never came. Lily, Humberto, and Imani traded stories about the machine - how it had changed things around the office.
I took my chance. "You like Korean food?"
Moira turned, expression flat. "We've been here before."
I leaned on one elbow. "It's my first time."
"What a natural."
She turned to her boss, hovered a minute or two for an opening, and then spun back to me with a measured smile on her face.
"I like the new look," she said. "The confidence."
Her eyes flicked past me - to Nick. Then back.
"You always seem to know what to do."
A kick hit my shin under the table.
I didn't look down.
"Some of the girls have been talking about you," she added.
"Good things?"
She put her arm around my chair. "They think you're... cute."
Another kick. Harder.
I shifted my leg.
When Junho arrived with our food, Nick paused just long enough to take his plate. He gave me a nod to move things forward, so I put some meat on the grill and reached for the bowls.
"Who wants stew?"
Everybody got a bowl. Everybody took a bite. Everybody liked it.
Across the table, Humberto sat a little straighter.
"Ever since I started dressing the part," he said, "people treat me differently."
"Like what?" Lily asked.
"Like I'm already there."
"Go with the flow," she said. "You'll swim with the big fish."
Moira turned sharply. "But now you look like everyone else."
The table paused, just for a second.
She looked at me again. Not playful this time. "Hensley, you weren't like this." She yanked my tie. "What happened?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just focused."
"Focused on what?"
I flipped a strip of meat. "Moving forward."
She let out a short breath. "That's what I mean." Her voice sharpened. "None of you are actually saying anything."
No one responded.
She scanned the table. "It's the same sentence over and over."
Moira tapped Nick's shoulder. He gave her half an eye.
"This is a bore."
He turned back.
She pulled his arm, forced him to face her. "Let's get out of here."
He met her eyes, calm. "Sometimes you take one for the team." He resumed his meeting.
Moira sat for a few ticks, the pressure building. She looked at each of us, one by one, as the conversation continued.
When she finally stood, her chair scraped hard against the floor. "Listen to yourselves." Her eyes moved around the table. "Visibility. Efficiency. Movement. You sound like a training video!"
No one answered.
"That thing in the break room..." she said quieter now, almost to herself. "When did you all stop thinking?"
She shook her head, decision made. "Enjoy your dinner."
Moira marched past the tables and out the front door. For one fragile moment, restaurant commotion filled our silent void.
Nick didn't budge.
Uncertain, I started to stand.
Another kick to my shin, and Imani nodded to the burning meat. I sat back down and flipped it over.
"Let's keep things moving," I said.
"As I was saying," Humberto continued.
And just like that, everything moved along.
The office felt strangely efficient on Monday morning. No birthday chatter. No weekend stories drifting over cubicle walls. Everybody moving with the same brisk sense of purpose, like the building had finally found its proper speed.
Walking down the center aisle, I stopped at Moira's cubicle. It was empty. Cleared out completely. No photos, no ceramic frog pencil holder. Even the indentation from her desk chair had disappeared from the carpet. Like she'd never worked there at all.
Two desks down, Imani looked up.
"Morning, Hensley."
"Where's Moira?"
She pointed down with her thumb. "Transferred."
"What?"
Imani shrugged once. "Alignment issues."
I stood there another moment, expecting something - anger, maybe, or guilt - but all I really felt was anxious. Anxious to move the day along.
Nick's blinds were drawn. The door was closed, light shining from the crack underneath. His voice sounded muffled, agitated on the other side.
I turned down the hall to the break room.
The IntelliSnack Pro3000 was gone. In its place, a rectangular footprint, dust-free on the linoleum floor. A memo was taped to the wall:
Congratulations, Intellisnack
On your promotion to Director of Optimization
- Executive Floor
I stared at it for some time, the refrigerator buzzing softly behind me.
Then someone entered the room - a junior employee, probably an intern from another floor. Young guy. Cheap shoes. Nervous posture. He stopped when he saw the wall.
"Where'd it go?"
I turned, giving him a quick once-over: The uncertain smile. The eager eyes.
"You don't need it," I said.
He frowned.
Behind him, through the break room window, I could see the office floor moving in synchronized patterns. People standing when others stood. People laughing half a second after someone else laughed. Nick emerging from his office with a purpose, others filing in behind, like a corporate train, chugging across the office floor.
I gestured, doing my best Nick impression.
"Simplify yourself," I said. "People trust consistency."
It came out loose. Almost conversational. The kid just stared at me.
I stood up straight and tried again - clean this time, impersonal:
"Simplify yourself. People trust consistency."
He nodded enthusiastically, typing it on his phone.
"Got anything else?"
Then I looked at him - really looked. The way he stood. The way he waited.
"Don't ask twice," I told him. "It makes you look unsure."
He straightened immediately. "Right." Then he left.
I watched him disappear into the flow of the office. A strange silence settled into the room, and for one moment, I half expected the sound of a receipt printing. Instead there was only the hum of fluorescent lights.
I turned toward the empty space again. Toward the absent machine. And slowly - without meaning to - I realized I was already thinking about what advice I would give next.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/p92iuDn
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