The triumphant resolution of the Great Dolphin Paperclip Crisis earned me a full twenty-four hours of relative peace. Alexander Wilde, his feng shui restored, was almost… pleasant. He hummed. It was a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the office floor and put the orchids on edge, but it was preferable to existential wailing.
Then, on Monday morning, the first of the month, my bank app sent a push notification. My first full paycheck had been deposited.
I'd been mentally prepared for a large number. I'd signed a contract. But seeing the figure actually sitting in my account, bold and unapologetic, was a different matter altogether. It was a sum that could not only erase my student loans in one fell swoop but also buy a modestly sized boat. Or a very immodest diamond. It was, by any rational measure, an obscene amount of money for a single month's work.
I stared at it during my morning coffee calibration ritual, my hands trembling slightly as I held the Swiss thermometer. The number glowed on my phone screen, a siren song of financial freedom. Then I looked up, through the glass wall of my floating workstation, at Alexander's office. He was standing perfectly still, practicing what I'd come to think of as his "receiving bad news from a distant galaxy" pose.
The cognitive dissonance was physically painful. On one screen: life-altering financial security. In front of me: a man who held emergency meetings about misplaced stationery.
This is insane, my inner monologue screamed, finally finding its voice after being stunned into silence by the bank balance. You are being paid a small fortune to participate in performance art. You are a highly compensated straight man in a one-man show.
The humongous salary was the gravity well that kept me from escaping this ludicrous orbit. It was the answer to every "Why am I doing this?" question. It was the reason I could, with a straight face, spend an afternoon hunting for a titanium dolphin.
As if on cue, Alexander's office door opened. He didn't summon me via intercom or tablet. He made a personal appearance.
"Miss Chen," he began, his voice unusually solemn. "A matter of grave importance has arisen."
I quickly locked my phone, the image of the boat I could now afford seared into my retina. "Of course, sir. What is it?"
He strode over to my desk and placed a single, wilted orchid leaf on the marble surface. It was brown at the edges.
"Behold," he said, his tone funereal. "A fallen soldier. A casualty of the imperfect humidity levels in the southeastern quadrant."
I looked from the dead leaf to his anguished face. "I… see. That's too bad."
"It's an omen, Miss Chen," he insisted, leaning in close. "The ecosystem is fragile. The balance is off. I'm sensing a… a negative energy emanating from the new air purifier filters. They're too efficient. They're stripping the air of its character."
I blinked. "You believe the air has… character?"
"Of course it does!" he exclaimed, straightening up. "Air can be bold, timid, nostalgic, innovative! This air…" He sniffed dramatically. "It's become sterile. Corporate. It lacks soul. I need you to source a new set of filters. Hemp-based. Unbleached. Preferably from a small, spiritually aligned cooperative in the Pacific Northwest. They must be infused with a blend of essential oils known to promote creative flow. Sandalwood. Frankincense. A hint of… bergamot, for optimism."
I picked up the dead leaf. It crumbled between my fingers. I thought of the number on my phone. The number that could pay for my future. This man was asking me to find artisanal, spiritually-infused air filters.
"I'll get right on it, sir," I heard myself say, my voice remarkably steady.
He nodded, satisfied. "Good. And Miss Chen?"
"Yes?"
"The bergamot is critical. But not too much. We don't want the optimism to become… frivolous."
He swept back into his office, leaving me with the botanical corpse and my thoughts.
I sat down and opened my browser. I typed in "hemp air filters spiritual cooperative bergamot." The search returned a website that looked like it was designed by a well-meaning hippie in 1998. The filters were called "Aura-Weavers" and cost ten times what normal filters cost.
I thought about my student loans. I visualized the debt counter ticking down to zero. I imagined the feeling of weightlessness.
I added ten Aura-Weaver filters to the cart.
A message popped up on my screen from Sterling.
Sterling: The Aura-Weavers, Miss Chen? A prudent choice. The last assistant opted for a cheaper, non-infused model. Mr. Wilde claimed he could "taste the compromise" in the air for a week. It was… unpleasant for everyone.
I hit "purchase" and authorized the payment with the corporate card. The transaction went through with a satisfying chime. It was a sound that was becoming synonymous with my surrender.
Later that afternoon, as I was reviewing the shipping confirmation (the filters were being blessed by the cooperative's founder before shipment, naturally), Alexander emerged again. He was holding a small, velvet box.
"A token," he said, placing it on my desk. "For your invaluable service during the Dolphin Incident. And for your… growing understanding of the nuances of this enterprise."
I opened the box. Inside, on a bed of black silk, was a pen. It was heavy, crafted from a dark, polished wood, with a silver clip. It was beautiful. And it was, of course, filled with black ink.
"It's ebony," Alexander said softly. "A small piece from the same tree as the desk. A preview of the greatness to come."
I was speechless. The pen was probably worth more than my entire previous wardrobe. It was an impossibly extravagant, utterly ridiculous gift. It was also, undeniably, thoughtful. In his own insane way, he was acknowledging me.
"Thank you, sir," I managed. "It's… it's very generous."
He gave a single, regal nod and retreated.
I picked up the pen. It felt solid. Important. I looked at the wilting orchid leaf in my trash can. I thought of the blessed air filters en route from Oregon. I glanced at my phone, at the bank notification still on the screen.
The salary was a bribe. A golden handcuff. But the pen… the pen felt like something else. An invitation.
My salary couldn't cover the absurdity. But maybe, just maybe, it was starting to cover the cost of admission to the strangest, most fascinating show on earth. And I was no longer just an audience member. I had a backstage pass.