The "Great Coffee Cup Crisis" had an unexpected side effect: it cemented my role as the official translator of Alexander Wilde's reality. I was no longer just an assistant who managed his schedule and sourced mystical wood; I was a diplomat, a cultural attaché to the sovereign nation of his mind. My new, unspoken title: Interpreter of Theatrical Hostilities.
The need for this role became glaringly apparent during a budget meeting with the heads of Marketing and Finance. Brenda from Marketing, riding high on the success of a vaguely defined "viral aura campaign," was pushing for a significant budget increase. Robert from Finance, whose soul was apparently woven from spreadsheets and sorrow, was resisting with the tenacity of a bulldog.
I was taking notes, trying to make the line item "Synergy Sparkle Powder" sound like a legitimate business expense, when Alexander, who had been silent for most of the negotiation, finally stirred.
He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and fixed Robert with a gaze that could have frozen lava. "Robert," he began, his voice dropping into a low, resonant register that I'd come to recognize as his "Shakespearean Prelude" tone. "This niggling parsimony of yours doth make a famine where abundance lies. Thy purse is fat, but thy spirit is lean."
A profound silence fell over the conference room. Brenda looked confused. Robert looked like he'd been smacked in the face with a dead fish. He blinked. "I... I'm sorry, Alex—Mr. Wilde. My... spirit?"
I closed my eyes for a brief second. Here we go.
Alexander pressed on, a flicker of enjoyment in his eyes. "Thou art a ledger-keeping starveling, a man who wouldst rather count coins than constellations. Thy fears are but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, signifying nothing."
Robert's mouth opened and closed. He looked to me, a silent plea for a lifeline.
I cleared my throat. "Mr. Wilde feels," I translated, my voice calm and professional, "that an over-cautious approach to the marketing budget, while fiscally safe in the short term, could starve the long-term brand visibility and innovative momentum he's trying to cultivate. He's suggesting that the perceived risk is actually an opportunity for significant growth."
Robert stared at me, then back at Alexander, the gears in his accountant brain visibly grinding as he tried to reconcile the Elizabethan with the Excel-ian. "Right. Okay. So... not a 'walking shadow'. More of a... calculated investment."
"Precisely!" Alexander boomed, slamming his hand on the table with a dramatic thud that made everyone jump. "Let us invest in constellations, not just coins! Let us paint with the broad brush of ambition, not the fine nib of fear!" He shot me a look of pure, unadulterated gratitude. "You see? Miss Chen articulates the core sentiment with such... elegant clarity."
My job, I realized, was to be the subtitles for his one-man Shakespearean tragedy.
This became a regular occurrence. A project manager would give a lackluster presentation, and Alexander would sigh, "What a piece of work is a man! How infinite in faculties! And yet, you have presented us with such finite imagination."
I would quickly add, "Mr. Wilde is encouraging the team to think bigger and explore more innovative solutions."
He would accuse a slow-moving legal team of having "the expedition of [their] love delayed like a snail." I would translate: "He'd like the contracts expedited, please."
The peak of this absurdity came during a confrontation with Isabella, who had taken to "dropping by" unannounced. She was criticizing the zoo's operating costs, her voice a syrupy dagger. "It's just such a... quaint pet project, Alexander. So... you."
Alexander drew himself up to his full height, his eyes flashing. "Madam," he intoned, his voice icy. "I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed. Thy tongue outvenoms all the worms of Nile."
Isabella's smile didn't slip; it simply became more dangerous. "How poetic, darling. Are you calling me a snake?"
I stepped forward before Alexander could double down with a quote from Othello. "What Mr. Wilde means," I said smoothly, "is that he feels the foundation's value extends beyond its bottom line, and that its cultural impact shouldn't be underestimated. He believes your assessment is... premature."
Isabella's gaze shifted from him to me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of genuine annoyance. I wasn't just the assistant anymore; I was the interpreter, the gatekeeper. I was making his madness palatable, and in doing so, I was becoming a threat.
Later that day, after Isabella had left in a cloud of expensive perfume and thinly veiled threats, Alexander came to my desk.
"That was... deftly handled, Miss Chen," he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "The 'worms of Nile' was perhaps a bridge too far."
"It has a certain flair, sir," I said, not looking up from my screen.
He lingered for a moment. "You have a rare gift. You can hear the music of the language and transcribe it into... common time." It was the highest compliment he could have given.
That night, as I was packing up, a new book appeared on my desk. It was a beautifully bound, leather-covered copy of Shakespeare's complete works. A small, heavy, ebony bookmark was tucked inside, marking Act 2, Scene 2 of Hamlet. There was no note.
I opened it to the marked page. A line was lightly penciled in the margin: "What a piece of work is a man!"
I smiled, slipping the book into my bag. The pay was obscene. The work was insane. But as I walked out into the evening, I realized I was no longer just an employee translating her boss's eccentricities. I was a co-author, helping to write a truly bizarre, utterly one-of-a-kind story. And despite myself, I was starting to really enjoy the plot.