The air in the office was still thick with the unspoken tension of Alexander's brush with the green-eyed monster. His declaration of mastering the espresso machine had resulted in two days of frantic hissing, spilled milk, and a series of increasingly desperate calls to the Italian technician, who had finally pleaded, in broken English, for the "crazy man" to just leave the machine alone. Alexander had retreated, sulking, into his office, the steam wand having proven a more formidable foe than Sebastian Thorn.
It was in this atmosphere of wounded male pride that the next crisis arrived, not with a bang, but with a polite, perfectly formatted email from Steve from Accounting. The subject line was: Query: Exponential Herring Expenditure.
The body of the email was a masterpiece of dry understatement. Chloe, can you please clarify the 300% month-over-month increase in the "Aquatic Fauna Sustenance" line item? The invoice description simply says "Percival's Premium Piscine Patisserie." I assume this is a catering service for client events and not, as the name suggests, gourmet fish pastries for a penguin. Awaiting your clarification. Best, Steve.
I stared at the screen. Percival, the "discerning" penguin, had indeed developed a costly preference for a specific brand of Norwegian herring, hand-filleted and flash-frozen within hours of capture. It cost more per pound than filet mignon. Explaining this to Steve, the guardian of fiscal sanity, was a task that required more than email. It required diplomacy.
I found him in his natural habitat: a cubicle on the accounting floor, surrounded by the soothing beige tones of orderly spreadsheets. The air smelled of coffee and sharpened pencils, a stark contrast to the orchid-scented drama upstairs.
"Steve," I said, leaning against his partition. "About the herring."
Steve looked up from his monitor, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ah, the piscine patisserie. Let me guess. The penguin's a foodie."
"You have no idea," I sighed, slumping into the guest chair. "He turns his beak up at the standard issue. It's this specific Norwegian brand or nothing. Alexander says it's about 'honoring his refined palate.'"
Steve chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that was instantly calming. "Refined palate. Right. Well, my palate is refined enough to know that this," he tapped the invoice on his screen, "is going to raise eyebrows at the next board meeting. Bigger eyebrows than the 'Synergy Sparkle Powder.'"
"I know," I groaned. "But trying to explain cost-benefit analysis to Alexander when it comes to his 'animal ambassadors' is like trying to explain thermodynamics to a golden retriever. He just wags his tail and says something about 'untamed potential.'"
Steve leaned back, steepling his fingers. He looked less like an accountant and more like a wise old general planning a campaign. "Here's the thing, Chloe. You and I, we're the keepers of the reality principle in this loony bin. He's the id," he said, pointing a thumb toward the ceiling, "with a company card. Our job is to be the superego. But we can't just say 'no.' That's when he goes and buys a zoo."
"So what do we do?" I asked, feeling a surge of gratitude for this man's sanity.
"We reframe," Steve said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "We don't fight the narrative. We use it. We make the fiscally responsible option sound like a grand, poetic gesture."
He turned to his keyboard. "Okay. We can't stop the gourmet herring. But we can consolidate the shipment. Instead of twice-weekly air-freighted boxes, we order a month's supply by sea freight. It's 60% cheaper." He started typing. "And we don't call it 'cost-saving bulk ordering.' We call it…" He paused, thinking. "We call it 'Project: Arctic Bounty.' A strategic stockpiling initiative to ensure a consistent, stress-free supply chain for our most valuable Antarctic associate, mitigating the emotional volatility of supply disruption."
I stared at him, my mouth agape. It was brilliant. It was insane. It was perfect.
"Steve," I breathed. "You're a genius."
He winked. "I've been dealing with Alex since he was a junior exec with a company card and a dream of having a desk made of meteorite. You learn to speak the language." He finished typing and hit print. A document emerged from the printer. It was a formal proposal, complete with a cost-benefit analysis table, but the title was pure Wilde: Project Arctic Bounty: Ensuring Ecosystem Stability Through Logistic Foresight.
"Take this to him," Steve said, handing me the paper. "Frame it as a strategic initiative. He'll love the title. He'll sign off on it because it sounds epic, and I'll get to keep the board from having a collective aneurysm."
I took the proposal, feeling like I'd just been handed a secret weapon. This was the alliance I needed. The underground resistance.
Back upstairs, I presented the proposal to Alexander. He was still moodily staring at a picture of the defeated espresso machine.
"Sir," I began, adopting my most serious tone. "I've been analyzing the sustainability of Percival's nutritional ecosystem. I've identified a critical vulnerability in the supply chain. I propose we implement 'Project Arctic Bounty.'"
His eyes flickered with interest. He took the paper. He read the title. A slow smile spread across his face. "Project Arctic Bounty," he murmured. "It has a ring. A sense of scale. Explain."
I walked him through Steve's plan, using all the right words: "strategic stockpiling," "mitigating volatility," "ensuring long-term harmony." I made saving sixty percent sound like a masterstroke of geopolitical strategy.
Alexander nodded, his drama fully engaged. "Yes. Yes! We cannot have Percival's creative output diminished by logistical anxieties! A penguin worried about his next meal is a penguin who cannot inspire greatness! Approved!"
He signed the document with a flourish.
Later that day, I got an email from Steve.
Steve: Arctic Bounty is a go. The herring is on a boat. Slow and steady wins the race. Also, I took the liberty of adding a line item for "Project Administration." It's a small fee. I'm thinking of using it to buy a new sweater. This one's getting worn out from all the reality-holding I'm doing.
Chloe: You've earned it. The resistance is grateful.
Steve: Any time, kid. Just remember, we're not lying to him. We're just… translating the truth into a language he understands. A language of epic poetry and really expensive fish.
I leaned back in my chair, a genuine smile on my face. I had an ally. A partner in crime who understood both spreadsheets and Shakespeare. The unlikely alliance between the assistant and the accountant was now official. And for the first time, facing the daily absurdity of life with Alexander Wilde didn't feel like a solitary battle. It felt like a team sport. And we were winning.