Ed was put on boxes. And that was that. Linda pressed a few buttons on her phone, and Ed’s transfer to boxes was complete. He was now Edward Simperton, box wrangler.
Really, boss? Ed said. Boxes?
You’ll do well in boxes, said Linda. You’ll thrive in boxes.
I won’t, said Ed. I’ll languish in boxes. I’ll wither.
Don’t be so dramatic, said Linda. You’ll excel. There’s room for growth in boxes.
Growth? said Ed. In boxes?
Sure, there’s some wiggle room in boxes, said Linda. There’s a pathway to upper management.
OK, now you’re just making stuff up, said Ed.
It’s a winding pathway, to be sure, said Linda. Circuitous. You could even say it’s labyrinthine. But it’s there.
Boxes, said Ed. I can’t believe it.
Let’s be honest, said Linda. You weren’t exactly thriving in staplers.
I made some headway in staplers, said Ed. I added some new features.
You added an LED, said Linda.
It’s not just a common LED, said Ed. It’s not decorative. It lights up when there’s a jam.
And before that, you were in briefcases, said Linda. I read the reports. Pretty dire stuff.
We made some real progress on those little metal claspy things, said Ed.
Whatever you say, said Linda.
I don’t see how a transfer to boxes is going to improve anybody’s lot in life, said Ed.
We need you in boxes, said Linda. Someone with your, um, mind? Boxes is the perfect place for you.
There’s nothing to boxes, though, said Ed. Four sides. That’s it. Boxes are a dead end.
Well, boxes have six sides, said Linda. You might want to start there. Here, take this.
Linda handed Ed a whole ream of papers. The topmost page read BOXES.
Jesus, said Ed. There’s more to boxes than I thought.
All but the top page are blank, said Linda. They’re for making prototypes of boxes.
Ed stuffed the papers into his briefcase and closed it. The metal clasps immediately snapped off, and the papers fell to the floor, spreading all the way to Accounts Receivable, where Nash and Larry, their cheeks newly stapled together, their eyes bright with fear, stepped slowly into the hall.