The psychic trauma of the "synergy is an aura" meeting had not yet faded when my tablet lit up again. The title of this new task nearly caused me to spill my newly calibrated coffee.
TASK 2: THE DESK SITUATION
Issue: My current desk lacks the requisite gravitas for the strategic planning ahead. Objective: Source a replacement. Primary Material: Crying Burmese Ebony. Note 1: The "crying" refers to the resinous patterns, not a literal hydraulic function. Ensure the supplier understands this distinction. Note 2: Inquire about the tree's biography. I prefer wood that has known struggle.
I stared at the screen. The tree's biography. Right. Because what every office needs is furniture with a compelling backstory. I half-expected a follow-up request for the ebony's CV and references.
I spent the next hour lost in the world of exotic hardwoods. It was a bizarre landscape of Janka hardness scales, figured grains, and prices that could fund a small nation's space program. "Crying Burmese Ebony" was, as suspected, exceptionally rare, ethically dubious, and cost approximately the same as a municipal swimming pool per square foot.
I compiled a shortlist of three specialty dealers, drafting emails that felt like diplomatic correspondence. I inquired about availability, sustainability certifications (knowing full well Alexander would find such concerns "quaintly pedestrian"), and, with a deep sense of personal shame, included the line: "Could you provide any narrative regarding the source tree's history and character?"
The responses trickled in. One dealer ignored the biography question entirely. Another sent a dry, two-line description of the harvesting region's average rainfall. The third, from a dealer in London named Alistair Finch, replied with a flair that suggested he'd found a kindred spirit.
Dear Miss Chen, the email began, The particular slab in question hails from a venerable tree in the Kachin region, a stoic old fellow who weathered no less than two cyclones and a minor insurgency. The "tears" you see are particularly pronounced—a testament, I daresay, to a life fully lived. It has a wonderfully melancholic grain, perfect for contemplative leadership.
I read it twice. This was it. This was the one. Alistair Finch understood the assignment. I forwarded the email to Alexander with a brief summary.
His reply was instantaneous.
AWilde: This Finch individual possesses a poet's soul trapped in a lumberjack's profession. Proceed. Acquire the melancholic cyclone survivor. And Miss Chen?
CChen: Yes, Mr. Wilde?
AWilde: The current desk is an eyesore. Have it removed. I cannot work under such aesthetically oppressive conditions.
I looked at the massive, perfectly serviceable rosewood desk currently in his office. It was a beautiful piece of furniture. But to Alexander, it was apparently a psychic vampire.
I called Facilities. A man named Gary, who sounded like he'd been chewing on nails, answered. "Yeah, Facilities, Gary speaking."
"Hi Gary, this is Chloe Chen, Mr. Wilde's new assistant. I need to arrange for the removal of his current desk."
There was a long, crackling silence. "The… the rosewood desk? The one that took six guys and a hydraulic lift to get in there?"
"That's the one."
"Remove it to where, exactly?" Gary asked, his voice thick with disbelief.
"I… don't know. Storage?"
"Lady, we don't have a 'storage' big enough for that thing. We'd have to disassemble it. Which, according to the specs, requires a specialist from Norway. Who is currently on a six-month meditation retreat."
This was a problem I had not anticipated. "Okay. Um. Stand by, Gary."
I was contemplating this logistical nightmare when Sterling glided past, holding a single, perfect orchid.
"There's an issue with the desk removal," I blurted out.
He stopped. "The Norwegian specialist is unavailable. I am aware."
"Right. So, what do we do? He says he can't work under oppressive conditions."
A sigh, so faint it was almost a shift in atmospheric pressure, escaped Sterling's lips. "We employ The Shroud."
"The… Shroud?"
"Follow me."
He led me to a janitorial closet that was cleaner than most operating rooms. From a high shelf, he retrieved a large, zippered bag made of a thick, black, velvety material. He unzipped it to reveal what looked like a giant, custom-fitted furniture cover.
"The Shroud," Sterling repeated, as if this explained everything. "For when removal is impractical, but the Master's sensibilities require protection from visual affronts."
I watched, mesmerized and a little horrified, as Sterling and a very disgruntled Gary draped the enormous black cloth over the magnificent rosewood desk. It settled like a pall at a funeral. The effect was immediate and bizarre; the desk was now a large, ominous black rectangle, somehow more oppressive than before.
At 5:00 PM, I gathered my things. My first day was over. I felt like I'd run a marathon through a haunted house designed by a mad artist.
As I pressed the button for the elevator, Alexander's office door opened. He stood there, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the shrouded desk.
"Miss Chen."
I kept my gaze firmly on his left earlobe. "Mr. Wilde."
"A productive first day," he said, his voice thoughtful. "You disposed of the enemy's weapon and initiated the search for a throne worthy of the coming campaigns." He finally looked away from the desk and, for a fleeting second, his eyes seemed to meet mine. Or maybe he was just looking at the space between my eyes. "Do not be late tomorrow. The coffee thermometer arrives at 8:05 AM. Its integration into the ecosystem is critical."
The elevator doors dinged open.
"Integration. Understood," I said, stepping backward into the elevator. "Goodnight, Mr. Wilde."
He didn't reply. He simply turned back to contemplate the dark form of his former desk, a tragic hero mourning a fallen comrade.
The doors slid shut. I leaned against the mirrored wall, finally alone. My phone buzzed. A notification from my bank. My first day's pay had been directly deposited. The number was so large it looked like a typo.
I stared at it. The weight of the student loans I could vaporize with a single transfer warred with the memory of the day's insanity. The poetry. The coffee espionage. The shroud.
The elevator descended. I had just been paid an obscene amount of money to participate in high-stakes theater. It wasn't a job. It was patronage. Alexander Wilde was a mad playwright, and I was the newest actor in his endless, bewildering production.
And as I stepped out into the sane, grubby reality of the evening street, a terrifying thought occurred to me: it was only the first act.