GOOFBALL

Episode 6:TRUST FALL OF DOOM

Fante had packed for the corporate retreat using the garbage bag again, but this time he’d learned from his mistakes—he’d double-bagged it. “It’s called innovation,” he told Maya, hauling the bulging black sphere toward Greg’s Subaru. “The first layer is for clothes. The second layer is for emotions.”

Maya tossed her hard-shell suitcase into the trunk with one hand, the other holding a drill, a flashlight, and a can of bear spray. “We’re going to Camp Synergy, not the apocalypse.”

“Bears are just nature’s Greg,” Fante said, climbing into the backseat. He buckled in, accidentally honking his clown horn whistle which had become permanently wedged between the seat cushions since the flight. HONK. “Sorry. The seatbelt is haunted.”

Greg sat in the driver’s seat, wearing a tracksuit that said “TEAM BUILDING CHAMPION” in reflective letters. He adjusted his rearview mirror with the precision of a sniper. “Listen up. This retreat is about vulnerability. We’re going to fall backward into each other’s arms. We’re going to climb ropes. We’re going to find our authentic selves through structured outdoor activities.”

“Can my authentic self stay in the cabin?” Cheryl asked from the passenger seat. She was wearing a parka made entirely of what appeared to be cheese wheels sewn together. “I brought snacks.”

“Those are perishable,” Greg noted.

“I’m perishable, Greg. We’re all perishable.”

The Golden Stapler sat in the center console, buckled into a child safety seat that Greg had installed specifically for it. It hummed along to the radio, occasionally clicking in time with the turn signals.

Camp Synergy looked like a summer camp that had been taken over by a consulting firm. The cabins had names like “The Voltron Lodge” and “Synergy Cabin B.” The air smelled like pine needles and PowerPoint presentations. A sign at the entrance read: Leave Your Ego at the Gate. Also Your Phones. We Mean It, Kevin.

Kevin, the intern from the meditation incident, immediately handed over his phone. He looked like he was being asked to donate a kidney.

Fante stepped out of the car and immediately tripped over his own swishy pants, which had become tangled around his ankles during the drive. He rolled down a small grassy hill—"shwoosh-shwoosh-thump-thump"—and landed in a bush that turned out to be the camp director.

“Welcome,” said the director, extracting Fante from his foliage. She was six feet tall, wore a vest with seventeen carabiners, and had the smile of someone who had never once checked her email during vacation. “I’m Barb. I’ll be your facilitator for Finding the Leader Within: A Corporate Wilderness Experience.”

Fante stood up, brushing leaves from his suit jacket. He’d worn the suit to the woods because he didn’t own hiking clothes, and also because the suit was his armor. “I’m Fante. I’m the Fire Warden. And the Stapler Custodian. And the Vibe Curator.”

Barb looked at the Golden Stapler, which Greg was carefully unbuckling from its car seat. The stapler caught the sunlight and glinted like a treasure in a pirate movie. Barb’s smile flickered—just for a second—but Fante caught it. Her eyes went sharp and hungry, like Cheryl looking at the last cheese cube.

“Beautiful,” Barb whispered. “Is that… is that solid gold?”

“Twenty-four karat,” Greg said, holding it protectively. “It’s not for touching. It’s for… appreciating from a distance.”

“Right,” Barb said, her smile returning like a curtain dropping. “Well, let’s get to the trust falls!”

The first activity was the “Authenticity Circle.” Everyone stood in a ring of tree stumps while Barb played a tambourine made of recycled bicycle parts. “Now,” she said, “we’re going to share our deepest fear.”

Cheryl went first. “I’m afraid of running out of cheese.”

Greg went next. “I’m afraid of unstructured time.”

Kevin whimpered, “I’m afraid of everything.”

Then it was Fante’s turn. He stood up, the Golden Stapler heavy in his jacket pocket. He’d started carrying it there after the airport incident, like a kangaroo with a very valuable joey. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I’m going to mess this up. That I’m going to let everyone down. That I’m going to reach for the stapler and grab a granola bar by accident and ruin the merger.”

The group was silent. Even the birds stopped chirping.

Then Barb said, “That’s beautiful. Now let’s fall backward into the abyss!”

The trust fall platform was ten feet high and made of logs that looked like they had opinions about being stepped on. Fante climbed up first, his swishy pants catching the wind like a sail. At the top, he looked down at the team. Maya stood there, arms out, ready to catch him. Greg stood next to her, arms crossed, looking skeptical. Cheryl was eating a cheese stick.

“Fall,” Barb commanded from below. “Fall into trust.”

Fante closed his eyes. He leaned back. He fell.

He missed Maya by three feet.

WHUMP.

He landed in a pile of mulch that Barb had assured them was “organic and spiritually cleansing.” It was also wet. Very wet.

“Again!” Barb shouted.

They tried seven more times. Each time, Fante fell in a different direction—left, right, once directly onto the cooler containing lunch. By the fourth attempt, the team had developed a system: Maya would shout “Left!” and Greg would lunge, but Fante would fall right, creating a chaos dance that ended with everyone in the mulch pile.

By the sixth attempt, Barb was staring at the Golden Stapler, which had fallen out of Fante’s pocket during a particularly spectacular spin. It lay in the grass, humming La Cucaracha softly.

“Maybe,” Barb said, her voice suddenly slippery, “we should move to the zip line. The *Golden Zip*. It’s for… special items.”

The Golden Zip line stretched across the lake, a shiny silver cable that promised to carry passengers from one cliff to another. The idea was to clip a carabiner to your harness and glide majestically over the water, screaming optional but encouraged.

“The stapler should ride,” Barb suggested. “For team bonding. We’ll send it across first, as a symbol of our trust.”

Fante looked at the stapler. The stapler looked at Fante. Its gold surface seemed to say: Don’t do it, buddy.

“I don’t know,” Fante said. “It gets altitude sickness. Remember the plane?”

“Nonsense,” Barb said, reaching for it. “It’s just metal.”

Greg stepped between them. “It’s not just metal. It’s a lifestyle. It’s a responsibility. It’s—”

“—mine,” said a voice from the trees.

Everyone turned. From behind a pine tree stepped a man in a black turtleneck and ski mask, holding a briefcase. He looked like he was auditioning for a heist movie that had run out of budget.

“Who are you?” Cheryl asked, not looking up from her cheese.

“I’m the… uh… the Stapler Stealer,” the man said, clearly improvising. “And I’m here for the gold.”

Barb gasped. “You’re early! I mean—” She clamped her mouth shut.

Fante’s eyes widened. “Barb? You’re in on this?”

Barb’s wholesome facade cracked like an egg. She ripped off her camp director vest to reveal a black turtleneck underneath. “StapleMax isn’t the only company that wants the Golden Stapler! I work for PaperClip Industries! We’re going to disrupt the fastening industry!”

The man in the ski mask—who introduced himself as “Clip” because his partner was “Barb” and they thought it was clever—lunged for the stapler.

Fante grabbed it first.

Thus began the slowest chase scene in corporate history.

Fante ran, his swishy pants making a sound like shwoosh-shwoosh-shwoosh, through the woods. Barb and Clip pursued, but they kept getting caught in low-hanging branches because they were wearing turtlenecks in summer. Greg pursued Barb, shouting corporate compliance violations at her. Maya pursued Greg, carrying the bear spray and yelling safety protocols. Cheryl pursued nobody, but walked slowly behind eating cheese, providing commentary.

Fante reached the zip line platform. It was fifty feet up. The only way across was the Golden Zip.

He clipped the Golden Stapler to the line. “Go!” he shouted at it. “Be free! Find your destiny!”

The stapler, understanding the assignment, began to slide across the lake, humming triumphantly. It moved like a golden star, glinting in the sun, spinning slowly as it crossed the water.

Barb and Clip arrived at the platform. “Hand it over!” Barb shouted.

“It’s already gone!” Fante said, pointing.

The stapler was halfway across the lake. It was beautiful. It was majestic. It was—stuck.

The zip line had a kink in the middle. The stapler dangled there, twenty feet above the water, spinning slowly, humming what sounded like a sad trombone noise.

“No!” Barb screamed. “My quarterly bonus!”

Fante looked at the zip line. He looked at his team. He looked at the stapler, his friend, hanging lonely over the lake.

“I’m going out there,” Fante said.

“You’ll die,” Greg said.

“I’ll probably just get wet,” Fante corrected.

He clipped himself to the line. He took a deep breath. He jumped.

WHEEEEEEE—

He slid toward the stapler, arms windmilling, legs kicking, pants swishing so hard they created a wake in the air. He reached the middle, grabbed the stapler, and—

—the line snapped.

SPLOOSH.

Fante hit the water like a swishy cannonball. He went under. The stapler went under. For a moment, everything was dark and cold and full of lake water.

Then Fante surfaced, holding the stapler above his head like Excalibur. “I have it!” he gurgled. “Also I can’t swim!”

Maya dove in. She swam with the efficiency of a torpedo, grabbed Fante by his suit collar, and dragged him to shore. They washed up on the beach, panting, soaked, covered in duckweed.

Barb and Clip stood on the opposite shore, defeated, their turtlenecks sagging.

“You haven’t seen the last of PaperClip Industries!” Barb shouted, shaking her fist. Then she slipped on a mossy rock and fell into the lake.

Clip helped her up. “We should have gone into digital marketing,” he muttered. They sloshed away into the woods.

Fante lay on the beach, the Golden Stapler clutched to his chest. It was dripping, but it clicked happily, like a purring cat.

Greg stood over them, dripping wet from having fallen in during the pursuit. He looked at Fante with something like awe. “You… you chose the stapler over your own safety.”

“It’s not just a stapler,” Fante said, spitting out lake water. “It’s… it’s our stapler. It’s weird and it hums and it’s kind of a lot, but it’s ours.”

Cheryl arrived, dry as a bone, and handed Fante a towel. “You’re an i***t,” she said. “But you’re our idiot.”

That night, around the campfire, they roasted marshmallows. Fante’s suit hung on a branch to dry, making a shape that looked like a ghost having a bad day. The Golden Stapler sat on a log, warming itself by the fire, its gold surface reflecting the flames.

Greg pulled out his clipboard. “I’m noting this as a successful team-building exercise. We faced adversity. We protected company assets. We got wet.”

“And,” Maya added, putting her arm around Fante’s shoulders, “we learned that Fante will literally throw himself into a lake for office supplies.”

“Not office supplies,” Fante corrected, gently polishing the stapler with his shirt sleeve. “For friends.”

The stapler clicked. *Chunk.* It sounded like agreement.

As the fire died down and the stars came out—stars that looked nothing like the fluorescent lights of LogiCore—Fante realized something. He wasn’t just surviving the corporate world anymore. He was part of a team. A weird, dysfunctional, cheese-obsessed team, but a team nonetheless.

And somewhere in the dark woods, Barb and Clip were probably lost, arguing about turtleneck sizes, while the Golden Stapler hummed a lullaby.