GOOFBALL

Episode 4: STAPLE GUN OF DESTINY

Fante was ironing his shirt with a hot pizza stone when Maya walked in.

“That’s for cooking, asshole,” she said, setting down her drill.

“It’s all about thermal mass,” Fante replied, pressing the stone against his collar. “The YouTube video said—”

“The video was titled ‘How to Make Flatbread,’ Fante.”

“—that you need even heat distribution!” Fante lifted the stone. His shirt was now pressed perfectly in the front but had a faint smell of marinara. “See? I’m ready for my big promotion.”

Maya squinted at him. “You got promoted?”

“Not yet. But today, I pitch.” Fante pulled out a crumpled index card. “LogiCore is presenting to StapleMax Industries. They make the Golden Staplers. If we land this account, we save the company from becoming a parking lot for scooters.”

“Is that a real threat?”

“It’s on the break room whiteboard. Next to Cheryl’s drawing of a cheese wheel.”

Maya looked at him for a long moment. Then she pulled a tiny sewing kit from her pocket. “Turn around. Your pants are swishing so much they’re coming apart at the seams.”

Fante turned. “This is my power suit. The swish intimidates people.”

“The swish sounds like you’re walking through a car wash.” She stitched quickly, tying off the thread with a tug. “There. Now you can pitch without dropping your pants.”

“That,” Fante said gravely, “is the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.”

........

The conference room looked like a funeral home for office supplies. Everything was black and chrome. The StapleMax executives sat on one side of the table, wearing suits so sharp they could cut glass. Their leader was a woman named Ms. Pin, who had a bun pulled so tight it seemed to be holding her thoughts together.

Fante stood at the front, next to a projector that was already making a sound like a dying cat.

“And so,” the CEO of LogiCore was saying, “our logistics solutions are... uh...” He looked at Fante. “Fante, tell them about the synergy.”

Fante clicked the remote. The screen behind him flashed to life, showing not the PowerPoint he’d prepared, but his camera roll. Specifically, a photo of him stuck in the composting toilet from last week, covered in dirt, giving a thumbs up.

Ms. Pin raised one eyebrow. It looked like a knife being sharpened.

“That,” Fante said quickly, “is our before photo. Showing... uh... how low you can go before you rise up. Like a phoenix. But with more soil.”

He clicked again. Another photo: the pigeon stealing his sandwich.

“Our competitors,” Fante improvised. “They’re birds. They take your lunch. We? We are the lunch. I mean, we make the lunch. The logistics lunch.”

Greg, sitting at the table, was sweating through his perfect shirt. “Fante,” he hissed. “The slides.”

“I know!” Fante clicked frantically. The screen changed to a photo of Maya asleep on the couch with a drill in her lap.

“And this,” Fante said, inspiration striking like lightning hitting a trampoline, “is our 24/7 support team. Always ready. Always armed.”

Ms. Pin leaned forward. “Is that woman licensed?”

“She’s licensed in my heart,” Fante said.

The projector made a *pop* sound and died. The room went dark except for the emergency exit sign—which, thanks to Fante’s earlier repairs, actually pointed to the correct exit.

Fante stood in the dim light, his marinara-scented shirt glowing slightly. He took a deep breath. Then he walked to the center of the table and placed his briefcase on it. The briefcase popped open—not because he’d unlocked it, but because he’d sat on it earlier and broken the latch.

Out rolled seventeen granola bars, a clown horn whistle, and one Golden Stapler.

The room went silent.

Ms. Pin stared at the stapler. “Is that... is that the 24K Executive Model?”

Fante looked at the stapler. It was the one from the Mystery Closet. The one that sang. “Yes?” he guessed.

“We’ve been trying to get that back for six months,” Ms. Pin whispered, reaching for it. “It’s our prototype. It disappeared at a trade show. We thought the Russians took it.”

Fante picked up the stapler. It was warm in his hand. It hummed a little tune—La Cucaracha*, but classy.

“It was in our closet,” Fante said. “Greg’s closet. He was... meditating with it?”

Greg stood up slowly. “I was keeping it safe. In a sacred space. With the others.”

Ms. Pin looked at Greg. She looked at the stapler. She looked at Fante, who was accidentally wearing his tie as a headband now.

“You people,” she said slowly, “are insane.”

Fante’s heart sank. The account was lost. The company would become a scooter parking lot. He’d have to learn to ride a scooter.

“But,” Ms. Pin continued, clicking the stapler. It made a sound like a harp. “You found our stapler. And you didn’t try to sell it. You just... carried it around in a broken briefcase with snacks.”

“It’s a system,” Fante said. “The snacks are for energy. The stapler is for... attaching things to other things. And the briefcase is broken because I sat on it.”

Ms. Pin smiled. It was a terrifying sight, like seeing a shark yawn. “We need a logistics partner who understands that things don’t have to be perfect to work. They just have to... function.” She stood up. “We’ll sign. But on one condition.”

“Anything,” the CEO gasped.

“Fante leads the account,” Ms. Pin said. “He’s the only one who’s touched the Golden Stapler without trying to steal it or worship it.” She pointed at Greg. “You. You can be his... assistant.”

Greg’s eye twitched. “I have fifteen years of corporate experience.”

“And he has the stapler,” Ms. Pin said. “Make it work.”

........

That night, Fante sat on his apartment floor, staring at his new business cards. They read: Fante – Senior Logistics Coordinator & Stapler Custodian.

Maya was making pasta. “So you got the promotion because you accidentally returned stolen property?”

“I prefer to think of it as... serendipitous stewardship,” Fante said. He blew his clown horn softly. Honk. “Also, I have to give a presentation to the board next week about our ‘innovative approach.’ I don’t have an innovative approach. I have anxiety and swishy pants.”

Maya stirred the pot. “You have something better.”

“What?”

“You actually care when things go wrong. Most people in those meetings are just checking their watches. You’re checking if everyone’s okay.” She pointed the wooden spoon at him. “That’s your superpower. You’re not a goofball. You’re... a careball.”

“That sounds like a medical condition,” Fante said.

But he was smiling.

His phone buzzed. A text from Greg: Tomorrow. 8 AM. Stapler orientation. Do not be late. Wear the suit. The swish intimidates the competition.

Then another text: Also, the stapler is singing again. I think it likes you.

Fante looked at the Golden Stapler, which he’d placed on his bookshelf next to a dying succulent. In the dim light of the apartment, it definitely seemed to be glowing.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Fante told it. “I’m still the boss of you.”

The stapler clicked softly, sounding almost like laughter.