GOOFBALL

Fante had been trapped in the revolving door for seventeen minutes when he realized this might be a metaphor for his entire life. There was an elderly security guard to his left, muttering something about pension plans, and a bike messenger to his right clutching a package the size of a microwave, sweating profusely through his neon vest. "Okay," Fante said, pressing his palms against the glass. "New theory. If we all lean backwards simultaneously—" "Son," the guard interrupted, not looking up from his phone. "I've seen three presidents and two recessions from this lobby. Just wait for the fire marshal." "He walked by already," the messenger said. "He took a picture and kept walking." Fante rested his forehead against the cool glass. Through the distortion, he could see the chrome-and-marble lobby of LogiCore Industries, his first day of employment, his fresh start as a Serious Adult with a 401k and probably some opinions about the stock market. He was wearing a suit he'd bought at a*****e that also sold fishing tackle. The pants made a swishing noise when he walked. The door finally jerked loose, spitting all three of them into the atrium like watermelon seeds. Fante stumbled forward, clutching his Tupperware container of leftover spaghetti—his lunch, which he'd brought because Maya had told him that "buying lunch is how they get you"—and immediately collided with a potted ficus that looked like it had given up on photosynthesis weeks ago. "Welcome to LogiCore," said a voice. Fante looked up. A man stood before him wearing a tie so perfectly knotted it seemed to be mocking Fante's own lopsided attempt. The man's name tag read GREG, and his eyes were the kind of intense that suggested he either meditated for two hours every morning or hadn't slept since the Bush administration. "Greg," the man said, extending a hand. "Human Resources. Onboarding specialist. Accountability partner. If necessary, accountability adversary." "Fante," Fante said, shaking the hand. He squeezed too hard, then too soft, then accidentally did a finger-lock that required a handshake reset. "Ready to... voltron?" Greg's smile didn't reach his eyes. "We don't say 'voltron' anymore. We say 'synergize.' Wait, no. Other way around. Follow me." The office was a landscape of gray. Gray carpets, gray walls, gray lighting that made everyone look like they were auditioning for a zombie movie. Fante followed Greg past cubicles where people typed with the resigned rhythm of prisoners tapping Morse code. They passed a woman sitting at a desk, eating what appeared to be a salad composed entirely of cheese cubes. "New blood?" she asked, not looking up. "Fresh from the farm," Greg replied. The woman—her desk plate read CHERYL—finally looked at Fante. She had the expression of someone who had seen every episode of every reality show and found them all disappointing. "Word of advice: the coffee machine is sentient and it hates optimism." Fante laughed. It came out as a honk. Cheryl stared at him without blinking until he backed into a wall. "Your desk is in Sector 7-G," Greg said, consulting a clipboard. "Near the bathroom that requires a code, but don't use the code because it's for clients only. Clients never come here because we're a logistics company and nobody knows what that means, including the CEO." Fante's desk was a beige island in a sea of beige. He sat down. The chair sighed, a pneumatic hiss that sounded like it was judging him. He pulled out his phone and texted Maya: "First day going great. Think HR guy respects me. Made eye contact for exactly 3 seconds (professional dominance zone)." Maya replied immediately: *You wore the suit?* "Yes." "The one that swishes?" "...Yes." "Don't touch anything expensive." Fante looked at the coffee machine across the room. It was a chrome beast the size of a dishwasher, covered in buttons with symbols that looked like they'd been designed by ancient aliens. It had a screen that currently displayed the words: READY TO BREW. READY TO DESTROY. He needed coffee. He deserved coffee. He was a working professional now, and working professionals drank bitter bean water while contemplating the void. He approached the machine. It hummed at a frequency that made his teeth hurt. There were three spouts, two levers, and one button labeled "HELP" that seemed less like an instruction and more like a cry for mercy. "Espresso," Fante whispered, pressing a button that looked promising. The machine began to play opera. Steam shot from a valve that hadn't been there a moment ago. The screen changed to: YOU HAVE AWAKENED THE BEAST, ASSHOLE. "Okay," Fante said. "Maybe cappuccino?" He pressed another button. The machine began to vibrate. The opera got louder—La Traviata, now at speaker-blowing volume. "Greg," Fante said, turning around. "I think the coffee machine is—" Greg was standing directly behind him, close enough that Fante could smell his peppermint anxiety. "That's the grief setting," Greg said calmly. "It's for when someone in Accounting gets divorced. It only dispenses decaf and regret." "I just wanted coffee," Fante said. The machine made a sound like a dying tuba and began smoking. "Fire drill!" someone shouted. A siren blared, but it wasn't the fire alarm. It was the coffee machine, which had apparently decided to evolve into a smoke detector. Gray billows poured from its top vents. People began standing up in unison, moving toward the exits with the synchronized precision of a ballet company where everyone hated their lives. Fante panicked. The machine was smoking. During a fire drill. The irony was too much to bear. He couldn't leave a fire hazard during a fire drill—he'd be laughed out of the industry. He'd have to change his name and move to the woods and become one of those guys who carved wooden bears for tourists. He grabbed the potted ficus from the lobby—the depressed one, the one he'd crashed into earlier—and dumped the entire contents, soil and all, onto the coffee machine. There was a sound like *thwump*, and then silence. The opera stopped. The smoking stopped. Coffee grounds covered everything in a thick, wet layer that looked like the aftermath of a mud wrestling match. Fante stood there, holding the empty pot, dirt streaked across his too-big suit, while thirty office workers stared at him from the emergency exit hallway. "I..." Fante looked at the ficus pot. "I saved the building?" Cheryl started clapping. Slowly. "He voltroned the coffee machine," she said, her voice carrying in the sudden silence. "He actually voltroned it." Greg stepped forward, clipboard in hand, and made a checkmark. "Initiative. Destructive, but initiative." Three hours later, Fante sat in a conference room that smelled of lemon disinfectant and broken dreams. Across from him sat M. Stevens, the CEO, a man whose face appeared to have been carved from the same material as the conference table. "So," Stevens said. "You destroyed a four-thousand-dollar Italian coffee machine with a houseplant on your first day." "The plant was already dead inside," Fante said. "I could tell. It had given up." "Greg tells me you showed leadership. You identified a hazard. You acted decisively." Stevens steepled his fingers. "We need a new head of Employee Wellness and Fire Safety. The last guy took the "fire" part too literally and now works in a different state under a different name." Fante blinked. "I’m being promoted? To a job I invented through incompetence?" "That's how corporate works, son." Stevens stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the parking lot. "Welcome to the machine. Don't touch the revolving doors. They're sensitive since the incident." That night, Fante entered his apartment to find Maya installing a shelf above the television. She was holding a power drill and wearing a shirt that said *I FIX WHAT YOU BREAK*. "You're home early," she said. "Did you get fired?" "Better." Fante held up a lanyard. "I'm now the Fire Warden. I have a whistle and everything." He blew into the whistle. Nothing came out—just a sad, breathy hiss. Maya put down the drill. "That's a dog whistle, Fante." Fante inspected the whistle. "That explains why the Uber driver kept trying to fetch my keys." He collapsed onto the couch, knocking over Maya's carefully arranged tools. They both watched the screwdriver roll under the coffee table. "I'll fix it tomorrow," Fante said. "I'm a professional now." Maya smiled, that particular smile that was three parts exasperation and one part affection. "You're a goofball." "Yeah," Fante said, closing his eyes. "But I'm voltroning the heck out of it." Outside, a fire truck drove by, sirens blaring, probably heading to LogiCore. Fante didn't even flinch. He was already asleep, still wearing the swishy suit, one hand clutching the empty ficus pot he'd brought home as a trophy.