The sun shone through the blinds and awoke him. There was a sliver of window at the bottom of the pane where the blinds should have covered but couldn’t stretch far enough.

He would get those fixed at some point, he often thought. Conveniently, some point is an unspecified location in time, and engaging with it can feel like momentum toward a destination without having to do any actual work. Some point is a future he refuses to give up on but won’t commit to living out.

Every morning began the same. Typically somewhere within five to ten seconds of waking up, he would sear his eyeballs with his phone screen. He would say the phone screen’s brightness helped him wake up, but it was just an excuse to scroll Twitter and check the outcomes of sports games the night prior.

On this morning, his attention was diverted away from his Twitter feed when an email notification struck him.

Ryan Morrison
The Hottest Story in New York!

Hey Marshall,

Long time no talk! I’m so pumped I found your email address. Can’t believe it’s already been four years out of grad school. Feels like yesterday we were cracked out on coffee finishing didactics for Professor Gustafson’s class lol.

Your name came across my desk last week when we caught one of our editorial assistants surfing BuzzFeed during work hours. While I found your piece, ‘39 Habits That Will Take You From Chopped Unc To Baddie Overnight’ riveting, I can’t say this is the kind of work I saw you doing after grad school. Especially not the guy who spent his entire thesis arguing the Industrial Revolution was the most important literary influence of the nineteenth century.

But I get it, you need to take what you can get in this business. And I guess divine intervention, because I was on the phone with one of the editors at The Times yesterday, and they clued me in on a story they have, some bombshell about a missing woman. They can’t report it due to a conflict of interest, but in the right hands I think this could be the hottest story in New York.

I want you to write it. Come to the office Friday at 10 a.m. if you’re interested—unless you’re satisfied publishing listicles on BuzzFeed.

Ryan Morrison
Managing Editor
Wall Street Journal

Marshall sat up in his bed, bewildered at what he had just read. BuzzFeed is a perfectly legitimate gig, he thought to himself. Ryan was a good student and a talented writer, but the Wall Street Journal? I mean come on. Moreover, what could have possibly possessed him to think Marshall was the man for this story?

As Friday morning arrived, Marshall dug a three-times-worn collared shirt out from the depths of his closet in an effort to maintain an element of professionalism for his old college friend. He left a half-eaten slice of peanut butter toast and lukewarm coffee on the counter as he exited his apartment—simply the cost of not arriving late to this career meeting that fell out of the sky.

Marshall strode into WSJ headquarters with two minutes to spare, and was greeted by a dignified receptionist, short hair and striking a subtle smile but without nonsense. ”How can I help you?”, she asked, her demeanor fully at attention.

“Hi. I’m, um, supposed to meet Ryan Morrison here at 10 a.m.?” Marshall had become seldom used to having to employ a professional speaking tone.

The receptionist shuddered at the name and her disposition noticeably shifted. With an air of coldness, she said, “Mr. Morrison no longer works here.”

“I’m sorry, what? But I have this email—“

“Mr. Morrison has not worked here for several months, sir. I’m sorry I can’t help you.” The receptionist spoke right through Marshall, not even looking up from her computer.

“Wait, hold on... I’m sorry, what happened, exactly?” Marshall stammered.

“Unfortunately I can’t disclose that. Besides, I haven’t the slightest clue why you would be inclined to meet with an editorial assistant. Unless you had to retrieve a piece of mail.”

“Editorial assistant? Surely there’s been some kind of mistake. See, I’m also a journal—“

“That will be all sir, please. Have a nice day.”

Marshall sulked and dropped his head. “You too,” he muttered under his breath. If the receptionist’s curt manner wasn’t enough, his career opportunity seemed to have gone just as fast as it came.

He pushed on through the double doors separating the office from the sidewalk. A man leaning against the building smoking a cigarette caught his peripheral attention.

“Marshall?” he heard enthusiastically behind him. He turned around and his mouth fell agape.

It was Ryan. No mistaking it. Only, he looked a bit disheveled. His hair looked as if he had just rolled out of bed and on his body he wore the kind of graphic t-shirt you could only get at Urban Outfitters with sweatpants tucked into his socks-and-flip-flop combo.

“Dude, I’m so glad you came down. Thanks for meeting me. Sorry I’m a few minutes late.”

Marshall couldn’t hide his bewilderment. “Meet you? Ryan, that was awkward, embarrassing, and worst of all, a waste of my time! You don’t even work at the Wall Street Journal?! That receptionist might as well have spat on me after I said your name. What happened?”

“Dude, that place is a complete disaster. That woman in there, Deborah? Obsessed with me. Brought me the mail, like, every day. They won’t be in business much longer, anyway. Not after we publish your story.“

“My story?”

“Well of course, dude. That’s why I hit you up. We got the hottest story in New York!”

“Well...” Marshall relaxed his shoulders and unfurrowed his brows. “What’s the story?”

As if for theatrical effect, Ryan let the question hang in the air momentarily. At once, his expression turned deadpan as he responded.

“The Statue of Liberty is alive.”

“...Alive?” Marshall couldn’t believe his ears. At this rate, aliens could swoop down and abduct them and he would half expect it considering how the day was unfolding.

“Ryan, what are you talking about? Am I on some kind of TV prank show? Is Ashton Kutcher about to jump out from behind the bushes?”

“Marshall, I’m telling you dude. Once a year, every June 17th, she hops off her pedestal, swims to Paris, and swaps places with her replica cousin. Ever wonder why she’s shorter during the summer?”

Marshall took a deep breath. “Do you even hear yourself right now, Ryan? No wonder you don’t work at the Wall Street Journal anymore.”

“Dude, that’s exactly it. The Wall Street Journal knows. I was making copies late one night and some dude from France faxed in photos of the real statue set up in Paris. The city pays them to keep quiet and fired me after I was ready to blow the story up. I have videos, archived letters—I’ll email you everything later.”

Ryan spoke enthusiastically with his hands as he word-vomited his conspiracy theory to another human being for what seemed to be the first time. Marshall couldn’t help but feel like this was all one big practical joke. Then Ryan delivered the punchline.

“And I figured, you know, BuzzFeed would totally run something like this. No serious news outlet is going to pick this story up. This is like... a hydrogen bomb that blows up BuzzFeed and gives you a career-changing story!”

Marshall was struck. He could feel his eyes welling up with tears as he opened his mouth to respond, instead choking back a shaking voice. A sobering feeling it was to reconcile the concrete representation of his pursuits against what had so long been an abstract merry-go-round of false ambition.

Channeling Deborah’s attitude, Marshall replied with watered eyes, ”I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” He strode briskly away with a chorus of half-apologetic pleas from Ryan echoing behind him.

Marshall walked back into his apartment hoping he would wake up from the world’s most bizarre dream. With reality pressing on, he slung his backpack to the ground and checked his phone.

Ryan Morrison
Statue of Lib PROOF!!!

Unsubstantiated, Ryan had sent a catalogue of old blurry videos of the Hudson River, washed out comparison photos of the statue with its French counterpart, and a variety of old newspaper clippings speculating on the outlandish theory that the Statue of Liberty was in fact a sentient being.

A weekend passed marked by a lack of sleep. The blinds couldn’t bother Marshall much if he was already awake to beat the sunlight to the window.

“Perhaps this week will be better,” he thought to himself as Monday morning arrived. He clicked the Publish button on his next BuzzFeed installment.

Lady Liberty Takes a Swim
Marshall Evans

“No more homework! And an extra pizza day each week! My promises to you, Homestead, as your student council president!”

I couldn’t believe it. They were eating out of the palm of her hand. Did she even have that kind of authority? It was a losing battle if she had the inside track on abolishing homework. I mean, I know it’s the fifth grade, but even if Eve won the popular vote there’s no way her policies would advance through the principal’s office.

If you didn’t know any better, you would think the crowd just found out they were getting full sized candy bars only at this year’s Halloween. Eve told them what they wanted to hear, but I was going to tell them what they needed to hear. I was the right person for the job. She walked away from the podium and the cafeteria audience was now at my fingertips.

“To the students of Homestead, I should be your student council president because I would make a good student council president. My Grandpa told my parents that I was going to do something big someday, so when Ms. Tokarchik asked who from our class wanted to run, I raised my hand.”

My voice echoed through the cafeteria walls as if it was coin hitting the bottom of a well.

“If it weren’t for me, we never would have the playground rules put in place that required everyone to have to be picked for a team if they wanted to play kickball. Now everyone gets to play!”

This was a new feeling. I’m not getting any of the reactions I thought I would get. Why do I feel sad? Or is this embarrassment?

“And, um...”. My voice trailed off. “I think if you vote for me it will be like High School Musical every day. Like the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, I will be the powerhouse of Homestead!” (Ms. Tokcarchik had taught science that day).

I had completely lost them. I don’t think it matters how old you are— there is an undeniable feeling when a group of people is not responding to what you have to say.

“Thank you, Gavin!” Sensing a potential impending meltdown in front of the entire fifth grade, Ms. Tokarchik called my speech. Amidst a smattering of applause she ushered me out of center stage in the cafeteria.

The students were then told to write their votes on a sheet of paper and hand them in to be counted.

It took our teachers all of five minutes to tabulate the results. Eve won in what I only assume to be a landslide. So much for my Grandpa’s prophecy.

--

I trudged slowly into the front door to my Mom folding clothes in the living room, the Oprah Winfrey show humming in the background. “How was school Gav?”, she asked as she did every day. It’s one of the things that makes her so special. I don’t think she’s expecting the answer to be any different than it always is, which is ‘fine’. But if I were to ever say anything more positive or negative, she’s game to spend the rest of her night investigating the root cause. She was radically unconditional in her love. I could come home with a dead body and my mom would help me hide it.

“It was okay”, I responded somewhat dispiritedly. “Ms. Tokarchik asked who wanted to run for student council president and I volunteered.”

My mom perked up, her folding ritual coming to an abrupt halt. “Gav, that’s so exciting!,” she yelled proudly. “What happened? How did it go?” I had her undivided attention.

“Well, I, um...” I began stammering. Whatever image my Mom had of me, I had of myself. I was not the type of kid who got up in front of his classmates and embarrassed himself.

“I won!” What am I doing? Gavin - Jesus Christ quit while you’re ahead! “Everyone loved my speech!” I couldn’t help myself. With each passing sentence I dug the hole deeper. “Ms. Tokarchik said it was the funniest she’d ever seen someone give at Homestead!”

My Mom was beside herself.

“Oh my god!”, she screamed and gave me a big hug. “Why am I not surprised? You’re such a go getter!”

She was right. I was a go getter. But people are quick to award go getters only when they ‘get’ whatever it is they’re going for. The act of ‘going’ though often isn’t celebrated—yet it’s only in the going that you get what you set out for in the first place. People want all of the getting but none of the going.

Then why do I feel bad about going for it?

Because I’m lying about it, for one. The integrity of my entire pursuit was compromised.

My Mom was ready to party. “That’s it, we’re going to dinner tonight to celebrate! Red Robin. I’ll text Dad and tell him to meet us there from work.”

“Mom, please. It’s not that big of a deal”, I shrugged off with trepidation. I was fighting a losing battle.

”Nonsense!”, my Mom shouted gleefully. “Dad just texted me back and is on his way there now. Let me go freshen up and we’ll hit the road - I’m in the presence of royalty after all!”

I had completely lost control of the situation. My head was spinning as Oprah reviewed this month’s book club selection in the background. If only being temporarily uncomfortable was easier than prolonging my misery through dishonesty.

In a swift rush of motion, my mom hurried down the stairs and ushered me to the car. It was the longest 10 minute ride of my life. Okay, we’ll have dinner, and over dessert I’ll tell them the truth. They’ll understand. No harm done.

As we walked into Red Robin my Dad stood up and serenaded me with ‘Hail to the Chief’, looking proud as ever.

“Mr. President! Thanks for fitting us into your schedule. Congratulations buddy. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Thanks, Dad. But really, it’s not a big deal. Honestly now that we’re here maybe I should just be honest—“

On the precipice of my confession, our waitress greeted our table. Clearly having already conversed with my Dad, she excitedly exclaimed, “Well, this must be the man of the hour! Thanks for choosing Red Robin, your majesty. I’ll grab y’all a couple of waters.” She curtsied as she said this and I felt like I was going to throw up.

“How funny, we have another table just across the restaurant celebrating a presidential victory. Maybe you guys could have a summit!” She motioned to the aforementioned table and my nine years of life flashed before my eyes.

It was Eve. She was celebrating her *honest* victory with her family.

Upon the waitress’ recognition, Eve’s eyes met mine and she smiled. Like the outgoing and charismatic girl she is, she got up and made a beeline for our table.

“Hi Gavin!”, Eve said cheerfully. “What are the odds? I’m sorry about how things ended up today. Hey, if you’re open to it, maybe they would let you be my vice president!”

A palpable tension came over our table. In an instant, the jig was up and my parents saw through my lie. Thoughtfully, my Mom interjected and introduced herself.

“Hi there, I’m Gavin’s Mom. It’s so nice to meet you! Maybe we could arrange for you and Gavin to hang out some time? You two can figure out all your big plans with the fifth graders of Homestead!”

Eve didn’t miss a beat. “That sounds great! I’ll go ask my parents about it. See you tomorrow at school Gavin!”

The waitress traded spots with Eve as she sat waters on our table. “Can I get y’all anything to drink besides water?”

Without hesitation, my Mom replied: “We’ll have a milkshake for the Commander in Chief.”

Chris flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the curb as he piled into his 2011 Toyota Camry. He’d have to go a few miles over the speed limit if he wanted to make it to Colin’s ninth birthday on time. Fortunately, he wasn’t paid by the minute, and besides, the parents were typically so preoccupied at these things they wouldn’t notice the difference between him showing up on time or forty-five minutes late.

He popped a breath mint into his mouth and rolled down the windows in hopes it would dissipate the cigarette smell he carried around almost like cologne. His mother would be mortified if she knew the volume of smoke he was pumping into his lungs. Then again, as far as she knew, he was the hottest new magician Los Angeles had seen since Penn & Teller.

Chris’s agent, Timmy, got him this gig. Apparently, he’d been fraternity brothers with Colin’s dad in college.

“It’s all about networking, Chris. You meet the right person at one of these things and your career could skyrocket.”

Chris couldn’t fault Timmy’s optimism. He said he saw something “special” in Chris after watching him successfully hypnotize an entire bachelorette party at the Santa Monica Magician’s Showcase. That was three years ago, and now his primary clientele consisted mostly of children’s birthday parties, mid-level company retreats, and the occasional Carnival cruise session.

Chris heard his phone begin to ring. Glancing down, he saw it was Timmy. Surely it was the usual spiel.

My main magical client! Feeling good? Remember—magic is only half the gig here. The real trick is finding someone who’ll get you a spot at the Magic Castle. You call yourself the magician, yet I’m the only one pulling invisible gigs out of my Rolodex!

Timmy was uniquely gifted at making Chris feel just short of his abilities, as if he believed in him right up until the moment he had to vouch for him.

“What’s up, Timmy? I’m on my way to Colin’s right now. Like fifteen minutes out.”

“Dude! Chris. You gotta step on it, brother. One of the kids’ dads—or uncles or something—is an entertainment producer for the MGM Grand in Vegas. Apparently some of the magician residencies are going sideways and they need to fill a few openings. He said he’d watch your act, but he’s gotta run in like twenty minutes. Where the hell are you?!”

“Wow. Oh my God. Okay, I just turned onto Santa Monica and will be there as soon as I can. Please just stall as long as you can.”

“Chris, this might be as good a chance as you’re gonna get, buddy. The kind of thing that could change your career. I’ll let him know you’re on your way.”

Chris was met with the disconnect tone.

This could be his chance.

Chris knew he was a good magician. Not just oh wow, that’s cute good. Like, legitimately good. At this point, his pursuit was about timing. Not the kind of timing that makes a joke funny, but the kind where a relationship finally works out with your crush. The kind of timing you’ve been waiting your whole life for. It was about taking advantage of the moment—albeit brief—when the stars align just right and everything you’ve ever wanted sits at your fingertips.

How many dreams lie forgotten in the past because timing went unrecognized?

His heart was racing. Almost as fast as his 2011 Toyota Camry—which hadn’t seen this level of acceleration since Barack Obama’s second term in office.

Chris’s excitement turned to near hysteria when his eyes caught the rearview mirror.

Police lights.

Right behind him.

Almost as quickly as the Camry had climbed to sixty-five miles per hour, it precipitously fell back to zero. In a flashbulb moment, Chris knew what he had to do.

“License and registration, pl—”

“Pick a card, any card, officer.”

Deadpan, Chris held out the deck of cards he kept on him at all times. Magician’s code.

The officer paused, looking at Chris with bewilderment.

“Listen, sir. You were going thirty over the limit. I gotta give you a ticket. Now please, license and regis—”

“How about this, officer? You pick a card from this deck and slide it back anywhere you’d like. I’ll shuffle the deck, and if I can guess your card on the first try, then you have to let me go.”

“Son, I really don’t have time for this. Now you can either give me your license and registration or—”

Cutting him off, Chris reached behind the officer’s ear and pulled out his license and registration.

The officer paused again and grabbed the materials. Not that he’d ever say it, but he admired Chris’s aplomb.

Chris, still holding the deck of cards out, made one last plea.

“You gotta understand, officer. I’m on my way to perform at this birthday party, and my agent just called saying there’s this Vegas production executive there who’s gonna watch me, and I mean, it could be the big break I finally need. I’ve been out here so long and keep hitting dead ends, and I’m starting to wonder if I made the right choice, and I miss my parents, and—”

Chris’s plea had turned into lamenting long enough for him to realize the officer had taken a card from the deck and slid it back in.

Chris looked up.

The officer looked back at him and flashed an almost imperceptible smile.

“Go on then,” he said.

Chris quickly shuffled the deck with poise. After a few snaps of the cards, he drew out the seven of hearts. With every ounce of confidence in his body, he turned to the officer.

“This your card?”

The officer’s expression dropped.

“I’m sorry, son. That’s not my card.”

Chris wasn’t fazed.

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry. Got ahead of myself. Could you do me a favor and check in there?” Chris said, gesturing toward his license and registration. “Now, if memory serves, there should be a four of diamonds in there. The same one you just grabbed. How about that one?”

The officer’s expression turned stunned.

“That is my card! That’s gotta be one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen!”

It was like he was twelve years old again.

He handed Chris back his materials and nodded, signaling for him to be on his way.

“Thanks! You’ve been a great crowd!” Chris yelled as he sped off.

Chris shifted his Camry into park as he arrived at Colin’s house. Thanks to his roadside heroics, he figured he had somewhere between five and ten minutes to wow the prospective MGM producer.

He quickly glanced at the license and registration he’d tossed onto the passenger seat while getting out.

Should probably put that away.

Picking it up, the card centerpiece of his trick for the officer slipped from the stack and revealed itself.

Chris looked down.

Nine of clubs.

Nine of clubs? How is that possible?

His heart sank.

If he’d done the trick correctly, the officer should’ve pulled the four of diamonds.

He got the trick wrong.

Chris slowly stepped out of the car, having lost any hope of impressing the producer. He lit a cigarette, as if metaphorically splashing water on his face.

A gentleman on his way out of Colin’s house saw Chris smoking and couldn’t resist.

“Any chance you’d lend a smoke?” he asked warmly.

Without much acknowledgment, Chris pulled out his Marlboro Golds and handed him one.

“It’s funny—in my line of work, these things are everywhere,” the man said, striking up a conversation. “You’d think I’d have an aversion to them at this point.”

“What do you do for work?” Chris asked halfheartedly.

“I help manage some of the programming for the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Cigarette culture is still alive and well in that city.”

Chris’s posture immediately shifted.

This had to be the guy Timmy was talking about.

Without missing a beat, he opened the door to his Camry, shuffled together his deck of cards, and quickly turned back to the now-important stranger.

He held the deck out.

“Pick a card. Any card.”

I’ve always thought one of the worst feelings in the world is waking up just a few minutes before your alarm goes off in the morning. Conversely, waking up with hours to spare before your committed wake-up is one of the most incredible small victories that life has to offer. What’s fascinating about both outcomes is the common denominator they share: the few seconds that sit between the inadvertent wake-up and the comprehension of the time.

In those few seconds, everything is still ahead of you. The daunting proposition of extra sleep being ripped away from you vs. having another REM cycle at your disposal. Reality hangs in the balance ever so delicately.

This particular morning did not afford me any small victories.

7:58am Oh my god. A paltry two minutes separated me from reality, which, for all intents and purposes, has not been particularly kind of late.

You see, about three weeks ago my job at JCPenney put me on a 30-day PIP (performance improvement plan, if you’re unfamiliar). I find that PIPs are more often than not a company’s way of saying, “You’re not generating enough revenue, so unless you change that we’ll find someone who can.” I manage the women’s shoe department, which has seen a steady decline in sales over the last two quarters under my leadership.

As much as I argue JCP (how us penneyheads refer to the store) wasn’t carrying a robust enough collection of shoes for us to be competitive, they often cite my “inability to follow through” and “lack of established vision” as tenets of my underperformance. TL;DR: I was skating on thin ice.

JCP required all sales managers in-store at 8:30am for a team roundup on that day’s sales projections. At that rate, an 8:00am wake-up call typically gave me about seven minutes to shower, four minutes to arrange my hair and business casual outfit for the day, and whatever time I had left would usually be spent doomscrolling Instagram or checking the previous night’s college basketball scores. As long as I was out the door by about 8:18 or so, timing wasn’t an issue.

I was fortunate to have inherited my parents’ 2003 Mazda Miata, so even if I was running a few minutes behind, that piece would have no trouble making up time. On this morning, like all mornings, the check engine light nonchalantly illuminated the dashboard.

8:23am Okay, I’ve made up worse. Once the top had finished coming down, there was nothing standing between the Miata and JCP’s sales manager roundup. Wind blowing through my hair—what little still remains—nothing was going to stop me. Not even the two loud pops and smoke that started spilling out of the hood as I drove onto the freeway. If I didn’t make this morning’s roundup, I could kiss women’s shoes and all the amazing penneyheads goodbye. Besides, what’s really gonna happen? JCPenney is like five minutes away.

8:37am “Gavin, oh my god, you’re dripping sweat. Is everything okay?”

“Oh this? I was just listening to a really intense murder mystery podcast on the drive in. Sorry I’m a little behind everyone. So, what numbers are we shooting for today?”

Nailed it. I can’t believe my manager bought that.

And I’m telling you, the next three minutes were some of my life’s most triumphant—right up until the store’s security team sauntered up alongside two local police officers.

“Hey team, these gentlemen tracked someone in a Mazda Miata into the store who did some pretty serious damage a little ways up the road. Something about losing control and taking a few cars out. Y’all didn’t see anyone come in, did you?”

In a split second every penneyhead in the room laser-beamed their gaze at me.

Our store manager Jennifer did not waste any time. “If you didn’t know it, you would think Gavin’s Miata was his firstborn son.”

So much for loyalty.

For a moment everything slowed down. A beat—then my most audacious move to date: I ran. I ran like, well… someone trying to escape the cops. Never mind the damage I had done to at least three cars when my steering went out. Or the past-the-point-of-no-return damage I had done to the Miata. I was in too deep at that point. And quite frankly, it was the most alive I had felt in years.

2:04pm “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. My partner and I here are looking for a young adult male about 5’8”, wearing a collared shirt, heavily receding hairline. Anyone come around here matching that description recently?”

“Sorry sirs, not that I’ve seen. Been a quiet day here today. And it’s only been me working all day.”

Poor Jeanine. She was my waitress at Waffle House. Could’ve sworn I was home free—I just needed to get some heat off me. I told her the cops were trying to bust me for trying to steal bread to feed my family (there’s no way this girl had seen Les Misérables) and that if I went to jail my family couldn’t provide for themselves. Pityingly, she obliged and covered for me. Little did they know I was patiently laid behind the bar immediately out of eyesight—intently hanging on their every word.

“That’s quite alright, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

A pause as they shuffle out.

“Hey Steve. We’ve been looking around for a while now. What do you say we grab a couple waffles and regroup?”

7:15pm That was pretty much my undoing. As soon as they sat down to eat, Jeanine couldn’t hold it together. They asked for a root beer, which sat directly above my laying body, and when she couldn’t reach the spout they clocked that something was fishy. I made a bolt for it as soon as they smelled blood in the water. Cops caught up to me about 50 feet outside the door and brought me down.

It’s funny. I’ve been living the same version of life now for so long that I feel like I’ve stopped living and just started existing. Floating through the world without any coarse edges on me. Somehow burdened by everything but also nothing at all. But today I felt something. Like I took control of my life for once.

Anyway, sorry to keep going on, Randy. Great to meet you—I’m so excited to share a cell tonight. I’m Gavin, by the way.

1:28am Hey Randy, do you know how much longer we have to sleep?

Eleanor couldn’t help herself. Her parents were preoccupied with the flea market anyway. They won’t notice.

This was Eleanor’s time. They were too busy scrutinizing the same seven trinket stands they walked through every Saturday that summer to notice. She slipped across the street to a quiet local shop that had caught her eye some weeks prior. An alluring storefront, it was as gentle and colonial as any traditional architecture one might come across in New England. Dickie’s, the name read in tattered lettering.

Eleanor gently pushed the weathered shingle doors open and revealed a shop of singular charm. With elegance, it maintained the curated balance of a supremely common beach town gift shop alongside the antiquated character of a boutique that could only exist in a northeastern town whose age predates Eleanor’s own grandparents.

“Hello?” Eleanor’s voice rang out across a shop that felt far too delightful to be as empty as it was.

A yellow dress hanging on a rack across the shop caught her eye. To Eleanor’s frustration, the dress was without a price tag. Maybe her parents will buy it for her.

“Sure looks like a good beach day out there.”

Eleanor let out a modest gasp, startled as she turned around to find a dainty man, clearly along in years.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. I was just looking around—”

“Shop tends to get awful quiet on days like today. I think folks like making the most of the sun when it shines here.” The man looked at Eleanor with a tender smile. “You have a good eye. That dress is awfully pretty.”

Eleanor was flattered — she did have good taste. “I want to see if my parents will buy it for me, but I didn’t see a tag anywhere. How much does it cost?”

The man thought for a moment. “Usually, I would say $30 for a dress like that. But you and that dress go together so well. For you, I’ll do $20.”

“Wow, thank you, sir! Can you wait here? I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab my parents.”

The man smiled and nodded.

In an excited rush, Eleanor ran outside to corral her parents in for a deal they couldn’t dare pass up. After extensive pleading, Eleanor’s parents begrudgingly followed her into the shop.

Eleanor’s dad bemoaned, “Eleanor, sweetie. You have more clothes than you know what to do with. Besides, this weather isn’t going to—”

“Hello? Mister?” Eleanor called out. “Mister? I’m back! I brought my parents!”

A few rounds of this yielded no results — the old man was nowhere to be found.

“Okay, Eleanor, that’s enough. Clever thinking to get us here this way. We need to get going.”

Eleanor’s parents began ushering her toward the door.

“But wait!” Eleanor shouted. “I promise, he was just here like one minute ago.”

At that moment, a teenage girl emerged from the boutique’s storage room. No older than sixteen, she fit the profile of a town sojourner fulfilling a summer job.

“Hi there. Can I help you?”

Eleanor, equal parts perplexed and enthusiastic, did her best to convince her parents she was not delusional.

“Hi, I was just here talking to an old man who worked here and said he would sell me this dress for $20!” Eleanor gestured toward the dress. “Where did he go? My parents are buying it for me!”

“Old man?” the boutique employee responded. “I’m the only one scheduled to work this afternoon. Such a great beach day — it’s been awfully quiet.”

Eleanor’s mom quickly jumped in. “Eleanor, we don’t have time for this. Time to get home and clean up before dinner.”

“Well,” Eleanor sighed dejectedly, “he was definitely in here. If the dress is still here next week, will you buy it for me?”

Eleanor’s mom was fine with anything so long as it got them out of the store.

“Sure, Eleanor. If it’s here next week, then we’ll buy it for you.”

Playing right into Eleanor’s precocious hands, her mom’s restless withdrawal opened the door for mischief. Once they had enough distance from the boutique to play it off, Eleanor claimed to have inadvertently left her sunglasses behind.

“I’ll be right back. Just wait one second!”

Eleanor was going to hide the dress — she had to make sure no one could get it before her.

She moved quickly as she re-entered. Securing the dress, she had to find a place to stash it that wouldn’t attract attention. As she scanned the store, her eyes met the same storage room door she had seen the teenage girl emerge from earlier. Slightly ajar, it piqued her interest.

What better way to hide the dress than to get it out of the public eye entirely?

Eleanor sauntered slowly to the door when a pang of unease washed over her. She pushed through to reveal a desolate room, furnished only with a photo hanging on the wall directly across from her.

As she approached the photo, the image crystallized.

Eleanor was pictured standing between her parents after a day at the beach, wearing the very same yellow dress she was holding in her hands.

A familiar voice echoed behind her.

“I’ve always loved that photo.”

Eleanor nearly leapt out of her skin as she turned around to see the old man from earlier, greeting her with the same earnest smile that made him so endearing.

“Isn’t it funny how memories take different shapes over time? I suppose that’s the bargaining we do as we grow older. The less life you have ahead of you, the more you exist in the past — in your past, the version that’s comfortable. I loved your mother with all my heart. And how she loved you. What I wouldn’t give to step back into that moment in time together.”

Tightening her grip on the dress, Eleanor placed her father — aged tenfold from the man in the photo — waxing poetic about an image that stood still in their minds.

“…Dad? But I don’t understand.”

“How a memory exists for one person is often different for someone else. And the retelling of this story to yourself is simply a photocopy of your experience. What’s not a photocopy is how you’ll feel when you come back here next week and Mom buys you that dress. You can see it in how your smile comes through in our favorite photo.”

Eleanor stepped thoughtfully out of the shop to find her parents impatiently awaiting her return.

“I don’t see any sunglasses,” her dad lamented.

“Sorry. They must be at home. Let’s go find them. I’ll need them on a beach day like today.”

“We’re here with the Nicolau family.”

“Of course, you’ll be sitting on the left-hand side of the congregation. Please follow me.”

With a swagger and finesse that could only be compared to that of an accomplished performer, Will gracefully showed them to the next set of available seats on Alexandra Nicolau’s side of the wedding company. She was marrying her partner of five years, Ryan Perry. Ryan had been a close friend of Will’s since they were partnered up on a science project sophomore year of high school.

Returning to his post, Will saw a couple approach. They appeared to be roughly the same age as him. Will recognized the girl by way of previous social media posts featuring Ryan. As Will was preparing to say hello to her, she began in with a question, almost not noticing his attempt to greet her.

“Hey! You know Ryan rig—”

“We coincidentally happen to know both Alexandra and Ryan. Can we just grab a seat wherever?”

Brushing off her apparent lack of interest, Will’s alarms sounded. He had seen this kind of thing before. This was not a general admission concert. This was Ryan’s wedding—one of the most important days of his life.

“I’m sorry, we actually have a designation for shared guests of the bride and groom. Please follow me.”

Will was met with a patronizing eye roll, and her apparent boyfriend couldn’t help but scoff. They followed him, at the expense of what Will momentarily envisioned could have been a fun dance floor friendship later in the night.

It was all second nature to him. This was the seventh wedding Will had been asked to be an usher. In many ways, he felt it was an honor higher even than that of a best man. An usher was responsible for setting the tone for the entire ceremony. If one interaction went sideways, it had the potential to sour the experience of the guests and even those around them. Will treated his duty with the utmost honor.

Standing guard as patrons were beginning to approach in greater numbers, he felt a tap near the bottom of his midsection. He turned and looked down.

“Excuse me, are you an usher?”

It was a boy much younger than him, couldn’t have been beyond nine years old.

“My name is Joseph Perry. I’m Ryan’s cousin, on his mom’s side. Ryan asked if I could help usher today.”

Will’s head started spinning.

Another usher? he thought to himself, disgusted. I work alone.

Joseph began again. “So, what are we supposed to even do up here? We’re basically greeting people?”

Will couldn’t believe what he was hearing. As if it wasn’t enough that Will had to work with another usher, this kid was talking down all usherdom. He lacked any experience and was set up to fail.

What does Ryan see in this kid? Will thought to himself.

“Good luck, man. Just keep your head down and shut up.”

More wedding-goers began approaching. An older couple, presumably a set of grandparents, were shifting their walking line in Joseph’s direction.

“Hi there, we’re Richard and Eleanor Nicolau, Alex’s parents. Aren’t you cute?” the old woman voiced her affection for Joseph.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Nicolau! I can show you to your seats.”

Joseph extended his left arm in Eleanor’s direction, inviting her to use his support to walk to her seat.

“Aren’t you something? What a polite young man you are. Your parents must be proud.” They walked off giddily, laughing and commending Joseph for his chivalry.

Will was shaken to his core. A practice he had been fine-tuning across a six-wedding career suddenly felt fraudulent. A child a third his age stepped in and nonchalantly delivered one of the most affecting seat-showings he had ever seen. He hadn’t gotten a patron laugh until his fourth wedding ushering.

Will was having trouble catching his breath and found his way to the bathroom. Splashing water on his face and taking a long look at himself in the mirror, You’re a disgrace, he thought. Trying to compose himself, he heard a sniffle behind one of the stall doors. Will paused, unsure of what to make of it, until the sound persisted.

“Hey,” Will said tentatively. “…you okay in there?”

“Uh yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. I just need a few minutes.”

It was Ryan, through a choked voice. Will wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Ryan, it’s Will. Everything okay, man?”

“Oh Will… hey dude. Yeah, I’m alright. Classic pre-wedding panic attack, ya know?” Ryan said through a forced chuckle. “No turning back now.”

Attempting to rise to the stakes of the moment, Will awkwardly made his way into the stall neighboring Ryan, taking a clothed seat on the toilet.

“Weddings are weird,” Will said nervously, trying to console his friend. “I’ve showed dozens of people to their seats as an usher. And almost every time, the only thing anyone ever says is how beautiful the venue is. Or how excited they are to be there.”

“What else are they supposed to talk about?” Ryan choked out through tears.

“I mean, the couple that gives them a reason to be there. Love seems to take a back seat once its moment arrives. People spend money to be here, wear expensive clothes, hire babysitters. They sacrifice their weekends. They’re invited for the couple, but come for themselves.”

“I love Alex,” Ryan said with composure. “But all this? This day that’s supposed to be perfect. That’s not what our relationship is.”

Will thought for a moment. “Love is naturally imperfect. The fact that two people end up together at all is a miracle. What you and Alex have isn’t perfect. It’s unlikely. Almost as unlikely as making sure everyone sits where they’re supposed to.”

Ryan let out a quiet laugh as Will’s words sat in the air. “Maybe you should be my best man,” Ryan joked.

“No thanks,” Will stated proudly. “Now let me help you to the altar.”

It wasn’t until he read the writing on the cake from his coworkers that Lou became compelled to walk into Mr. Reginald’s office and finally say it:

“I’m done. I quit.”

Mr. Reginald sat stunned but, without much emotion, shook Lou’s hand and wished him well. He did not get up out of his chair to do so.

Lou returned to his desk to pack up his belongings. A 2021 “Originator of the Year” plaque, a miscellaneous collection of loose-leaf papers, and an old copy of The Alchemist. Lou thought he would have accumulated more to remember his tenure at Somnium and was briefly overcome with a pang of grief for a significant chapter in his life.

The natural adrenaline that accompanies any impulsive decision waned as Lou approached his reserved parking space for the final time. “There’s a beautiful indifference required to walk into the unknown,” he thought as he tried to convince himself of the soundness of his decision.

Driving off the lot, Lou passed under the familiar overhang that bid farewell to employees as they left every night. “Historiis narratae, alias inspirant.” Latin for “Narrated stories inspire others.” He always felt it was Somnium’s listless attempt to remind its colleagues of the supposed value of their work.

Somnium broke ground as a company in 2023, lauded by economists for its revolutionary approach to design and storytelling. Led by visionary founder Jeff Reginald, Somnium began partnering with school districts across the United States in search of the next great artistic jumping-off point. “Originators,” as they would be deemed, sought out the country’s precocious young students. Their role was simple: collect the literary and illustrative works produced by the highest-performing students and expand upon their creativity by way of input through algorithmic extrapolation. A series of novels, a collection of paintings, or the next summer blockbuster—Jeff Reginald’s Somnium intelligence programming could take any idea and expand upon it. He would go on to cite his basis for creating the company as a service to humanity. “We have lost our greatest artistic value—originality,” a point Reginald would belabor on earnings calls and summits alike.

Lou’s commute home was one of silence. No music, no podcasts—only the space around him. Attempting to process sound wouldn’t have allowed him to sit with the gravity of the decision he had made.

His apartment was modest and unassuming: one bedroom, one bath (though Lou liked to consider it a two-bedroom, as his kitchen doubled as his office). Where many of the neighboring residents surrounding him were married, some with children, he enjoyed the peace that came with an existence marked by solitude. He had a few romantic flings in his twenties, but that was a lifetime ago. The ends of his relationships were often characterized by “misaligned priorities,” as his partners would say.

He slowly meandered into his doorway and set his surprisingly small amount of belongings down before making his way to his desk. Opening the leftmost drawer, he sifted through stacks of old papers and notepads until finding an old green sticky note toward the bottom, folded in half.

“WE are the next great artists — J.R.”

Lou and Jeff Reginald first came up with the idea of Somnium together in 2019. Jeff was a charismatic and brilliant computer science major, and Lou an imaginative English major. Lou was a gifted storyteller who had a talent for identifying something that worked, and Jeff was a skilled programmer with a vision. Jeff would emerge as the natural leader of Somnium, but their partnership facilitated its success.

Their shared mission was inclusive of Lou’s desire to lift up original storytelling alongside Jeff’s savvy identification of a hole in the entertainment market. Lou was the first Originator, collecting artistic infrastructure to feed to Somnium’s intelligence program. Somnium had revolutionized what it meant to tell a story. Their program successfully identified three movie franchises, a series of sci-fi novels, and twelve of what are now considered the most influential pieces of contemporary art of the twenty-first century.

Lou threw the green sticky note back in the drawer, filing it underneath his complimentary copy of Galactic Chicken IV: Battle for the Farm, by Somnium.

Where Lou saw an exploitative numbers game of ideas across a generation less familiar with artistic tropes, Jeff saw the new creative frontier. “We’re ushering in a new era,” Jeff would reiterate in board meetings. Lou had trouble knowing where to place his sense of artistic self-righteousness—with Jeff or himself.

Lou and Jeff grew apart over the years, Jeff having started a family and becoming the de facto face of Somnium. Lou struggled to come to terms with Somnium’s success and questioned his role in influencing art.

It wasn’t until earlier that day, celebrating Somnium’s ten-year anniversary, that he walked away from the life he had known. He thought back to the writing on the cake:

“Thank you for telling Somnium’s story.”

It will be so sweet. This is The Blueberry Box.

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