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.

Subscribe now