Ryan is coming for you. An irresistible force, a seduction of lingering eye contact, symmetrical features, and trim-fit business shirts. And the cologne. So subtle you’re not aware of it until he’s left your cubicle. Spicy with a hint of musk.
He comes for both men and women. Ryan is powerful, you see. He has charisma. It’s a virus people hope to catch if they spend enough time with him. You’re no different, but we don’t judge. At some point, we too daydreamed of him visiting our cubicles and were disappointed when he never showed up. Unlike you, we lack promise.
So, we peer over cubicle walls and watch with pity as Ryan sits on your desk, his trim buttocks resting on its edge, his designer loafers crossed on the floor in front of him. He tells a joke. He imparts his tribal knowledge. You gaze up at him from your chair like a child.
Ryan uncrosses his loafers, slaps his thighs. He’s about to leave, and you’re sad but also relieved because you haven’t said anything stupid yet. He fixes you with eyes as warm as soup and asks for a favor. A small one. It’s outside your job description, but you agree to do it. He touches your shoulder, and his cologne will linger on that spot for the rest of the day. Once he’s gone, you neglect the brief your boss is expecting so you can jump on that favor.
You don’t see your boss’ face when he passes her office, but we do, how it reddens with shame. A few months ago, he paid her a visit. He walked around her desk and planted that firm fanny of his next to her keyboard in a way so intimate it flirted with being disrespectful. Your boss’ lips wore a tight smile but her eyes melted. At the department meeting the next morning, she defended his proposal, probably hating herself while her heart fluttered. We know because her hands shook while she fiddled with her earrings.
The proposal was a disaster. The execs now question your boss’ judgment. He, however, was praised as a risk-taking visionary whose ideas sometimes miss the mark.
Ryan drained your boss of her cache, but others’ fate is worse. Like that poor kid with the offbeat sense of humor. We liked him. He was smart but unpolished. One day, Ryan invited him to lunch. And then to happy hour. Under his influence, the kid lost his awkwardness and was promoted to another department. When we see him in the cafeteria, he doesn’t acknowledge us. We hear he’s hard on his direct reports and as serious as death. He saves all his jokes for Ryan.
We fear the infection has spread outside the company. To jewelry store managers and school psychiatrists. To neighbors who don’t stop to chat and family members who correct our grammar. To politicians and celebrities. Easy smiles and trim physiques. Their smooth confidence that they will get what they want from the rest of us—these are the symptoms. Somehow, Ryan has corrupted them all.
This is why we made a pact.
We knew Ryan wouldn’t be able to resist you, the good-looking new employee who’s proven to be a hard worker. He smells your promise. He begins visiting your cubicle frequently. When we overhear his suggestion to grab a beer on Friday, and we’re alarmed. We huddle in the supply room, a cadre of portly polo shirts and plain sweater sets. We make a plan, but we lose the two of you on the crowded train.
We spend the rest of the evening speculating about what he has in store for you—proposals and presentations, trips to overseas offices, visits with important clients. The next day we meet again in the supply room and strategize to save you.
His special projects keep you at the office late. This has made our task easier. It’s the time of year when it gets dark early, and it feels like midnight as we watch you step onto the sidewalk. The street is empty, and your steps resound off the concrete like a clock ticking down. You wear earbuds so you don’t hear us catching up with you. You don’t hear us at all as we grab you from behind and cover your mouth with a handkerchief.
#
You’re adjusting more slowly than we had hoped. We’ve set traps for the vermin and started giving you vitamin D to counteract the lack of sunlight. We look forward to the day we can unchain you from the wall, but for now, we hope you see it as a safety precaution, not only for ourselves, but for you as well. We regret injuring your leg during the struggle. It doesn’t seem to be healing right, so we may need to rebreak it. That won’t be pleasant for any of us.
Trust us when we say we are saving you from having to bear witness to our world’s demise. Ryan’s final triumph seems all but certain. We see his replication in leadership across the city, the state, the country. We recognize it on our screens when world leaders meet at mountaintop retreats and drink espresso from ancient porcelain, their pinkies held aloft like a secret sign.
We may need to attack. Or find a way to end our suffering in the most painless way possible. We will inform you of our final decision.
In the meantime, here is a blanket. Here is a cup of water. Here is a piece of wood to bite on while we work on your leg.
LAURA KNAPP’S fiction has appeared in Prairie Schooner, The MacGuffin, Juked and other publications. After spending years wandering in a cubicle wilderness, she wrote a suspense novel that satirizes the corporate world and is looking for representation.
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