One day, Glen brought a sword to work. This surprised all of us really. We only knew as much about each other as small talk over sports or TV around the water cooler could produce. We knew Glen was recently divorced; we knew he had been with the company longer than some of the management staff. We also knew that Glen sometimes would sneak some whiskey into his coffee and occasionally played solitaire on his computer instead of doing work. We did not know that Glen carried a sword.
The commotion over the sword was slow to start. We first noticed it in passing Glen's desk space. Our mouths went slack as our attention was drawn to the gleam of the brightly polished hilt. The blade, three and a half feet long, reflected a glare from the office lights, and the air seemed to crackle with an energy previously unfelt in the confines of a cubicle. A hum of power accompanied the glint from the blade, which met up at length with a finely etched golden handle. The gold was entwined with yellows and whites, branching out to form a traditional "T," and at the center rested a single deep green gem. It was straight out of some mythical book: classic, traditional and powerful. Glen assured us that the gem and gold were quite real. Not that we questioned the authenticity. Just standing there, listening to the air around the sword hum, we knew such magic and power could not be artificially produced.
We didn't ask where Glen had gotten the sword. It was a marvel to behold and we probably would have stood transfixed by it all day if Wendy from processing hadn't walked by.
We all knew what was coming, of course. Wendy's talent for simultaneously talking and inhaling at the same time was legendary. It gave her the ability to never lose steam, depriving her listener any chance of escape. Really the only way to avoid an earful of Wendy is to stay out of earshot or simply pick a topic she can't use. These topics include, but are not limited, to the following: Water, air, bathroom habits and sex (the latter due only to her strict adherence to company policy). This list does not include swords.
"Oh my, look at that gorgeous thing! Is that yours, Glen? It sure is wonderful. I can't imagine why you might want to bring such a thing to work but my, it is pretty, isn't it? I suppose that must be why you brought it to work. I once thought about bringing in a clock piece but, oh my, look at that gem, is it real? Really? Simply amazing. And what is that little humming noise? What a relaxing feeling! Has Bob seen this yet? He really might enjoy that you know. My, well you could just put that up right on your wall there by your calendar and, well, no, you'd have to move the post-its…"
Admittedly it was cruel of us to leave Glen at the mercy of Wendy's lungs, but we had work to do, and none of us could really stand her anyhow. Besides, we all thought, Glen's got that sword if he really gets desperate… However, none of us were satisfied with just one visit with the sword and we planned on making a return trip during lunch.
* * *
The sword and Bob met for the first time during lunch. We were all standing around Glen's desk, assessing the fine details of the sword while Glen drank his Slim Fast shake and worked on his reports, when Bob worked his way through the crowd and approached Glen's desk. Bob was what all of us in programming referred to as "the Goat." His authority rested just above ours, but in such a way that if the shit ever hit the fan, his job would be the first to go, not ours. Unfortunately, Bob was unaware of his disposability, and often overstepped the small authority granted to him.
"Hey, buddy," Bob said (he called all of us "buddy" or "pal"). "I heard that you got some fancy tool here. Wow-wee. Check that out." He whistled low and sweet, like he was scoping-out a finely tuned automobile. "Well, that sure is a looker. Anyhow, just wanted to check to see that it wasn't in the way or anything."
Glen nodded, paying little attention to Bob as he downed his shake.
"Well, looks like you got a fine paper weight here." He rapped the desk with his knuckles, looked at his watch and turned to all of us. "Hey guys, let's get that data finished by 4 o'clock, I'd appreciate it. And let's not try to lounge in the office because it sets a bad example—"
We all took this as a sign to disperse for the afternoon.
* * *
Glen kept the sword by his desk. Word spread quickly throughout the building. Glen's cubicle became our new break spot. We even moved the water cooler closer so that we didn't need to stray too far. By the end of the month there was a set line of action involving Glen, his sword, stopping by the desk and circulating our wonderment throughout the office place. It hadn't gone so far as to distract us from our jobs, but Bob was paying special attention to the developing pattern. It was only a matter of time, we figured, before he would try to alter the shape of things.
We began to develop the idea that Bob was plotting against the sword. He would often spend weekends in his corner office and whenever anyone cast an eye toward his lair, the blinds were hastily drawn shut.
* * *
For one brief moment the sacred sphere that encompassed Glen's sword was broken. As had become the norm, we were all at lunch idly chatting around Glen's desk. Glen was sitting on his desk telling us how his weekend had gone. The sword lay beside him and his hand played idly with the hilt as he talked. With the sword now in his life, Glen was feeling much more alive and full of zeal than he had in previous years. He had taken up golf and found his stress level had decreased dramatically.
As was sometimes the case during this hour, Dave from the mail room would make his rounds, delivering memos, letters and of course passing the idle chit chat. Word of the sword had reached Dave but until that day he had yet to actually encounter it. Dave the Foolhardy (we all half admired his youthful ignorance), let his eagerness get the best of him that day.
"Hey, nice sword."
In the same movement that his hands delivered their load unto Glen's desk, they reached out curiously and wrapped around the hilt of the sword. The air grew quiet. We all stopped ourselves in mid chat and swallow. All eyes hovered between the movements of Dave and Glen, which were suspended in time.
Dave heard the voices die immediately, and the sword quivered in his hand. Unsure (some would say afraid), he looked toward Glen, who sat sternly at his desk. Glen's back was erect. His mouth drew tight, and his eyes burned straight into the mail boy's skull. A slight movement of Glen's head gave only the subtlest of negative motions, and Dave quickly and quietly withdrew his hand.
We all watched as the sanctity of our relic was restored. Dave had paid a dear price for his transgression; he was shunned by all of data processing and we didn't see him for many months. When he did return from his shamed exile, Dave told us he had felt something warm in the sword but, as soon as he had touched it, the warmth vanished. Only Glen was worthy of possessing the sword, and his control of it was never again disputed.
* * *
"I never had a sword." Glen told us one day at lunch. "I always admired the look and nobility that went with a sword, but I never had one. And then I got one. I decided I'd had enough of admiring what I didn't have."
He went back to his sandwich and game of solitaire while we reveled in the sheer bravado of his statement. A flash of light passed over the sword's blade, causing admiration for both the sword and Glen to well up within us.
* * *
Glen began to take on charges. At first he limited his time with just one or two of us a day but in the end, he realized that many of us too, sought to have what we admired. The first he took under his wing was Barry, who had the reputation of being the fastest typist on the floor as well as being a two-time heart attack survivor. Glen coached Barry in the art of playing solitaire at work, and almost immediately Barry's stress level went down.
Then there was Lance, the only one among us who was capable of fixing the office equipment after a malfunction. Glen talked Lance into using his handyman talents at home instead of the office. Lance successfully expanded his kitchen and self-esteem.
They gathered around the water cooler on a regular basis, boasting of their successes in living. Soon to join were Wayne, master of the fax machine, Greg the lord of overtime and Casual Day Rick who was always dressed tropically. The assembly had grown to encompass so many of us that even those who had not been initiated in self fulfillment felt they rightly belonged amongst those worthy.
Small pots of ferns and then brightly colored flowers began appearing in cubicles. Next to pictures of smiling children and adoring spouses were placed cutouts from magazines in the break room that depicted some far off landscape, beach or mountaintop. Peppermint sticks and lollipops replaced pencils and pens, and someone painted a large grin on the face of the clock that hung over the men's bathroom. Glen oversaw each new change in the workplace with a smile on his face, a cup of water in one hand and the sword in his other.
* * *
Glen even took Bob under his wing. He reasoned that he should use his seniority and knowledge to diminish the gap between middle management and us grunts.
Bob was enthusiastic at first; he partook in his first several water cooler sessions with the ease of someone who had always fit in. He laughed at the jokes regarding the suits higher up in the company, and he told a few good zingers himself. He even stopped wearing his necktie, but then things began to change.
"I just feel we should make this whole thing bigger, Glen."
"It's as big as anyone wants it to be, Bob."
"Yes, but we could really make it official. Like a club you know? Create an organization name, elect members of the board, collect weekly dues, set up a member roster and just take this to the next step." We watched as Bob pulled out a list from his pocket as he spoke. "Now I've done some thinking and—"
Glen patted Bob's back, chuckled and said, "Bob, I think you're missing the point a little. We help everyone get what they want out of life by not being an organization."
Bob shook his head and said, "But what I want is to make this bigger, to oversee the whole thing. And I want a sword too."
Our eyes and ears became locked on the figures of Bob and Glen. A direct challenge had been issued to the singularity of our icon, and it could not be ignored. Glen stopped patting Bob's back and withdrew his hand. Bob tapped his list against his leg and waited expectantly. The second hand on the wall clock ticked louder and louder until finally Glen spoke, "Bob, I'm going to have to ask you not to spend your break time around the water cooler socializing with your subordinates."
The tone in Glen's voice was clear, and Bob took a step back in shock. Then he tightened his jaw, straightened his back and crumpled up his list. He let the balled up paper drop to the floor before he stalked off back to his office.
The next day Bob's necktie reinstated itself, and the distance between middle management and us grunts returned to its normal size.
* * *
The new guy in resource management heard Glen had a sword. The next day, he came to work wearing a makeshift suit of armor. The armor was all hodge-podge, plate mail, painted black like an old kettle, and looked like he cobbled it together from old pieces of metal and mixed it with some genuine components. His chest plate resembled half of a Volkswagen hood welded together with the backside of a canoe. His arm pieces were made of rag tag aluminum siding cut and bent to give his arms some freedom for movement. The siding met up at length with a pair of genuine-looking gauntlets. His helmet looked legit too, although it was equipped with a rather loose sliding face plate. Every time he moved his head, the thing slammed shut like a car trunk.
We all were buzzing with curiosity when we went to examine this challenger of oddity.
"So, New Guy, where'd you dig up the suit?"
"Ah, I made it myself. Built it once for a renaissance fair, thought I might want to show it off. You know Glen's got a sword—" The visor slammed down shut, muffling the last bit of speech. His voice reverberated in the metal cage like a frog in a tin can.
"Does it get hot?"
He lifted his visor, suit creaking. "No. But going to the bathroom is a real bitch. This thing takes me an hour to put on." The sound of scraping metal accompanied New Guy as he shifted toward his keyboard. "Well, I got to get this report finished. After work, do you guys want to—" His visor shut again.
We didn't stick around to give New Guy time to finish his proposal.
* * *
Later that week, Bob and Glen had another altercation. Bob didn't like the idea that people were now showing up wearing suits of armor. We noticed that Bob looked different; his skin seemed paler and his finger nails looked more ragged and longer. His shirt was untucked and the elbows on his jacket were worn thin.
"What's next?" he said. "Somebody comes to work in a chariot?"
Glen was cool. "Wrong era. Chariots were Roman, long before medieval times." He kicked his feet up on his desk and with one hand flipped through the weekly memo while he stroked the warm metal of the sword with his other. The hum of the sword seemed a content purr.
"Either way buddy, I can't have this going on. It's really starting to affect performance and well, I just don't want to see it get any more out of hand. This is an office." Bob seemed to sweat when he talked. His eyes looked yellow; each time he glanced at the sword his pupils would expand and his tongue would roll over his teeth.
Glen sensed Bob's precarious grip on reality. Like a pro he shifted the blade around his desk and set it to rest peacefully against his cubicle wall. He sat up right, feet off his desk, and looked at Bob. "Yes, it is an office."
With that he turned toward his computer and, at a standard pace, returned to processing the days' data. We all took to doing the same. Bob was left completely out on his own. His fists squeezed on imaginary stress balls as he pounded back to his office, slammed the door and dropped the blinds down.
* * *
The following week, New Guy was stripped of his metal duds. It turns out that typing in a plate mail is harder than it looks. The clanking and creaking echoed all throughout resource management. Due to his drop in performance and the noise complaints, he was called into the office and asked to remove his armor.
While none of us were present at the de-armoring, we did hear from New Guy that Bob had made a point to personally collect complaints regarding the armored typist. According to New Guy, Bob lit up with glee as each piece of armor was removed. When New Guy tossed his gauntlets onto his pile of armor, he heard Bob give a dark chuckle.
"I was getting tired of wearing it anyhow." New Guy told us, shrugging his shoulders. Then he went on to invite us to a barbeque he was throwing that week. "It's gonna be boss!" he said. We all respectfully declined.
* * *
We were shocked to find one day that our water cooler had been returned to its original place. Even more shocking was the thick bolted lock and chain wrapped securely around the cooler's mid section. A manila envelope was taped to the side with, "Do Not Move - Management" written in bold black marker.
Casual Day Rick thumbed the collar of his Hawaiian shirt and said what we all knew. "That's Bob's handwriting."
Bob's handiwork also appeared in memos banning candy and flowers from the office citing, "possible allergic reactions may occur." A sign in the break room asked that all employees refrain from defacing the magazines and the smile on the clock above the men's bathroom vanished overnight.
The Goat was growing more fearless and inventive. Both were traits we didn't care to see. However, none of us were aware of how far Bob was willing to go.
* * *
The following Monday Bob had his final confrontation with Glen. Although not all of us were present, after some careful conversations, we were able to piece together the events that occurred:
Bob, flanked by officers, gingerly rubbed his palms together as he approached Glen's desk. Glen didn't seem to pay any attention to the visitors at his desk until Bob spoke.
"Hey there, guy. Look, I just reviewed the company safety codes." Bob licked his lips and gnashed his teeth together. His eyes bulged at the sight of the sword. "It turns out that weapons, particularly non-sheathed blades, knifes or daggers of any type, just aren't allowed here." He shrugged his shoulders as if there was nothing he could do about it, but his expression of joy said otherwise.
"So," Bob paused, savoring the taste of imminent victory. The sound of his serpentine tongue rolling across his cracked lips and the slick of the sweat squeezing between his palms seemed doubly amplified. His hair hung loose like his clothes, and his tie was left undone. His clothes were wrinkled and patches of his skin were unclean. He smelled of cigarettes and sweat. The uneasiness of the officers reflected the degenerated hygienic state of our Goat.
Finally, he pulled his lingering victory out of the air. "So, if you don't have a scabbard of any sort, I'm afraid that I just can't tolerate that sword here. You can either hand it over to me or these officers. I just can't allow you to have it hanging about dangerously in the office anymore."
Glen didn't say anything. For a moment he seemed stunned, speechless. Bob stood beside his desk, lurking, still not yet daring to take away Glen's sword. What else could Glen do? Slowly, deliberately, he stood from his chair. He looked Bob long and hard in the eyes. Glen's brow was dark and his expression was rigid. He reached out and grasped the hilt of his sword. Then his expression changed.
Some of us thought it was the feel of the metal in his hand. Or maybe it was the weight of the sword pulling on his arm. For a moment he stood, gripping the weapon in just one hand, half lifting, and half yielding to the power of the blade. For whatever reason, Glen's brow softened slightly. He smiled and turned to Bob, who took little notice of the empowering force of the sword. Glen's smile grew bigger until his teeth showed. He shrugged his shoulders at the men gathered in front of his desk and then he looked once more at the sword in his hands.
Glen raised the sword above his head in one hand. He held it high and the light from the office fluorescents reflected pale blue off the metal. Bob took a step back as Glen wielded the weapon above the reaches of the cubicle walls. The sword shone and hovered there for a moment more. Then, Glen inverted the blade and brought it slicing down directly into the desk below. The desk held, the metal blade buried deep into piles of paper, folders and wood. Glen's hand rested for a moment more on the hilt of the sword. Sending a look of daring towards Bob and his goons, Glen removed his hand, leaving the sword embedded in the desk.
Bob looked at the sword confused and fearfully. He and the guards had backed off several feet when Glen brought the sword down, and only after several minutes did the snake dare inch forward again. Glen stepped away from his desk, folded his arms and waited. The guards hung back looking at each other, shrugging their shoulders and muttering.
Finally, one of them spoke, "Well, I'd say it's pretty secure now."
"Yep," the other one shook his head in an affirmative. "Definitely no safety issues I can see." Neither tested the hold of the desk, but their assurance that the sword would rest safely was echoed by the words of Glen.
"Yes, it is sheathed. For now and all time. It shall rest here, in this desk, for an eternity. Beyond the years of myself, beyond the grips of the cubicles, beyond the funds in this company's pension plan. This sword will lay in wait, never disturbed, never more disturbing. And all shall know that now it is sheathed and that the power it once displayed is sheathed along with it. Sheathed, but not forgotten. And when the time comes, when the ages have passed and this company has been traded for the umpteenth time, only then shall the desk yield to the pull of another. One who is worthy to wield this sword, this mammoth letter opener." Glen's words filled the air conditioned office, and as if in assurance from afar the water cooler burped a bubble of air.
Bob was broken. His mouth hung open, his eyes glassed over. His tie came loose and slipped to the ground. It sounded like an earthquake. Had he the energy, Bob would have pulled every strand of hair from his head just then. But his arms hung lifeless. His lip shivered when he dismissed the officers and slunk back to his corner office.
* * *
The next day there was report of inaccurate number punching and a huge set back with the company budget. Accounting had a field day sorting through misfiled requests and researching profit margins. Bob's number was called up to the head office and The Goat was summarily placed upon the corporate chopping block. His position was vacated and nullified. The company decided it would be wiser to not refill the position. Shortly afterwards, the water cooler was liberated and returned to its proper spot. Although none of us were certain as to his life beyond the company walls, some speculation suggested that he had taken up employment selling sunglasses at the local mall.
* * *
The sword wasn't long awaiting suitors. Even as Glen sat at his desk and pretended to work, the sheathed sword played host to a group of suits. Amongst them of course were the standard big-wigs. All had names we had heard of, but faces we'd never seen. V.P. of Marketing: Ron. Head of H.R.: Steven. Several executives: J. C. Roberts, A.J. Shaw and Suzanne B. Jones. Along with their suits and ties, they brought half the alphabet in acronyms and initials.
They stood in front of Glen's cubicle for a bit, clearing throats, crossing arms and viewing the challenge that lay before them. Little attention was paid to Glen, who sat only a foot behind the sword, occasionally looking over his shoulder at the group. He raised an eyebrow occasionally, and we all waited for the moment when one of them would take the dare.
The first to try was Ron. He was small framed and balding, and his suit looked to be a size too big. We almost expected him to pull back into his collar and cuffs like a turtle, but he did no such thing. Instead, the flipped his wrists out, stepped up to the sword and placed his hand upon the hilt of the sword nonchalantly, as if it were the handle of a coffee cup. He chuckled off his possible jitters to avoid losing face to his comrades and pulled on the sword. True to Glen's words, it did not budge.
"Hmm, must be in pretty tight," Ron said and wrapped both hands around the hilt and tugged. Still the blade did not slide from the desk. Ron began spasmodically to tug on the sword, still nervously chuckling as if he couldn't help himself. As if the sword was to blame. Steven from H.R. put his hand on Ron's shoulder and asked for a try.
And so, one by one the suits tried in vain to remove the sword. It was an entertaining display for all of us in the office. We would have paid it no mind but the panting, chattering, chuckling and banging of the desk could be heard even in the most remote of cubicles. At one point Suzanne B. got up on the desk and stood over the sword, planting both feet firmly and pulling upward. Her extra leverage did little to help and instead when her hands slipped she went flying off the desk and into the crowd of execs.
Glen had lost interest by this time but we were all entranced. The sheer boldness of the suits surprised us in the first place but what was even more surprising was their inability to comprehend the futility of their situation. Had they not heard Glen's prophecy? Did they not hold the sword sacred?
After a half hour they stopped, each of them bent over like dogs, panting, heaving and gasping for air, their hot wind reserves long since tapped out. Between wheezes we could hear Ron talking, "I…think it'd be…better to try sometime…later…"
"I'm not…much of a …sword person."
"I wouldn't know…what to do with…it anyhow."
"I agree."
"Same…here."
They quietly composed themselves, and the sounds of their breathing returned to normal. After several adjustments of ties, cuffs and slips, they looked about and nodded. "Good job here Glen. You've got a really productive work area." They rapped their knuckles on Glen's desk and nodded amongst themselves and just like that, they were gone. Only the business cards drifting in the air were proof that they had ever ventured so far from their conference rooms.
* * *
Glen's words became gospel. Somebody made a portrait of the man and hung it for all to see in our break room. Below it read a poem detailing the epic confrontation between Glen and Bob.
The sword never lost its luster or shine. Rumor had it that the night janitor took a solemn vow to uphold the sanctity of the desk. Wendy revealed that she had walked in one night to find him lighting candles and kneeling before the sword. We found this a very probable reason for the sword's undying shine. None of us had seen Glen personally attend to the upkeep of the entombed blade. Whether this story held any validity or not, the rumors continued to circulate.
* * *
Ultimately, the theory of the sword's continuous shine passed through speculation, into wonderment, and eventually became an accepted reality. The rumors of what company secrets lay trapped in the papers impaled by the sword became a bit of wild gossip. Even the question of the desk's power to hold the sword was raised. Each of these passed as the years went by and the program rollouts came and went. There were other "new guys," Goats were hired and fired, systems were upgraded, positions were vacated, created and deleted. The company changed hands twice, and the senior V.P. retired, only to be replaced by an eager-eyed pup none of us had heard of.
Then Glen retired. He had invested early on, and now his 401K was full and ripe. His would be a comfortable retirement full of afternoon tea and time spent outdoors at golf courses. At his retirement party, someone made a cake shaped like his sword in the desk. He laughed as we made jokes about his age, and somebody gave him a bottle of candy labeled "worry free pills." We all agreed that the water cooler was producing delightfully fresh, cool water that day and we all stayed and listened to Wendy as she told the tale of Glen. She spoke softly and kindly, pausing at each important detail, sharing knowing looks with those of us with seniority and sage looks with those who had not been present. Many years had gone by but the event still bound us to each other indefinitely. Finally, with a look of deep respect to Glen, she sniffled abruptly and buried her nose in a napkin.
* * *
The sword, as Glen had prophesied, stayed in the office, remaining in the same cubicle that went unfilled after Glen left. Somebody placed the portrait of Glen on the wall behind the desk and plugged in several small lamps to light the hallowed ground.
* * *
Every day, we pass by the cubicle coming into the office and going home. The spot remains unspoiled, quaint and reflective. The air is always cool, and the slight hum of some forgotten power tickles the hairs on the backs of our necks. Our steps are lighter there, and our cheeks tug upwards in smiles as we breathe in a refreshing smell of push pins, printer toner and the sounds of keyboard clatter. When we go home, hitting the last light switch off and draping a veil of dark throughout the office floor, we look back and see the small lamps still gently lighting the cubicle where Glen had worked. The glint of sword metal and the polished green gem blink a good-bye of sorts. And daily, as we turn to leave, we wonder if it's the air conditioning or something more that hums so contentedly.
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