Agency

In Which Niall Gets a New Desk

the next morning

The entire population of the third floor watched with rapt attention as David carried a cardboard box from the elevator doors toward the third-floor creative team room. He held his head high on a rigid neck, with all the dignity of a uniformed soldier bearing the remains of a fallen brother. Shanti, who didn't mean to gawk but couldn't look away, could have sworn she heard a ghostly rendition of Taps floating through from a parallel universe.

As David passed solemnly through the gathered crowd, he took care not to make eye contact with anyone, his face set in a neutral mask.

The moment he was safely through the art department's door he halted, using a great deal of self-restraint not to click his heels together military-style, and barked at Martin (who was lying in his usual spot on the team couch, idly flipping through the latest issue of Owl Magazine).

"Martin! Close it behind me."

Martin threw his magazine behind a pillow and got up to help, surprised by the tide of onlookers that seemed awfully interested, for once, in him. He smiled apologetically as he pulled the door closed.

"Thank you," said David from whom any show of gratitude was unexpected and therefore alarming.

"Why? What's going on?" asked Martin, who really had no idea.

David handed Martin the box gently and said, "Take this for a moment. Be careful with it."

Martin peered inside. It appeared to be an odd assortment of hacky sacks, loose pens, a glass paperweight with a four-leaf clover suspended inside, and an oversized tea-stained mug that he'd seen Niall slurping from.

"Is this Niall's stuff? Why do you have it?"

For the briefest of moments, Martin wondered if the big guy had croaked it. Or, even better, gone and gotten himself fired? But as it turned out, the truth was, in a way, worse.

David goose-stepped over to his own desk -- the best one in the room, being right beside the only window and having the corner at its back which gave it the sense of being its own little office even if the walls were imaginary in Les Nessman fashion. He gathered the minimal contents of his desk, picked them up in a single armload and deposited them on Martin's desk. Then, with great reverence, he took Niall's box back from Martin (who was still entirely perplexed by all this) and brought it over to the cleared off desk.

As he unpacked and placed each of Niall's items on what had been his own desk just a moment ago, carefully putting them in precisely the same spot they'd been on what had been Niall's desk before he'd gone to collect them, David tutted and explained the situation to Martin as though he was a dim-witted child:

"Niall has been asked to move from the fifth floor and join us down here. This is wonderful news for us as it means more time in proximity to his genius. If you're lucky, some of it could rub off on you, Martin," he paused to enjoy the copywriter's scowl. "While it's great for us, I don't imagine Niall is going to see it that way. So, we'll have to do our best to give him some space while he gets settled in here."

Martin looked around, specifically at his desk, which was now extra cluttered by David's things.

"I don't get it," Martin pressed. "Does that mean you and I are sharing a desk?"

He wondered immediately what that meant for the little film canister full of Purple Kush that he kept taped to the back of his drawer.

"Of course not," David replied smoothly. "You can move your things over to Margot's desk. Or any of the others if you'd rather share with them. I think we can be flexible about this," he added graciously.

***

Later that morning, when Niall had finally arrived, gone to his office on the fifth floor, been surprised to find it empty and his desk cleared, so had nipped over to Allegra's office (she wasn't in), then popped across to accounting to find Samara who, as defacto second-in-command would surely know what in hell had happened to his things, and she advised him to read his email once in a while, then shut her office door in his face and went back to picking over bones or whatever harpies did, he found out that he'd been banished.

He stood in front of her closed door and finally read the emailed memorandum Allegra had sent yesterday evening (to the entire company, mind you!) announcing that in the spirit of organizational continuity and performance maximization, Niall Flannery, Executive Creative Director, would be moving immediately into the art department area. That was all the explanation given.

The cheek of that woman, he fumed, face growing red with fury. Who in the hell does she think she is making decisions like that without so much as a consultation with me? He stormed away from Samara's door and immediately slammed viciously into a shin-height planter, pulling the (mostly dead anyway) rubber tree plant down to the ground with him. He swatted dry soil off his pants and picked himself up, keenly aware of the suddenly lively eyes of the accountants on him.

"Fuck off," he said to the plant and as he stormed toward the elevator. "Fuck off all of you!" he threw behind him like a grenade just as the elevator dinged and opened to carry him down to his new floor.

***

"Niall's coming!" Shanti hovered excitedly at the creative team's door. "He's coming down. Samara's assistant says he's totally out of his mind!"

David stood, clapped his hands together in the manner of a kindergarten teacher and said to the four designers in the room, "Okay, gather your things now, everyone. We're going to do this morning's critique over in The Hammer and give Niall some time to settle in. Bring your coats and bags. It could be a while."

He efficiently single-filed them out of there and across the hall into the largest conference room where, even through the closed door, they could hear Niall's approach. He lumbered into the team room, slamming the door behind him.

The design team waited in silence, straining to hear what might be happening across the hall.

Things were encouragingly quiet for a few moments -- David presumed Niall must be appreciating the care with which he had recreated and equipped his new desk. But the quiet only lasted a moment before there came the angry howl of a man in the clutches of impotent rage, followed by the torpedoed smash and shattering of a glass paperweight that formerly had a four-leaf clover inside.