May Season Studio Archives
by Gintare O.
PRECEDING FILES
Onboarding / 02 / The Invitation
Onboarding / 07 / The Loading Dock
Onboarding / 08 / The Tech Bar
She came in Monday at 7:58.
Karen was standing at her cube.
Karen was not usually at Genny’s cube before Genny got in. Karen came to Genny’s cube during the day, when she had something to say, and left. She did not station herself at Genny’s cube before 8:00 AM with her hands folded.
She was doing that this morning.
“Genny. Come with me.”
“Give me a minute.”
“Bring your coffee. Bring your notebook.”
Genny brought her coffee. She brought her notebook. She followed Karen to a conference room on the third floor.
The conference room had one wall of frosted glass. It had a table. It had, arranged on the table in a neat row, twelve small boxes.
The boxes were cream colored. They were sealed with a strip of tape that was the color of oxblood ink.
They were the same size and shape as the one that had come to her cube three months ago and had, forty minutes later, been pushed off her desk by Karen’s foot.
Karen closed the door behind them.
“Sit.”
Genny sat.
“You’re being moved to a new project. Effective immediately. The Q4 imports are being reassigned to Dale. You’ll like this. It’s a re-cataloging effort. Older items, incomplete records, some inconsistent tagging in the master. It’s the kind of work you’re good at. Careful. Thorough.”
Karen was reading from a paper. She was reading it in the same tone she used for style guide corrections. She was not looking at Genny.
“There will be a raise associated with the transition. Not a large one. It reflects the shift in responsibility. HR will send you the details tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“The items are here. There are twelve of them today. There will be more tomorrow. Each one has a form. You go through the item, you fill in the description fields, you sign the form, you move to the next one. Standard procedure.”
“Okay.”
Karen slid a form across the table. It was a paper form. It had MSS branding across the top and a description field taking up most of the page.
At the bottom of the form there was a checkbox and a line of text.
Confirmed. This object is described accurately.
Karen tapped the checkbox.
“Everything else is standard. Fill in what you observe. Sign at the bottom. Check the box.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be at my cube if you have questions. Take your time.”
Karen left.
Genny sat alone in the conference room with twelve small boxes and a stack of forms.
She opened the first box.
Inside was a wedding invitation.
It was on cream cardstock. The names on it were names she did not recognize. Chelsea and Alan. The date was two years ago. The venue was in a suburb of Chicago she had heard of but never been to. Everything about the invitation was normal. Nothing about it belonged to her.
She filled in the form. Item: wedding invitation. Cream cardstock. Cotton weave. Ink absorbency high. Fold retention indefinite.
She hovered over the checkbox.
She thought about how she had never in her life been to a wedding for a Chelsea and an Alan. She thought about how the description she had just written did not identify the item as anyone’s invitation. It just described the physical properties of the paper. The description was true. The paper was what she had said it was.
She checked the box.
She signed the form.
She set the invitation back in the box and closed the lid.
She opened the second box.
Inside was a thank-you card. It was from a company she had never heard of. The card thanked her, by name, for her recent purchase from a company she had never heard of. The card was dated last month. The signature at the bottom was in oxblood ink.
She filled in the form. Item: thank-you card. Cream cardstock. Cotton weave. Ink absorbency high. Fold retention indefinite.
She checked the box.
She signed the form.
The third box contained a small sealed envelope. Cream paper. Oxblood ink. The address on it was her parents’ address. Her parents lived in the town she had grown up in, in a house at an address she had never given anyone at MSS, on a street she had never mentioned. The envelope was addressed to her mother by name.
She held it in her hands for a while.
She did not open it. It was sealed.
She turned it over. She held it up to the overhead light. She held it near her face. It smelled faintly of the same flowers the notebook had smelled of the morning after the box had come to her cube.
She turned it right side up and read her mother’s name again.
She stood up. She walked to the frosted glass wall of the conference room, which did not let her see anything, and stood facing it for a minute. She was breathing carefully. She was not panicking. She was aware that panicking was an option and that she was choosing not to pick it.
She came back to the table.
She sat down.
She thought about the fact that she had, once, in her second year at MSS, filled out an HR form that had asked for her parents’ address as an emergency contact. She had left the address field blank and written only the phone number. She had gotten the form back a few weeks later with the address filled in, in a hand she had not recognized. She had signed the corrected form. That had been three years ago. She had not thought about it since.
She filled in the form. Item: small envelope. Cream paper. Cotton weave. Sealed. Ink absorbency high.
She hovered over the checkbox.
She thought about what would happen if she did not check the box.
She thought about the fact that she did not know what would happen.
She thought about her mother, in her kitchen, in a town two hours away, on a street MSS was not supposed to know.
She checked the box.
She signed the form.
Her hand was steady. That was a thing she noticed and did not know what to do with.
The fourth box contained a scarf. The fifth, a picture frame. The sixth, a wristwatch. She recognized these categories from Frank’s queue. She kept going. She filled the forms with the same descriptive language she had been trained on for four years. Ink absorbency high. Weave uniform. Fold retention indefinite. Suitable for daily wear.
She checked the boxes.
She signed the forms.
By 11:30 she had done all twelve.
She set the last form on top of the stack. She stacked the boxes on the far side of the table. She took her coffee mug, which was cold, and her notebook, which she had not opened, and left the conference room.
Karen was at her cube.
“All done?”
“All twelve.”
“Good. I’ll walk them upstairs at lunch.”
“Upstairs?”
“Standard procedure. There are a few reviewers who confirm the descriptions. Not to worry.”
Karen smiled at her. Same gentleness she had used on the Helvetica note.
Genny went back to her cube.
She sat down.
She did not open her queue. She had, apparently, been reassigned off her queue. Dale was doing her queue now. She did not know what she was supposed to be doing at her desk this afternoon. Karen had said something about more boxes tomorrow. There was nothing on her desk today.
She got her phone out.
She called her mother.
Her mother picked up on the third ring. She sounded normal. She was in the garden. She had been meaning to call Genny about a recipe. She asked how Genny was. Genny said fine. Her mother asked whether Genny had gotten anything in the mail from her recently. She said she had sent a photo from the summer they had all been up at the lake.
Genny said no. She had not gotten it.
Her mother said hm, it should have arrived by now, she had sent it two weeks ago.
Genny said she would check her mail when she got home.
They talked for another few minutes. Her mother sounded like her mother. She said the neighbors’ dog had gotten out again. She said the church was doing a fall thing. She said her sister had called.
Genny said she had to get back to work. Her mother said okay, love you honey. Genny said love you.
She hung up.
She sat with the phone in her hand for a while.
Her mother had sent her a photograph two weeks ago that had not arrived.
Genny had not brought this up. Nobody at the office had known about it.
She opened her notebook, in her drawer, to the last page she had written on. She added, in careful letters: twelve confirmations. Checkbox: Confirmed - this object is described accurately.
Below it she added: photo from Mom, two weeks ago, missing.
She closed the notebook.
She closed the drawer.
She sat with her hands on the desk for a long time.
Nobody came by. Karen was gone. Dale was on a call. Blake was doing what Blake did.
At 5:04 she left.
Tuesday morning HR sent an email at 8:31.
Subject: promotion announcement.
Body: We are pleased to announce that Karen has been promoted to a new role effective this morning. She will be moving to an expanded scope. Genny will be stepping into Karen’s role effective today. Please join us in congratulating them both.
There was no floor listed for Karen’s new role.
There was no title.
There was, at the bottom of the email, a calendar invite from Christina.
Subject: Welcome reception.
Time: Tonight, 6:00 PM.
Location: [address on Route 53]
The address was the parking lot.
Genny read the email twice.
She had not been told, before this email, that she was stepping into Karen’s role.
Karen had told her yesterday she was being moved to a new project. Recataloging. Older items. Careful, thorough work. There would be a small raise. That had been the framing. That had been the words.
There had not been the word promotion. There had not been the words stepping into Karen’s role. There had not been a conversation, at any point in her four years at MSS, about the arc of her career, or her readiness for a next level, or what a next level would entail.
She was reading, for the first time, in a company-wide email, that she was now Karen’s replacement.
She read the announcement a third time.
Then she read the calendar invite.
Then she read the announcement again.
Karen was not at her cube. Karen’s cube was empty. Not empty in the way a cube is empty when the person who works there is in a meeting. Empty in the way a cube is empty when the person who works there has been transferred to a place that no longer requires her to have a cube on this floor.
Dale was at his cube. Dale looked up as Genny arrived. Dale nodded at her.
“Congratulations.”
He said it like he had known.
Genny said thanks.
She sat down.
At 5:04 she left her cube. She got in her car. She drove.
She did not go home first. She had not brought different clothes. She was wearing what she had worn to work. A gray sweater. Dark pants. Sensible shoes. She had put on lipstick in the parking lot mirror. It was the lipstick she wore on days she wanted to look put together.
She had not driven to the address on Route 53 since the day she had passed the Doorman on the frontage road. She had routed around it for months. She had taken Ogden home some evenings just to avoid the stretch. Nobody had asked her why. Nobody had needed to.
She was driving to the address now.
She kept both hands on the wheel. She did not turn on the radio. She did not put the address in her navigation. She had not needed to look it up. She had, apparently, memorized it.
The drive to Route 53 took eleven minutes.
The parking lot was no longer a parking lot.
Where the gravel and weeds had been three months ago was a long low building. It was one story. It had a flat roof. It was clad in something that looked like corrugated metal but was probably not corrugated metal. It had windows along the front, warm-lit from inside. It had a door in the middle. It had a small sign next to the door, in dark lettering on cream, that read MAY SEASON STUDIO, and beneath that, in smaller letters, PRIVATE EVENT.
She parked in the row nearest the road.
She sat in the car with her hands on the wheel.
There was no gravel. There was no plumbing capped in short pipes. There was no concrete footprint of a building that had been there once. There was a building. There was a lot of parked cars. There were people in nice coats walking from the parking area toward the door.
She got out of her car.
She walked toward the building.
The Doorman was at the door.
He had on the same cream coat. The same gloves. His hands were folded the same way.
He opened the door for her as she reached him.
“Genny,” he said.
He said it the way he might have said the name at the top of a spreadsheet he had been reading all morning.
He held the door.
She went in.
Inside was a clean corporate event.
There were high tables with white cloths. There was a bar in the back. There was a small string quartet playing music that was pleasant enough to notice and quiet enough to talk over. There were people holding wine glasses in groups of three and four. There were servers moving through the room with trays.
The room was full. There were maybe eighty people. Genny did not recognize most of them.
She recognized some of them.
She recognized the man from the loading dock, the one in the corduroy button-down. He was not in corduroy tonight. He was in a suit. He was holding a wine glass. He was talking to a woman Genny did not know. He did not look at Genny.
She recognized the second tech from the Tech Bar. The one who had not spoken. He was in the same slate sweater. He was standing by the bar with a glass of water. He was looking at nothing in particular. He was, Genny thought, watching the whole room in a way that did not require him to move his eyes.
She recognized Monika.
Monika was near the string quartet. Monika was in a dress. Monika was talking to a woman with the kind of straight back that had been earned somewhere Genny had never been. Monika did not see her. Or Monika saw her and chose not to see her.
Genny took a glass of white wine from the tray a server offered her. She held it. She did not drink it.
She looked around the room again.
Half the people there were not quite people.
She could not have said what she meant by that. It was not a matter of visual difference. Everyone in the room was dressed normally. Everyone was holding a glass. Everyone was talking to someone else. Nobody had visible characteristics that would have identified them as anything other than professionals at a professional reception.
But half of them were not quite people.
Their movement was slightly off. Their timing. The way they laughed at the end of a sentence rather than during it. The way they held a glass a beat longer than they needed to before drinking from it. The way a group of three parted for a server without any of them appearing to notice the server.
Nobody commented on this. Nobody looked at anyone else with concern. The room was doing what a corporate reception did.
Genny held her wine.
“Genny.”
She turned.
Elaine was standing in front of her.
Elaine was a woman of average height in a dark suit. She had a folder in her hand. She had a professional demeanor. She had a face that was very carefully composed. She was, Genny noticed as she took her in, not blinking as often as a person blinked.
“I’m Elaine.”
“I gathered.”
Elaine smiled.
“Come with me. There is a quiet corner over there.”
Elaine walked. Genny followed. They stopped at a small round table near one of the windows, out of the flow of the room. Elaine set her folder on the table.
The folder was labeled with her name in oxblood ink, in the same handwriting Genny had by now seen many times.
Elaine sat down. Genny sat down.
“We have been watching you for a while.”
“I noticed.”
“Not disparagingly. Watching, in this context, is a courtesy. It is how we make sure someone is a match.”
“For what.”
“For Reality Alignment. Which is where you have just been placed.”
Genny did not respond.
Elaine continued.
“The team you were on for four years is one of our onboarding surfaces. Not the only one. But a good one. It attracts people who catalog carefully. It weeds out the ones who don’t. It puts the good candidates near enough to us that we can watch how they handle certain items when they encounter them.”
“The box.”
“Yes. The box.”
“Frank.”
“Frank was on the surface team for eleven years. He did well for most of them. He passed the box, before you. He was moved into Reality Alignment three years ago.”
“He’s not gone.”
“No. He is in a role in Reality Alignment that has slightly different characteristics from yours. You will see him around.”
Genny thought about this. She thought about Frank at his cube. Small block capitals. Coffee mug. Aloe plant. The sticky note in her drawer.
“What is Reality Alignment.”
“It is the company. The real one. The one you have worked for the whole time.”
Elaine said this without weight. She said it the way she might have said the office was on the third floor. She said it the way you might say the printer was down the hall on the right.
“Can I say no.”
Elaine tilted her head. She smiled. It was a kind smile.
“You already said yes when you checked the box.”
Genny looked at her.
Elaine slid the folder across the table.
“There is a welcome packet inside. Read it when you have time. Nothing in it will require action tonight. Congratulations, Genny. It is good to have you.”
She stood up. She walked away, into the room, and was absorbed into a group of three at one of the high tables.
Genny sat with the folder on the table in front of her.
She did not open it.
She stood up. She set her wine glass on the table. She walked to the door. The Doorman opened it as she reached him. He did not say anything this time. He just held the door.
She stepped out.
She got in her car.
She drove.
The drive home was ten minutes. It felt like ten minutes. The clock on the dashboard confirmed it. She did not lose any of it.
She sat at a red light three blocks from her apartment.
Her notebook was in the passenger seat. She had brought it out to the car in the morning. She had not taken it into the reception. She had left it in the car.
She looked at it.
She opened it.
The card was inside. The invitation card. Cream paper. Oxblood ink. Her name in handwriting she had by now known for months.
The date on it, in the same handwriting, was today’s date.
She sat with the notebook open at the red light. The car behind her honked. The light was green. She had not seen it turn.
She drove through the intersection.
She parked. She went into her apartment. She set her bag on the counter. She got the notebook out.
The card was where she had put it. She turned to the last written page and turned forward, to where the card had been tucked into the back cover.
Behind the card, tucked against the last sheet of paper, was a small sealed envelope.
Cream paper. Oxblood ink. Addressed to her parents.
She had not put it there.
She had checked the box.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
at may season studio, internal transitions take effect the morning they are announced. employees are informed of the scope of a new role at the appropriate time. congratulations are customary.
written and designed by gintare okrzesik, creator of may season studio. a fictional corporation exploring beauty, bureaucracy, and quiet corruption through narrative design.
RECOMMENDATIONS
Reality Alignment has been operating this whole time. Some of its work is already on file.
Begin with:
The Company That Regulates Reality - the premise, stated plainly by the company, which reads differently now
Professional Development - Monika and Genny across a table, two years before the reception
The Lunch Hour - an ordinary hour on the surface team, which is what the surface team is for
Part twelve arrives next Friday.
Feels like Genny got the golden ticket and is now being toured around the chocolate factory. I hope Frank didn’t get sucked down the chocolate river.
There is nothing quite as unsettling in an office as someone waiting by your desk before your shift starts. The understated corporate dread here captures that feeling perfectly.