"Of course, this'd be strictly voluntary," Bryce was saying. "It's important that we meet our commitments to our clients, but I want you guys to know that I'm-"

"-going to prioritize that over our own well-being." The audio glitched briefly; I was pretty sure there was supposed to be a "not" in the gap, but it hardly mattered. He was talking in concretely hypothetical terms about what we'd do if/when there was a reliable rapid-test kit for the virus, and how we could "safely" achieve a "return to normal" in our work arrangements and get the all-important site visits and client face time scheduled.

But no such test existed yet - though there were rumors of progress towards one - and we all knew he didn't have the stones to try and make us defy the lockdown orders, however much noise he made about "best practices." And, again, most of our clients were telecommuting these days and didn't need anything done on-site anyway...

(There were exceptions - we'd onboarded a building contractor just before the pandemic that had the single worst, most certifiably insane office network I'd ever seen, and half the work required us to be on-site as a result. I dreaded the day when anything went seriously wrong with them, because it'd probably take the better part of a week to sort it out.)

Curtis started on a long and winding trek towards actually saying something in response, and I tuned back out almost completely. That'd easily be the next few minutes, and this wasn't even a crucial meeting; it was the monthly financial/management overview, easily the least important thing we ever did, but Bryce insisted on wasting our time with it in the name of "transparency."

He seemed to believe it'd make us feel more invested in the company and somehow improve the bullshit metrics the golf buddies measured each other's (discreet cough) performance (discreet cough) with; but in reality, none of us saw this as anything more than a paycheck. We did our jobs, were compensated accordingly, and it paid the bills, which was all I really needed out of it; why did we have to pretend it meant more than that?

Hell, it even covered a few little indulgences here and there, when I decided I wanted them; one was sitting in my lap at this very moment. After missing it on Saturday, I'd been on high alert Monday, and caught the delivery ape at the door before he could bolt. One signature later, and I was finally in possession of a cheap but reasonably well-built Korean Telecaster clone.

I ran my fingers along the neck of the guitar; it felt good in my hand. With the strap off and my webcam angled upward, it was hidden from view, and if I kept myself muted and my poker face on, I could spend these wasted minutes/hours of my day picking out awkward attempts at familiar tunes instead of trying not to crack a smile while browsing Internet comedy sites. (Plus, it was easier to get into work mode afterwards if I wasn't caught in the depths of a Cracked binge.)

My fingers idly plucked at the top (bottom?) few strings; nope, that wasn't it. Close, but not it; so close that it'd be admitting defeat to just turn to Google for the iconic intro to "Stairway to Heaven..."^°

^° (So sue me - everyone does this when they first pick up the guitar, and if they say they didn't they're a dirty, dirty liar.)

I wasn't sure why I'd settled on this for a new hobby/cabin-fever suppressor; it'd better not be a sign of impending mid-life crisis, not when I'd yet to hit thirty. It was the first time I'd tried to pick up an instrument since a couple years of fumbling through piano lessons in middle school; that'd gotten me a basic grounding in music theory and a haphazard sense of rhythm (and a complete flameout of a recital at our church,) but that was about it.

My dad had tried to teach me, back in first grade; we'd never gotten anywhere, less because I wasn't interested than because I was a diminutive six-year-old trying to hold an acoustic guitar nearly as big as I was under my arm, stretch my little fingers across a neck about a mile wide, and hold down strings with enough tension to slice cheese on. I just couldn't do it; Dad was understanding when I gave up, but I always felt like we'd missed out because of it...

I was surprised how little trouble it gave me now. I was still stumbling my way around an unfamiliar layout and forcing my fingers through positions and motions I hadn't even attempted in decades, but the thin wooden slab sat comfortably under my arm, my fingers stretched around the neck with ease, and the strings didn't cut too deep into my flesh. Was it just because I was a grown man now? Or would it maybe have worked out, back when, if only I'd started off on an electric...?

Well, no point fretting over it.^° Whatever it might've been, once upon a time, it was an interesting new exercise for my brain to tackle, a fun little way to entertain myself during boring, soul-crushing meetings, maybe even a new means of expressing myself (to...myself, I guessed.) Plus, I had to admit, I got a little frisson of illicit joy out of knowing I was doing it in a meeting and nobody was the wiser.

^° (This was, at least, not any kind of cat pun, but my anti-pun reflexes were quick to fire lately...)

I felt a little guilty about that, but only a little; it wasn't like I had anything to contribute here anyway (besides staring and nodding,) and I wasn't letting it impact my actual job. If anything, it was good to keep my brain active so I could jump right back into the real work afterward, right...?

...okay, that last was a transparent excuse. But it was true that I was still doing my job, and from the way people talked online, I wasn't the only person struggling to stay good against the unique challenges of a work-from-home environment...

After considering that for a moment, I reached over to my personal laptop and quietly minimized the browser window with all the webcomics in it. Alright, it was a challenge, and I wasn't perfect, but the point was that I was keeping on top of things, and not being a distraction to-

"Mr. Robbins? Kit?"

I started. "Huh? Yeah? Oh, uh, hang on..." I said, realizing I was still muted. I reached up to un-mute myself and shifted in my chair - but I'd forgotten that I was balancing the fulcrum of a two-foot wooden lever on my lap. The headstock of the guitar banged against the underside of the desk, and I winced and clamped my other hand down on the strings to stop them vibrating.

I glanced back at the screen; the guys were struggling to keep from cracking up, but Bryce just looked mildly stunned. "Mr. Robbins?" he asked, in a bemused tone. "You okay there?"

"I'm fine," I said sheepishly, ears burning. "Chair just went funny on me. Nothing injured." Other than my pride... "Uh, what was the question, again?"

"Well, we were just hoping that you might have your car fixed by the time we're ready to start scheduling our BPAs again." He gave me a thin smile. "Any news on that front?"

It's not broken! I thought to myself, mild annoyance replacing my embarrassment; but I only shrugged. "Well, I've got a rebuild kit in the mail - should be able to get that knocked out one of these weekends, assuming shipping doesn't take a million years."

Sam chuckled. "I hear ya, bro. I'm still waiting on my new GPU."

Bryce nodded impatiently. "Great, great. It's important that we maintain our flexibility in uncertain times; we never know when our services will be needed. Remember that incident with Yuen's last summer."

I wasn't sure whether to object that A. Yuen's had temporarily shuttered their most problematic restaurants anyway (the problems for uswere old buildings and old wiring, but now their problem was small buildings and dine-in restrictions) or B. that "that incident" was entirely due to someone (Curtis) working around a dead battery backup by plugging stuff into the wall and then forgetting to order a replacement 'til the power went out months later; so I said nothing.

It wasn't like we could talk him out of this fixation on things just magically going back to "normal" ASAP, after all. Not that I didn't want to - but anyone who identifies as a CEO is, by nature, the kind of person who thinks that if reality doesn't conform to their expectations of it, then reality should just get with the program already. I might as well argue my case to the wall as try to convince him that "normal" wasn't coming back any time soon...

Really, he'd probably be glad if we got hit, just so we could do on-sites again. I paused for a moment, surprised at my own bitterness, but...it wasn't meant personally. I didn't think Bryce was a sociopath, just permanently unmoored from reality, incapable of viewing events through any lens but the one that showed him what he wanted to see. If one of us ended up getting transformed, he would doubtless be offering "heartfelt" words of condolence and support in one breath, and asking when we could schedule those overdue BPAs in the next. Hell, I thought, he might give me a raise if I went out and-

I flinched, nearly knocking the guitar into the desk again; fortunately, I was muted this time, and nobody paid me any mind. I sighed; maybe I should've taken up some other hobby, something like philosophy or classical dialectics that might help me make sense out of a world which seemed increasingly mad. I felt the headstock gently, relieved that I hadn't damaged it. Well, I thought, at least this is cathartic...^°

^° (Damn it.)