At 6:55 the next morning, Richard sleepwalked into JSEP’s conference room, a windowless hovel with a beige paint job and dingy green carpeting. A whiteboard covered in bullet points written in erasable marker was mounted on the front wall, a relic from a Marketing Department brainstorming session. The opposite wall was enlivened with three rows of framed book covers, most of which were prior editions of Bertha’s top sellers. The center of the room was dominated by an IKEA plasti-table ringed with seven black Aeron chairs. In the center of the table was a gray, futuristic-looking, boomerang-shaped device that JSEP employees had dubbed the “Batphone.” Extending from the phone were two umbilicals attached to a pair of mouse-sized speakers.

Otto was seated at the head of the table. For a moment, Richard lingered near the doorway, glaring at his nemesis, who countered his look with a bemused one of his own. In their reciprocal silence, neither man noticed when a young woman entered the room. This was Shannon Hess, Associate Production Coordinator (bland trifle of a title, full of sound and worry). Her attractive face, wispy and freckled, was concealed at the moment behind a hedge of curly auburn locks stippled with clumps of snow. She wore a mauve eiderdown coat and soaked jeans. A purple backpack was slung over one shoulder, and in her mittened hand was a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee with steam escaping from the mouth-incision in the lid.

After Sandy resigned, Richard had promoted Shannon. She’d attended Emerson, where she’d majored in English Literature, minored in Women’s Studies, and earned a master’s degree in Creative Writing. In the real world, these sins had earned her a scarlet P for Publishing. And now, six months in, she was already disenchanted. She needed the job for food and a roof, but Richard could see that the pressures of schedules and deadlines were making her miserable. He knew exactly how she felt. His own master’s degree (English Lit, UMass, 1999) had led him to precisely the same destination. He had thought that publishing was all about the books, only to learn that the “books” were a byproduct of the marketing campaigns that fueled the industry. The poor schmucks who ventured into publishing with dreams of reading manuscripts all day and hobnobbing with writers and editors eventually came to the same sorry realization: It’s a business, just like everything else. “If it’s the literary world you crave,” someone should have said to him, “then you should have never left school.” No one had said this to Shannon, either. He wondered if she could see the dissatisfaction in his face as easily as he could see it in hers.

Otto turned to regard the person who had entered his space. Though he had sat in meetings with Shannon, her cube was directly diagonal to his office, and they passed each other in the hall at least five times a day, it was clear from the way he looked at her—like a dog’s expression after you tap him between the eyes with a pencil—that he did not recognize her.

“And who is this?” Otto said to Richard, as though Shannon with her damp hair, damp clothes, and Styrofoam-cup peasant swill was beneath his regard.

Richard enjoyed a silent chuckle at Otto’s expense. Is he really that obtuse? Does he wear his Cloak of Idiocy around all day or just at the office?

“Hello, Shannon,” said Richard, ignoring Otto entirely. “Thanks for coming in so early.”

“Oh, of course,” blurted Otto. “You’re Richard’s assistant.”

“Yeah,” said Shannon, sheepishly. “And coming in early is no problem. It’s part of my job. I guess.”

“That it is, that it is,” said Otto. “My advice to you, young lady, is to listen and learn. This is a very important call with a very important member of the JSEP family. Our matriarch, so to speak. I’m sure it will be—enlightening.”

Richard rolled his eyes and sighed. He knew what Otto meant by “listen and learn.” It was a warning that Shannon should keep her mouth shut during the meeting. Poor innocent. She had only the slimmest conception of the unpleasantness in store. Otto Kane’s status meetings were legendary. With no agenda, direction, or leadership, nothing was ever resolved; instead, Otto would blather inane corporate babble, slander co-workers behind their backs, shift blame, and tell dreadful anecdotes about his cats, all while delivering empty assurances and impractical action items. Richard had a sudden urge to grab Shannon by the arm, pull her toward the door, and whisper in her ear, “Run away! Run far away!” A hard lump congealed in his craw.

He was almost thankful that his loathing of Otto was so intense that it had clouded over thoughts of last night’s bizarre jaunt. But Richard knew this was only a temporary respite. Already he felt himself drifting back to what had happened. What had happened? He didn’t dare to try piecing it together now. He needed to stay alert for this meeting. He was operating on no sleep and two Red Bulls. He hoped it was enough.

He checked his back pocket. Yes, the parchment was still there. Snug and secure.

Richard and Shannon took the two seats on either side of Otto, who, in his customary tatty suit, bow tie, and preposterous comb-over, was busily arranging a stack of Bertha’s tomes in front of him. Richard was certain they would be irrelevant to the discussion. Otto had only brought them to reinforce his self-appointed role as Team Leader. Shannon removed her coat and gloves and placed them on the chair beside her, and then heaved her bulging backpack onto the table with a grunt. Richard had brought only a twenty-page sample of the page proofs from Arrangements.

“So, tell us again why we’re here so early?” said Richard to Otto.

“Because Bertha prefers to take calls first thing in the morning with her tea and toast,” said Otto, as though Bertha’s diurnal cycles were common knowledge.

“And why couldn’t we dial in from home?”

Otto didn’t answer, but Richard knew why. JSEP’s revenue had been down by 12% last quarter, and the executive managers had been forced to make cuts, many of them severe: No bonuses; raise freezes; no complimentary subway passes or Fast Lane accounts; no in-house cafeteria; no holiday party; no unnecessary travel; no new printers, copiers, computers, or software upgrades for at least the next fiscal year; and no teleconferencing or web-hosting for locally-based employees.

The clock on the wall read seven. It was time. Richard switched on the phone-speakers, and they waited for Bertha to call in, Otto pretending to review his notes while Shannon gazed off into space. Richard was about to announce that he needed to use the facilities (one too many Red Bulls) when the phone rang. No one had noticed that the speakers were cranked to full volume, and the ring was like a fire alarm. Shannon jumped, spilling hot coffee on her arm at the exact moment Otto pressed the flashing green button.

“Hello, is that you Bertha?” said Otto. And then:

“Shit!” This came from Shannon.

From the other line came the awfullest of sounds: Bertha clearing her throat. Then ten unbearable seconds of Bertha breathing.

Otto spoke first, straining to sound casual. “Good morning, Bertha. Thank you for calling in.”

“And who was that?”

Richard glanced at Otto; Otto glowered at Shannon; Shannon stared pitifully at the phone.

“Um, hello Miss Oswalt—I’m, um, Shannon, the new APC. I’m, um, so sorry that I startled you. I spilled my coffee. Um, I mean—”

Richard was about to come to Shannon’s defense when Bertha cut in. “Young lady,” she said, “I trust that your casual use of profanity is not a reflection of your character. I will not tolerate pottymouths. I forbid you to utter such filth in my presence.”

(Yes, she really spoke like that, like a priggish schoolmarm in a Dickens novel, each word enunciated with precision; no slang, slips, mumbles, or contractions; no “ums,” “uhs,” or “wells”; no humor, levity, kindness, or humanity.)

Richard wanted to reassure Shannon that she had done nothing wrong, that everything was fine, but he wasn’t sure how to do this without simultaneously referring to Bertha as a deranged bitch who was undeserving of anyone’s deference.

Shannon hung her head, a strand of her auburn curls skimming the surface of the spilled coffee. Richard thought she was going to stay in that position for the rest of the meeting, but then she suddenly jerked up, having noticed the stains on her sweater and the rapidly spreading puddle on the table. She sprang from her chair and flew from the room. That’s our Bertha. Always making everyone in her vicinity feel like a failure, even when they haven’t done anything to deserve it.

Another beat of silence, then Bertha’s voice seeped out of the Batphone like a bodily substance. “So, what is this I hear about my book? There are problems?”

“A-A-Actually, Bertha,” stammered Otto, “I think Richard could tell you more about that.”

“Ah,” said Bertha, “Richard is present. I was not aware that he would be joining us today.”

“Yes, I’m here Bertha.” Before venturing a response, Richard flipped through the page proofs, each and every page lacerated with red ink. “We need to discuss the manuscript copy. Your introduction is fine”—he fingered the edge of the piece of parchment, which he had removed from his pocket and nestled between the pages, driven by some unknowable fancy—“but these essays, they…well, to be honest, they’re borderline incomprehensible.”

“What do you mean ‘incomprehensible,’” said Bertha. “They are written in English, are they not?”

“Well, you must admit that your contributors, though well-qualified in their areas of expertise, just aren’t, um, decent writers. I assume you’ve read what they wrote? Even Otto has to agree that the pages need to be polished—heavily—which will take several days, maybe weeks. Depending on the extent of what’s needed, and how we are with the budget, we may need to outsource some of the work, which might also affect the schedule.”

“But I was assured that Arrangements would be on the shelves by late March, in time for the growing season. Otto, what is happening here? Talk to me, please.”

By this point, gushes of perspiration had dislodged the sparse swirls of long, greasy hair on Otto’s shimmering pate. His jacket was off, and his bow tie was skewed vertical. He rose and pressed his palms to the table, then leaned forward and swayed from side to side. His right foot broke into a schizoid dance.

The speakers erupted with static. “Otto! Talk to me, dear. Are you behind Richard on this?”

“Absolutely not, Bertha. All Richard is saying is that there may be a few minor…hiccups. As you can appreciate, we won’t settle for anything less than perfection, and that includes meeting our deadlines.” Otto set his bloodshot eyes on Richard. “May I speak to you for a moment in private? Please excuse us for one second, Bertha.”

Richard and Otto retreated to the far end of the room. It was then that Shannon shuffled back in and began to mop up her spilled drink with a clutch of paper towels. Her hair hid her most of her face, but Richard noticed the blotchy color of her cheeks. She’d been crying.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” said Otto in a hysterical whisper.

“Otto, the book is a joke,” said Richard, not whispering. “You know that as well as I do. I suspect that Bertha knows it too, and the only reason we’re here is so she can amuse herself by berating us.”

“But you told me there were only a few kinks to be ironed out.”

“If you substitute ‘hundreds’ for ‘a few,’ ‘serious problems’ for ‘kinks’, and ‘dealt with ASAP’ for ‘ironed out,’ then you’d be in the vicinity of the actual words I used.”

“But you never mentioned anything about huge delays, or outsourcing work.”

“I don’t believe this. You’ve seen the pages. We can’t bring this book up to snuff in such a short period of time. We just can’t. So it’s up to you as her editor to tell her the project is shit, and that it has to be overhauled. Tell her to recruit new authors or enroll the current ones in composition classes, because as it stands, the book is unreadable. You could throw the pages into a fire, retrieve them five minutes later, and publish the ashes. No one would know the difference.”

Richard glanced over at the pages on the table. The parchment was stuck between a couple of sheets of Bertha’s proofs, like it was just another page in need of polishing. Bertha. Her introduction. This book. How are they connected with what happened last night? Have the two of them finally driven me insane?

“Richard, you know how important Bertha is. We can’t afford to lose her.”

Richard reached over and pressed the Batphone’s Mute button. “But she’s under a standard contract, right? She can’t just jump ship. She’s obligated to keep the quality of the manuscript at a professional level. Right?”

Otto flinched and looked away.

“Are you saying she has final say on all decisions?” said Richard. “Don’t tell me you gave her that kind of oversight without consulting me first. Can you even do that?”

Otto said nothing.

“Stupid. You stupid bastard.”

Otto slid into his chair and unmuted the phone. “Hello? Bertha?”

“Still here, Otto. Talk.”

“Richard and I agree that you have nothing to worry about. The book will make its pub date, and it’ll be a huge hit. I promise you that.”

Even Shannon shook her head in disbelief.

“Geoff in Sales is finalizing the online promos, the interior templates have been sent to the compositor, Emma in Design just emailed me last night saying they’ve finalized a cover, and of course Richard and his team will work around the clock to put everything together. You’ll be sent the galleys in about two weeks.”

Lies, a pack of feral lies. Richard had spoken with Emma last week. No one had come to a decision about the trim size, banner text, back cover copy, inside jacket copy, or art elements. Geoff’s outgoing email message said he was on vacation until the first week in February. Nothing was happening. No wheels were in motion.

Before Richard could lunge across the table and wrench Otto by his capon throat, Shannon spoke. “Um, Mr. Kane, I’m really sorry, but I won’t be available next week. I’m visiting my parents in Ohio.”

“Then, well, you’re just going to have to work while you’re away."

“But Mr. Kane, this is my vacation time. I planned the trip weeks—no, months—ago! You can’t make me work while I’m gone.”

“Listen, Sharon—”

“Shannon. My name is Shannon.”

“Fine. Shannon. If you want to keep your job, you’ll do the work that’s expected of you.”

Richard was stupefied. Shannon reported to him, not Otto. He sent Shannon a look, nodding in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

Otto straightened his bow tie. “Forgive me, Bertha. It seems as though my colleagues are unaware of the importance of this project. I promise you that I’ll whip them into shape in no time.”

“I know you will. Believe me, I am well aware of how frustrating it can be when the help decides that they can have things their own way—”

Richard clamped down on his lower lip so hard he was sure he had sliced through it. Did she just call us the help?  Fucking c—”

“—no respect, no drive to succeed. You just make it happen.”

“I will,” said Otto. “Thank you for your understanding, Bertha.”

Bertha wasn’t finished. “Each and every person I chose to contribute to this project is an artist, a visionary, highly acclaimed in her respective discipline…”

Before he knew what he is doing, Richard had taken one of the books from Otto’s stack of Bertha’s greatest hits and slammed it onto the table with a thunderous SMACK.

“That’s it! Bertha, you may have Otto laboring in a fog of confusion, but you can’t fool me. You know, I know, and Otto knows, though he refuses to admit it, that your book sucks. Each of the ladies you rounded up to write it is, like yourself, a cretinous egoist who couldn’t compose a coherent, intelligent sentence to save her life. I doubt even the hordes of dementia sufferers who lap up your Mother Goddess shtick will be able to stomach Haley Mittenthorpe’s vomit. And as for you, Bertha, you are a tyrant, a nuisance, and an unfeeling monster. It takes an army of dedicated, hard-working people to make these goddamned books, yet you have the gall to treat us like your own personal servants? And…and…and here’s the thing: You’re really not that important, Bertha. You’re a grub. A nit. One day, the universe will snuff you out, and no one will care. In fact, many people—I’m proud to say I’m one of them—will applaud your demise and extend our dearest gratitude to Atropos for her prudence and wisdom. So, Bertha, if you insist on calling yourself a writer, then at the very least admit that you’re a writer of the smallest consequence, a self-serving enthusiast whose readers are a horde of sycophantic zombies. Believe me when I say that no one—NO ONE—gives a shit. Fuck you, Bertha, and fuck your fucking book!”

He pressed the Batphone’s Power button. Almost immediately, it began to ring. Richard yanked the cord out of the wall-socket.

The room was as quiet as a tomb. Richard’s cheeks were flush, his forehead pinkish, his eyes fire-rimmed, his tongue bloody. He sipped copper, and pain swelled up from his wound. He grabbed one of Shannon’s paper towels and held it to his mouth.

With a series of anguished motions, Otto gathered up his books. “Richard?”

“Yeth, Otto?”

“You made me look like a fool.”

“You ahh a thool, Otto.”

“I am? Well, then, know that this fool will have you out of here by lunchtime. I’ll go as far up the ladder as I need to—”

“I’ll thave you the twouble. I’ll quit ath thoon ath I leave thith woom, juth to deny you the thatithfacthun.”

Otto headed for the door.

“I quit too,” said Shannon.

“Fine,” said Otto. “Good!” He slithered into the hall.

Richard turned to Shannon. “You know, you don’t need to quit.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But—”

“It’s not you, Richard, or your…speech. Well, not entirely. It’s him. And her. I can’t work in such a hostile environment. I won’t.”

“I can’t thay that I blame you. But Otto hath no thay in thith. He’s not your bosth. I am—or wath.”

“I know, and you’ve been great. But this has been brewing for a while. The fact is I don’t like my job very much.”

“I underthand. But I can find a way to make it up to you. I know people at other companies. If you need a referenth—”

“No. No, I think I’d rather just go back home and stay there until I figure out a plan B.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder and walked out, her head lowered so that her thicket of hair obscured her face again.

Left alone in the conference room, Richard wondered if he should burn the parchment on which Bertha’s words were scrawled, finishing the job the pillar of fire had started. But did any of it matter now? It wasn’t like he would encounter Bertha ever again. Maybe this was what last night’s journey had been all about. His job, his existence, had become so empty and meaningless that the sphere, whatever it was, had forced his hand. He decided to keep the parchment as a souvenir of the craziest twelve hours he had ever lived through.

Snagging an empty copy-paper box from the printer room, Richard went to his office. He proceeded to pack up his folders, photos, pens, desk lamp, unopened Post-It packets, and miscellaneous piles of paper.

Maureen Steers, Executive Director of Production and Manufacturing Services and Richard’s direct boss, called to let him know that she had spoken with Otto. She sympathized with Richard—her opinion of Otto was no higher than his—but regardless of the circumstances that had led up to the incident, there was no defending his actions. Out of propriety, Maureen asked for his version of the incident, and he told her what had happened. “Everything Otto said was true.” He’d gone off on a violent, profanity-laden tirade in the middle of a meeting, in front of one of his staff. “Well, you know what happens next,“ she said. Neither of them wanted to drag it out. Richard tendered his resignation, and Maureen accepted. She wished him the best, and then informed him he had until noon to gather his personal items, return his keycard, and vacate the building. And that was that.

He took one last look at his office.

The plastic desk covered in splotches and rub-marks; the art-deco armchair with its orange-lacquered bentwood frame and peacock-feather upholstery—a touch of throwback kitsch courtesy of the office’s previous occupant; the Yoda-head wall clock, a gag gift from his officemates to celebrate his five-year anniversary; the window with a scenic view of the parking lot; the washed-out gray carpeting, vacuumed three times a week; the Dell desktop computer, monitor, keyboard, and mouse; the desk-mounted lamp that he had never turned on; the chipped pen mug.

The accoutrements of mediocrity. These walls. These things. Congratulations, Richard, this is your life.

Richard thought of how things might have turned out had he followed Ivan into the realm of academe. As a young book fiend, Richard had been determined to become an English professor like his father, perhaps even a writer of well-received critical studies. But he overreached, applying for Ph.D. programs at Harvard, Yale, Johns Hopkins, Boston University—and nowhere else. He received a one-page rejection letter from each of these institutions on consecutive days. Unsure of what he wanted to do or where he wanted to end up, he became despondent and apathetic, and all his ambition had shriveled up inside him.

His doctorate hopes dashed, Richard had gone looking for a job. He’d settled on an entry-level position at Houghton Mifflin. Two years later, he had moved on to JSEP. Then came a promotion and the house in Brookline. And that was as far as his life in Beantown’s literary scene had taken him.

Ivan Waters had sensed his son’s disappointment at not getting into a Ph.D. program and wanted to help him overcome the torpor that he knew would likely result from living alone at the edge of a thriving city. So Ivan would make the drive from Brooklyn to stay in Brookline for a few days at a time, even as his health began to waver. They avoided predictable tourist attractions like pricey seafood restaurants, museums, the North End, Duck Boat tours, the Freedom Trail, Red Sox games, and day trips to Cape Anne. Mostly they just sat around and read, or went on bookstore crawls. Their preferred haunt was Groats Good Books, which was a short walk from Richard’s house.

Groats was a private book-lending business that operated out of a redundant Methodist church. It dealt mostly with rare and peregrine tomes and eschewed fineries such as electronic learning tools, audio and visual equipment, and basic organization. Each book was assigned a Dewey decimal number, but there was no assurance that the book could be found in its proper slot. All libraries, regardless of size or reputation, adhere to an unwritten, unspoken covenant with its patrons. Books are wily creatures. They have a knack for slipping their bonds and taking to the teeming cities of the stacks, where they can stay hidden for years, sometimes never resurfacing. Occasionally, librarians notice these errors and return the books to their rightful homes. The staff at Groats, however, either chose to ignore the latter half of this stipulation or perpetually failed to uphold it. Ivan had fallen in love with the randomness of the place. Authors and titles seemed to appear from out of nowhere, and he’d scoop them into the jaws of his arms like a baleen whale, giggling with pleasure with each new find.

Though its inconsistencies and indiscretions sometimes vexed Richard, he could not find fault with Groats’s lending policy, which was, a la Netflix, ahead of its time. You paid a one-time charge of $50 for a library card, and then an annual $25 membership fee. Once you located your needle among the stacks, Groats would let you borrow the tome for as long as you wanted with no due dates. Ivan would check out his armload of books and then mail them back from Brooklyn (though Richard suspected that he’d “forgotten” to return a few of the more hard-to-find first-editions). Amazingly, Groats’s business model seemed to work for them.

“Richard?” The sound of his name shook him from his thoughts. It was Shannon, who had appeared in the doorway to his office.

“Oh, hey.”

“Are you all right?”

“Um, yeah, yeah, sure. Just, you know, thinking.”

“I wanted to say that you shouldn’t feel bad. You did the right thing, and…I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“For being a klutz. For swearing. For basically ruining everything.”

Richard motioned for her to sit in the psychedelic orange chair. She hesitated, eyeing the piece of furniture as if it had propositioned her to go back to its apartment to drop acid and watch porn.

“Please,” said Richard. “I’d like to talk to you. Just for a second.”

She sat, orienting her buttocks so that they made contact with the slimmest possible section of the upholstery. One twitch and she’d topple. Her hair had dried some, and Richard took note of her face. She was pretty—beyond pretty. Lovely. Sun-skinned and proportionately freckled. He thought it unfortunate that she felt it necessary to barricade herself behind her curls.

“Shannon, I will say this only once. What happened was not your fault.”

“But after my little performance, everything went to crap.”

“Technically, that’s true. But that’s because of three factors, none of which had anything to do with you. First, Otto is a moron who has no idea what he’s doing. Second, Bertha is always looking for new ways to torture the people who have the misfortune of knowing her. And third, I fucked up, colossally.”

“Well, I see your point about Mr. Kane. And I agree that Bertha overreacted. But I still feel guilty.”

“Please don’t.”

“But I mean…if I hadn’t uttered that one stupid syllable—”

“I have nothing to lose or gain at this point by telling you the truth. So here goes. This company doesn’t deserve you. With your intelligence and talents, you can find something better. If that means going home to Mom and Dad for a while to regroup, so be it. Just get away from this place. Go on a long trip. See the world. Go north, somewhere isolated and pure where you can experience coldness and emptiness and starkness. Let the frigid wind blister your skin, until you can’t take it anymore, until you can’t feel a thing. And then, only then, follow…follow the fire.”

Shannon turned her head and fake-coughed, and Richard shut his trap.

“Um, okay. Thanks, Richard. I’ll think about what you said.” She got up and left before he could say anything else.

“Well,” he said to the empty office, “that was stellar.”

Oui, a maaahgneeeeficent performance, Monsieur Wa-tairz! C’etait bon! C’etait très bon! Not only did you almost spill the garbanzos about the cave-vision (dolt!), you came off as a complete loser who’s failed at everything he’s ever attempted, yet for some reason fancies himself as a suitable mentor for the young and misguided. “Follow the fire?” Did you actually say, “Follow the fucking fire?”

Shannon had left the door open, and he could see into her cubicle. She unpinned a David Beckham wall-calendar and spilled a jar of pens into her backpack. What’s with all of the pens? Why do people have so many goddamned pens?

He looked away and turned to his computer to delete old files and emails. That was when he noticed it. There, hiding amongst the desktop icons that surrounded a wallpaper photo of James Joyce, between his Outlook shortcut and a PDF of the Introduction to Arrangements, was a white dot.

He looked closer. Shadowing gave the graphic three-dimensional depth, but it still looked grayed-out and blurry. It was impossible, but he knew it to be true—the sphere from last night had returned, this time pixilated and digitized. Stretching out his foot, he kicked the door closed. Then he moved the mouse-pointer over the sphere, poising his index finger to click. He moistened his lips, scratched his chin, fidgeted in his chair, scuffed the carpet. The Yoda clock read 8:20. He asked it what he should do. (“Click on the sphere, you should.”) His breathing halted, or did it accelerate? He wasn’t sure.

Something was happening. After all those years of listening to his father talk, talk, talk about his Ovid, his Dante, his Borges; after a lifetime of reading, of hoarding the words, thoughts, and experiences of others; now, finally, something was happening. Really happening. To him.

Click. He disappeared.

Next Chapter: Part Two: The Second Sphere, Chapter II