Dead Men Don't Take Vitamins

Marcus stood at the edge of the company pool party, nursing a lukewarm beer and watching his colleagues drift through the water like bloated corpses. Three years of mergers and downsizing had turned them all into zombies — creatures who showed up at 9 AM, stared at spreadsheets until 5 PM, and went home to do it again. No one died. Nothing lived. It was a corporate purgatory of beige cubicles and recycled air.

His boss, David, emerged from the pool, shaking chlorine water from his thinning hair. "Marcus! You're not in! The water's perfect!" David slapped him on the back, leaving a wet handprint on Marcus's shirt. David was a bull of a man — aggressive, loud, incapable of subtlety — and somehow still thriving in this economy. Marcus had stopped taking his vitamins last month. What was the point of prolonging this?

"Just enjoying the view," Marcus said.

David laughed. "Always so serious. You know what your problem is? You don't know how to bullshit anymore. Bullshit is the lubricant of commerce, my friend. Without it, the gears grind to a halt."

Marcus looked at the pool again. His coworkers floated on their backs, faces turned toward the sky, eyes closed. Were they relaxing or were they dead? Sometimes he couldn't tell the difference.

"I need a real vitamin," Marcus said suddenly. "Not the pill kind. The kind that makes you feel something again."

David's face softened. "We all do, buddy. We all do. But you know what they say about vitamin deficiency — it's fatal if you don't treat it. So get in the damn pool and keep swimming until you find what you're looking for."

Marcus set down his beer. He stepped to the edge and dove into the water. It was cold and shocking and real, and for a moment, he felt something stir in his chest. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe he wasn't dead yet. He broke the surface, gasping, and for the first time in years, he wanted to see tomorrow.