The Bear in the Corner Office

The grizzly stood seven feet tall in the corner of Marcus's office, its glass eyes frozen in permanent snarl. A trophy from his Montana hunting trip, he'd told anyone who'd listen. Most days, I avoided looking at it.

"You're not still mad about the partnership, are you?" Marcus asked, spinning a baseball on his desk. The ball was signed—some player from the nineties whose name I'd pretended to care about when we'd sat in the cheap seats at Fenway, drinking lukewarm beer and talking about the futures we thought we'd have.

"I'm not mad," I said, which was partially true. "And I'm not your friend, Marcus. Not anymore."

He laughed, that charming laugh that had won over clients and women and, once, me. We'd met in law school, both hungry and poor and convinced we'd take the world by storm together. We had, for a while. Then came the ethical violation, the client I wouldn't sell out, the choice he made without hesitating.

The bear watched our exchange, its fur brushed to perfection, its claws preserved in terrifying clarity. It had probably died thinking it was the apex predator, right until the bullet. Kind of like I had, thinking loyalty meant something.

"I could use your help on the Merger," he said, finally stilling the baseball. "Old times' sake."

I looked at the bear, then at him. "The bear's wearing a tie," I noted.

"It's humorous," Marcus said, missing the point entirely. "People love it."

"It's dead, Marcus. Putting a tie on it doesn't change that."

I left his office with my integrity intact and my partnership prospects murdered. But as I walked past the receptionist, past the views of the city we'd once dreamed of ruling, I realized something: the bear might be dead and stuffed and wearing a tie, but at least it didn't have to pretend to be something it wasn't anymore.

That night, I watched a baseball game alone. The pitcher threw a perfect curveball, and for a moment, I understood why Marcus had always loved the sport. In baseball, you always know the count. In life, you don't know you've struck out until you're already walking away from the plate.