The Bull We Ourselves

The baseball sat on Marcus's desk like a paperweight from a life he'd outgrown. Little League, 1987. His son had found it in a box yesterday, asking about the faded signature, and Marcus had lied. Said it was from a minor league pitcher, not the truth: his best friend who'd OD'd before twenty-one.

He swallowed his vitamin D supplement with lukewarm coffee — doctor's orders for someone who spent too much time under fluorescent lights. At forty-seven, his body had become a series of maintenance tasks. Lubricate joints. Supplement deficiencies. Schedule screenings.

"You coming to drinks?" Rachel asked, leaning in his doorway. She was twenty-four, still young enough to believe workplace friendships were real.

"Can't. Meeting with David."

She rolled her eyes. "The CEO who thinks he's Steve Jobs but runs a mid-market logistics company? That should be fun."

Marcus didn't smile. David was his boss, his mentor, and — in the corporate tragedy genre they were living — the man who'd probably fire him by Friday. The "strategic realignment" had been whispered for weeks. David had promised him protection. Marcus had believed him, the way he'd believed his friend wouldn't die, the way he'd believed the baseball signature meant something permanent.

The vitamin bottle rattled as he shoved it in his drawer. Next to it sat the plaque from his ten-year anniversary. "LOYALTY AND LEADERSHIP." He'd purchased the baseball with money from his first bonus, celebrating the same lie.

His phone buzzed. David. "Can we push to 3? Something came up."

Marcus stared at the baseball. The signature was barely visible now, thumb-smudged from a thousand touches. His friend had been high when he signed it, Marcus realized later. Probably didn't even know what he was writing.

"Sure," Marcus typed back. "3 works."

Rachel passed again on her way out. "Hey — you good?"

He considered telling her everything. The corporate bullshit, the looming layoff, the way every "friend" at work was really a transaction waiting to reverse. But she was twenty-four. She'd learn soon enough.

"Just tired," Marcus said. "Go enjoy your drinks."

He picked up the baseball. The leather was cracked in places, fragile but intact. Kind of like him. Kind of like all of them really — carrying around signatures from ghosts, pretending they still meant something.

The vitamin D was supposed to help with bone strength. But nothing fortified you against the weight of your own lies.