The Goldfish on My Desk

The goldfish—Marcus called him Barry—circled his bowl endlessly, never noticing the glass walls. Just like me. I'd been running circles in this corporate labyrinth for seven years, sprinting toward promotions that somehow always materialized for someone else. My morning runs along the Charles River were the only time I felt I was actually moving forward.

"You going to the game?" Sarah asked, leaning against my cubicle entrance. She held two Red Sox tickets—corporate box seats, the kind that cost more than my monthly rent.

I'd been expecting this. The baseball tickets. The olive branch. The test.

Last week, I'd discovered the encrypted partition on her laptop while "helping" with her printer issues. I'd been spying on my own colleagues for six months now, feeding information about the upcoming merger to the executive VP who'd promised me the Senior Director position. Sarah was my rival, my friend, and now—my target.

"I don't think so," I said, watching Barry complete another pointless lap. "I've got this analysis due Monday."

Sarah's smile didn't waver, but something flickered behind her eyes. "It's Opening Day, Tom. We've gone every year since you started here. Remember when we got caught in that rainstorm?" She laughed, but the sound was hollow. "We were so drunk we couldn't find the T station."

I remembered. We'd ended up at her apartment, wet clothes scattered across her floor, the dawn breaking through windows as we talked about everything and nothing. That was before I became who I am now. Before the corporate spy game ate whatever remained of my integrity.

"Rain again this weekend," I said.

"Tom." She stepped closer, voice dropping. "I know you've been meeting with Reynolds. I know you've been accessing my files."

The goldfish swam to the front of his bowl, mouth opening and closing in silent panic.

"What?"

"I'm not stupid." She placed the tickets on my desk. "Reynolds is planning to gut our division after the merger. He's using you to get the dirt he needs to justify it. You think he's giving you my job? He's giving you a severance package."

Sarah turned and walked away.

I stared at the tickets. Saturday, 7:05 PM. Section 124, Row A.

Barry kept swimming.

I picked up the phone and called Reynolds. "I'm not doing it anymore."

"Excuse me?"

"The spying. The information. Whatever you think I'm giving you—I'm done."

I hung up and grabbed my running shoes. Outside, the spring air was sharp with possibility. For the first time in years, I didn't know where I was going, but at least I was running toward something instead of in circles.