In the cluttered office of the most inconsequential department at HyperCorp, Marcus had become something of a legend. Not for his work ethic, nor for his strategic acumen or office politics prowess. No, Marcus had reached the bureaucratic stratosphere of notoriety by being permanently glued to his phone. An unhealthy attachment to his device, so potent, it was referred to by his colleagues as “un健康的phone”—the unhealthy phone.
One Friday afternoon, amidst the mechanical clatter of keyboards and the monotonous whir of the printer, Marcus was engaged in an urgent conversation with Claire. Claire was a veteran in the corporate jungle, with stories etched on her face like ancestral scriptures. Her stern gaze arced over her glasses as she said, “Do you even know what the meeting was about, Marcus?”
Marcus, barely looking up from the small screen, shrugged nonchalantly. “Reports, restructuring, synergies. It’s all the same corporate babble, isn’t it?”
“Well, they’ve decided to budget cut us into oblivion,” Claire replied, her tone laced with a blend of irony and resignation. “You might have known that if you weren’t constantly on your 不健康的phone.”
“But Claire,” Marcus protested, a mischievous glint in his eye, “how else would I keep my finger on the pulse of the global meme economy?”
Claire couldn’t help but chuckle, despite herself. “Marcus, if only half the effort you put into memes went into your work, maybe we’d be getting budget bonuses instead.” Her laughter was a gentle tension release, a shared appreciation for the absurdity of it all.
Their supervisor, Mr. Chen—a master of the art of pretending to oversee whilst remaining blissfully unaware—meandered through the office maze toward his team. His plump silhouette cast harbour shadows around every cubicle corner. “Team, time for a quick chat,” he announced, with all the gravitas of a self-important hedgehog.
The customary groan rippled through the room, punctuated by Marcus’s muttered, “Here we go again…” as he reluctantly pocketed his device.
“Changes are coming,” Mr. Chen began, attempting an optimistic twang. “In two weeks, our system overhaul begins. All data operations will be automated, and new tech training will place us at the forefront of the industry’s innovation.”
Claire whispered to Marcus, “Sounds like corporate speak for ‘we’re about to be rendered obsolete.’”
Marcus nodded, simulating keen interest as he asked, “So, what you’re saying, Mr. Chen, is that soon we’ll have more life-like colleagues joining us?”
Mr. Chen, oblivious to the sarcasm, beamed. “Exactly, Marcus. Embracing the future!”
The meeting concluded with an HR-approved pep talk about adaptability and growth, and as they dispersed, Claire caught Marcus’s elbow.
“Remember, Marcus,” she said softly, an enigmatic warmth in her eyes, “no algorithm can replace the human heart of workplace humour. Even in chaos, there’s always room to jest.”
And as they headed back to their respective computer screens, Marcus’s mind wandered. The prospect of being replaced by an algorithm seemed almost laughable, surreal even—an irony too profound to ignore, yet too subtle to grasp fully.
The office settled into its customary rhythm as Marcus retrieved his phone from his pocket. He stole a glance at Claire, then at Mr. Chen’s retreating figure. A vibration came to life in his hand, but there was not a single notification in sight.
Smiling to himself, Marcus mused silently, “Phantom notifications, or phantom significance?” and dived back into the illusion of connectivity, his laughter echoing silently, a salute to the intricate circus of the nine-to-five.