The down spiral

Lin stared at the single staple in the upper left corner of his performance review. The staple was perfectly aligned, at exactly a 45-degree angle, the kind of precision that spoke of someone who took pride in their work. The content of the review, however, was less impressive.

"Mr. Wang," said Gloria from HR, her smile as plastic as the potted plant behind her desk. "Do you understand why we're having this conversation?"

Lin nodded slowly, still fixated on the staple. In his five years at Nexus Financial, he'd never received anything but satisfactory reviews. His work was neither exceptional nor poor—he existed in that comfortable middle ground of corporate invisibility. Until today.

"I'm being fired because I used the wrong color Post-it note," Lin said flatly.

Gloria's smile twitched at the corners. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds rather silly, doesn't it? But I think we both know it's about more than just Post-it notes."

"Do we?" Lin finally looked up. "Because your email specifically mentioned, and I quote, 'blatant disregard for office supply color-coding protocols.'"

Gloria shuffled some papers importantly. "The yellow Post-its are exclusively reserved for Level 3 priority tasks in accordance with our new efficiency initiative. You used yellow for a Level 2 task, thus creating a workflow disruption that cascaded across three departments."

Lin blinked. "I used a yellow Post-it to remind myself to order more printer paper."

"Exactly!" Gloria said triumphantly, as if Lin had just confessed to industrial espionage. "Printer paper is clearly a Level 2 priority requiring a blue Post-it. This is outlined on page 47 of the updated employee handbook."

"Which was distributed yesterday afternoon," Lin pointed out. "After I wrote the note."

Gloria sighed the sigh of someone deeply disappointed by human fallibility. "Mr. Wang, at Nexus Financial, we expect our employees to be proactive about policy changes. Your termination paperwork is ready for your signature."

Lin stared at the termination form. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice screamed in outrage at the absurdity of it all. But a much larger part—the part that had spent five years in this fluorescent-lit purgatory—simply felt relieved.

"Do I get to keep the Post-it?" he asked.

Gloria's smile froze. "Excuse me?"

"The yellow Post-it. The one that got me fired. Can I keep it as a souvenir?"

"Office supplies remain the property of Nexus Financial," Gloria said automatically. Then she leaned forward, lowering her voice. "But between us, nobody checks the supply closet inventory. I won't tell if you don't."

Lin nodded, signed his termination papers, and walked out with a pocket full of yellow Post-its. It was, he decided, the closest thing to severance pay he was going to get.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" chirped Mr. Hernandez, Lin's landlord, as he bounded up the stairs to Lin's apartment. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt so bright it threatened to cause retinal damage, and his perpetual smile seemed wider than usual.

Lin, who had been sitting on the steps of his building contemplating the cruel comedy of existence (and also where he might find his next meal), looked up at the overcast sky and the beginnings of what promised to be an impressive thunderstorm.

"It's about to rain," Lin pointed out.

"Liquid sunshine!" Mr. Hernandez exclaimed, clapping Lin on the shoulder with enough force to dislodge a vertebra. "Nature's way of washing away our troubles! Speaking of washing away troubles, I have something for you."

With the flourish of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, Mr. Hernandez extracted an envelope from his pocket and presented it to Lin. The envelope was pink. Lin was developing a distinct aversion to colorful stationery.

"What's this?" Lin asked, already knowing the answer.

"Just a bit of official business," Mr. Hernandez said, his smile never faltering. "Nothing to worry about! Well, I mean, it is an eviction notice, so I suppose there is something to worry about from your perspective. But from my perspective—which is the perspective of someone who hasn't been paid rent in three months—it's a wonderful solution!"

Lin opened the envelope. The eviction notice was printed on paper that was somehow even pinker than the envelope, with cheerful clip art of a house with legs walking away.

"You have clipart on your eviction notices?" Lin asked incredulously.

"I like to add a personal touch," Mr. Hernandez beamed. "I find it softens the blow. The little walking house represents your transition to new housing opportunities!"

"It looks like my apartment is running away from me," Lin muttered.

"Perspective, my friend! It's all about perspective!" Mr. Hernandez checked his watch, which was shaped like a pineapple. "Now, officially, you have seventy-two hours to vacate, but between us—" he leaned in conspiratorially, his cologne a potent mix of coconut and what Lin could only identify as excessive optimism, "—I'd appreciate if you could be out by tomorrow. I've got a couple looking at the place, and they're very eager to start their life journey in apartment 3B!"

"Their life journey," Lin repeated dully.

"Exactly! They're expecting their first child. Imagine that—new lives beginning just as you're, well, relocating!" Mr. Hernandez's smile dimmed for a microsecond, then returned to full wattage. "The circle of apartment living!"

Thunder rumbled in the distance. A fat raindrop landed on Lin's nose.

"Perfect timing!" Mr. Hernandez exclaimed. "Mother Nature herself is washing away your troubles! Good chat, Lin. I've always enjoyed our little talks."

As Mr. Hernandez bounded down the stairs, whistling what sounded suspiciously like "Don't Worry, Be Happy," Lin looked down at the eviction notice. The cartoon house seemed to be mocking him with its little cartoon smile and its little cartoon legs.

"At least you can walk away," Lin told the house. "I'm stuck with me."

The rain began to fall in earnest, soaking the pink paper until the ink ran and the little house drowned in a pool of its own cheerfulness.

The Rusty Anchor wasn't just a dive bar; it was the kind of place that had given up trying to stay afloat and instead embraced the slow, dignified sink to the bottom. It was perfect for Lin's mood. The bar smelled like decades of spilled beer and broken dreams—Lin couldn't imagine a more appropriate place to spend his last night of not being homeless.

"What'll it be?" asked the bartender, a man whose face seemed to be composed entirely of wrinkles arranged around a magnificent white mustache. His nametag read "EARL," but someone had scratched an "P" in front of it.

"Something that will make me forget the last 24 hours," Lin said, sliding onto a barstool.

"That'd be a lobotomy," Pearl replied, not missing a beat. "But since I'm not licensed for brain surgery in this state anymore, how about whiskey?"

"Anymore?" Lin raised an eyebrow.

Pearl tapped the side of his nose. "There are some questions that are better left floating in the ether, son. Whiskey it is."

He poured a generous measure of amber liquid into a glass that might have been clean during the Clinton administration. Lin took a sip and immediately reconsidered his plan to drink himself into oblivion. The whiskey tasted like it had been filtered through a sweaty gym sock.

"That's our house special," Pearl said proudly. "We call it 'Regrettable Life Choices.'"

"Appropriate," Lin muttered, taking another sip. The second taste wasn't better, but it was stronger, which was really all he needed.

"So what's your story?" Pearl asked, leaning on the bar. "Lost job? Lost love? Lost will to participate in the capitalist nightmare we call modern existence?"

"All of the above," Lin admitted. "Fired for using the wrong color Post-it note, evicted by a landlord who thinks clip art makes eviction notices more palatable, and I haven't had a date in so long that I'm pretty sure my dating apps think I'm dead."

Pearl nodded sagely. "Classic trifecta of despair. You know what you need?"

"A time machine to go back and choose a different life path?"

"Close. You need perspective," Pearl said, tapping his temple. "Let me introduce you to some of my regulars. They'll make your problems seem like a paper cut in a world of amputations."

Before Lin could protest, Pearl was gesturing to a man at the end of the bar who was intently staring into his beer as if it contained the secrets of the universe. "That's Marvin. He's been coming here every night for twenty years to avoid going home to his wife."

"That's... sad," Lin said.

"Oh, his wife died fifteen years ago," Pearl continued cheerfully. "Force of habit, I guess. And over there—" he pointed to a woman in the corner who was aggressively solving a crossword puzzle, "—that's Doctor Eleanor. She performed surgery on the governor once. Left a sponge in him. Now she teaches high school biology and spends her evenings trying to drink away the memory of what could have been."

Lin looked around the bar with new eyes. Every patron seemed to be nursing not just a drink, but a profound disappointment with life.

"And what about him?" Lin nodded toward a man in a suit who seemed wildly out of place in the grungy bar.

Pearl's expression darkened. "That's Mr. Stevens. Investment banker. Made millions, lost it all in a Ponzi scheme. Now he just comes in here and orders our most expensive scotch, which is still basically paint thinner with caramel coloring."

"So what you're saying is, this is a glimpse of my future," Lin said, draining his glass.

Pearl refilled it without being asked. "What I'm saying, son, is that you're in good company. We're all just trying to stay afloat in a sea of absurdity. Some of us are better swimmers than others."

Lin considered this as he took another sip of the whiskey, which was somehow getting worse with each taste. "And what's your story, Pearl? How did you end up here?"

The bartender's mustache twitched in what might have been a smile. "Me? I'm the captain of this ship of fools. I watch, I listen, I pour. And occasionally—" he leaned in close, "—I slip a little wisdom into the drinks when no one's looking."

"Is that what that awful aftertaste is? Wisdom?"

Pearl laughed, a sound like gravel in a blender. "No, that's just bad whiskey. The wisdom's free of charge."

By his fifth drink, Lin had heard life stories from most of the bar's patrons. They were tales of cosmic bad luck, poor decisions, and the kind of irony that made Lin's firing seem almost pedestrian. Marvin had accidentally sent a text meant for his mistress to his wife, then another meant for his wife to his boss. Doctor Eleanor hadn't just left a sponge in the governor; she'd left it in such a way that it took three years to find and by then had grown its own ecosystem. Mr. Stevens hadn't just lost his money; he'd invested his entire extended family's savings in what turned out to be a scheme run by his own twin brother.

"You see," Pearl said, collecting empty glasses, "the universe has a twisted sense of humor. The sooner you learn to laugh with it, the better off you'll be."

Lin, now thoroughly drunk, nodded with the profound understanding of the inebriated. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I should laugh at my problems."

"That's the spirit," Pearl encouraged.

"I should laugh at the fact that I'm about to be homeless because of a Post-it note," Lin continued, his voice rising slightly. "I should laugh at the fact that my landlord thinks clip art makes eviction less traumatic. I should laugh at the fact that my life has amounted to absolutely nothing!"

The bar had gone quiet. Everyone was looking at Lin now, their expressions a mix of sympathy and the awkward discomfort of witnesses to a public breakdown.

"Perhaps," Pearl suggested gently, "you should take your newfound perspective outside for some fresh air."

Lin nodded, slid off his stool with as much dignity as he could muster (which wasn't much), and staggered toward the door. As he pushed it open, he turned back to the assembled patrons of the Rusty Anchor.

"Thank you all for your wisdom," he slurred. "I'm going to go laugh at the cosmic joke that is my existence from somewhere very high up."

The door swung shut behind him, leaving a momentary silence in the bar.

"Should we be worried about that?" Doctor Eleanor asked, looking up from her crossword.

Pearl sighed and picked up the phone. "Better safe than sorry."

The George Washington Bridge loomed ahead, its lights a constellation against the night sky. Lin stumbled along the pedestrian walkway, the whiskey in his system making the world tilt at odd angles. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten here—the journey from the Rusty Anchor was a blur of subway rides and wrong turns—but the destination felt right.

"Perfect setting for a grand exit," Lin muttered to himself, approaching the railing. "Dramatic. Symbolic. The fall of man, literally."

He gripped the cold metal and looked down at the dark water below. It was a long way down, which was the point. Lin had never been particularly afraid of heights, but even in his inebriated state, the distance made his stomach lurch.

"Goodbye, cruel world," he rehearsed, then frowned. "No, too cliché. How about: 'I'd rather be anywhere but here.' No, that's not right either." He pondered for a moment. "Maybe something in Latin? Everything sounds more profound in Latin."

As Lin was trying to remember any Latin phrases more complex than "carpe diem," he became aware of a peculiar sensation. Something was vibrating in his pocket. It took his alcohol-soaked brain several seconds to realize it was his phone.

He pulled it out, squinting at the screen. The caller ID read "UNKNOWN," but in his current state, Lin was in no position to be choosy about his final human interaction.

"Hello?" he answered, trying to sound less drunk than he was.

"Mr. Wang?" a cheerful voice chirped. "This is Gloria from HR at Nexus Financial."

Lin nearly dropped the phone. "Gloria? It's—" he checked the time, "—two in the morning. Why are you calling me?"

"Oh, I'm so glad I caught you!" Gloria's voice was as artificially bright as ever. "There's been a slight mix-up at the office. It seems there was a misunderstanding about the Post-it note color-coding system."

Lin gripped the railing tighter. "A misunderstanding."

"Yes! It turns out that printer paper requisitions are indeed a Level 3 priority, which does require a yellow Post-it! The entire color-coding chart was printed with a misalignment. So, technically, you were following protocol correctly!"

"You fired me," Lin said slowly, "for following protocol correctly."

"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds rather silly, doesn't it?" Gloria laughed nervously. "But the good news is that we'd like to offer you your position back, effective immediately! With a small bonus to compensate for any inconvenience, of course."

Lin looked down at the dark water, then back at his phone. The universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor indeed.

"I'm standing on the George Washington Bridge," he said flatly.

There was a pause. "Oh! Weekend sightseeing? How lovely!"

"No, Gloria. I'm contemplating jumping off the George Washington Bridge because I lost my job and my apartment in the same day."

Another pause, longer this time. "Well, that seems rather drastic," Gloria finally said. "Though I do appreciate your commitment to work-life balance activities."

Lin couldn't help it. He started to laugh. It began as a chuckle, then grew into a full-throated laugh that echoed across the empty bridge. The sheer absurdity of the situation—being offered his job back while contemplating suicide—struck him as the perfect punchline to the cosmic joke that was his life.

"Mr. Wang? Are you still there?" Gloria sounded concerned, possibly for the first time in her HR career.

"I'm here," Lin gasped between laughs. "I'm just—"

It was at that moment that fate, or perhaps just the combination of excessive whiskey and uneven bridge pavement, intervened. Lin took a step back from the railing, still laughing, and his foot caught on a ridge in the walkway. He stumbled, arms windmilling comically as he tried to regain his balance. His phone went flying from his hand, arcing through the air and disappearing into the darkness below.

"No!" Lin lunged for it, forgetting in his drunken state that phones cannot be caught in mid-air over a bridge unless one is also willing to follow the same trajectory. His momentum carried him forward, and for one suspended moment, Lin found himself airborne, still reaching for his phone.

"This isn't how I planned it," was his last coherent thought before the darkness rushed up to meet him.