The Meeting Could’ve Been An Email

At 9:00 a.m. sharp, we gather in the windowless room with the flickering lights and the smell of burnt tires and stale coffee grounds. Carol from HR is already there, smiling like she’s been reanimated especially for the occasion.

“This shouldn’t take more than an hour,” she says.

A lie.

I sip from my travel mug. It tastes like plastic and smells like detergent with undercurrents of hazelnut. I scan the room: Mark’s scrolling LinkedIn like a man looking for an escape route. Tanya’s mouth-breathing.

Carol clicks to the first slide: Restructuring for Strategic Alignment.

Everyone blinks. No one asks what it means.

I doodle a guillotine in the margins of my notepad. A cute one. With googly eyes.

O.o⸻O.o

At 9:14, the PowerPoint freezes. Carol chuckles nervously. “You all know how temperamental technology can be.”

I think about throwing my chair through the wall and escaping into the supply closet.

Instead, I nod sympathetically.

At 9:27, we’re divided into breakout groups to brainstorm “innovative synergy deliverables.”

My group chooses silence. Our greatest strength.

Mark finally speaks. “We could do a podcast?”

Everyone nods like he invented air. Twat.

O.o⸻O.o

At 9:48, we’re back together. The lights flicker more aggressively now, like they’re trying to communicate, or angry. Same thing, surely.

Carol beams. “This is going great!” Her blazer has shoulder pads big enough to smother a small child.

She clicks to the final slide: Time to Vote!

Each of us receives a small tablet. It buzzes to life with a question:

Do you support the upcoming transition?

Yes / No

There is no explanation of what the transition is.

In an act of solidarity and desperation, we all select “Yes”. The only thing we have ever agreed upon.

Because we want to go home someday.

Carol claps. “Wonderful! You’ve opted in to the Next Phase!”

I blink. “Sorry, what phase?”

Behind her, a panel in the wall slides open. A soft whirring sound fills the room. White noise.

A conveyor belt appears.

“Please proceed single file,” Carol says.

Mark tries to leave through the door. It’s locked.

Carol’s smile doesn’t waver. “Don’t be silly.”

O.o⸻O.o

We shuffle forward. The air smells like toner and boiled chicken.

Mark whispers, “Do you think this is… like, metaphorical?”

But by then, he has stepped onto the conveyor. It carries him toward a large slot marked TALENT REDEPLOYMENT.

Then, a sound. A flash.

“Next!” chirps Carol.

O.o⸻O.o

My turn. I glance back.

Carol’s still smiling, teeth like chiclets. I wish she’d swallow them and take private joy in wondering how long it would take to digest them.

Despite my defenses, I find my body once again. “What is this?”

“Your transition,” she says. “You said yes. Everyone always does.”

O.o⸻O.o

She’s right. I did say yes. We all did.

Because we were tired. Because we were afraid to ask what it meant. Because our time was precious, and this could have been an email.

Because no one ever reads the terms and conditions.