Alec & Wunderland Designs

The public face, the private space.

Dear Reader,

When I was young, the story of Alice in Wonderland bothered me.  I mean really bothered me, especially the cartoon cat with the bright yellow eyes that remained even as the purple body disappeared.  I’m pretty sure I had nightmares about it.

However, the older I grow, the more I find something strangely comforting in the absurd.  The absurd in art and literature forces us to relinquish our gripped control on the steering wheel of our lives.  It sweeps us away into the journey of the unknown, allowing us to be fully alive as we can only be when we are fully present.

And in the present, we find our truest selves.

~S. C. Durbois

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~Alec & Wunderland Designs~

Alec was early for his interview with the architectural firm Wunderland Designs.  Alec knew, as I’m sure you must, that in a profession such as his, appearances are everything.  A typo in an email?  You don’t pay attention to details in your work.  Late to a meeting?  You are likely to waste the client’s time.  Off the rack suit?  Your ideas will tend to be just as nominal and tidy, unwilling to take risks.  Alec was early.  Always.  Even if it meant skipping breakfast.

Wunderland Designs was a Swiss company with an impressive portfolio, which he’d reviewed over the last couple of days.  There wasn’t a lot of info on the inner workings of the company, but their stock option and acclaimed projects spoke for themselves.  A colleague (a fellow graduate of the RISD School of Architecture) let Alec know they’d opened a location in his home city.   If he could get a job with them, he would be set. 

So, he made an appointment and assembled a portfolio with samples of his best works since graduating five years ago.  He’d used state of the art computer technology for these designs.  They were modeled after the known blueprints for success, principles that every other accomplished architect observed.  Were they buildings he himself thought were marvelous?  No, but personal vision only got in the way of excellence.  Excellence was what the client wanted, so Alec followed the formula for excellence.

The offices were at the top of one of those modern skyscrapers, and when Alec stepped in, his first sensation was of being outside.  Then he saw the glass roof, angled steeply to the edge of the floor on his right, connecting to the steel structure of the building high on the left.  Great square pieces of glass were bolted in with circular stainless-steel stays.  There was no one in the lobby.  No receptionist sat at the long glass desk, which bore only a few objects: a lamp, an open ledger, a netted metal cup holding pens, and a white phone with a blinking light. 

Alec stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, pleased with the minimalist surroundings and feeling he fit in this place.  His dark grey business suit was a fine wool-cashmere blend with simple stitching on the lapels:  expensively modest.  He leaned his portfolio along the side of the black leather couches and walked to the window, taking in the view.  If you were in the room with him, another architect applying there, for example, you would have been impressed.  Let’s be honest, you would have been intimidated.  The image Alec struck was so perfect, you would have started looking for flaws in his polished veneer.

The receptionist’s chair, an aerodynamic frame with a taught mesh constructed to give the lumbar lift-off, was not neatly pushed into the desk, but swung at an angle, in the direction of the hallway leading to other rooms.  There was a cream-colored wool sweater hanging on the back, with little tabs of greyish fuzzballs collecting along the arms and front.  Busy thinking about his interview, mentally rehearsing, and going through calming breathing exercises, Alec did not, at first, place the music he heard.  When he took a seat in one of the long couches, his heart slowed down and noticed what was peculiar about the music.

He held his breath, listening. Yes, there it was, the repeat.  The tinny sound was a cheery segment of music, you know that kind, though you’ve likely never noticed it.  It’s not very irritating when you’re getting on and off the elevator at intervals.  But Alec realized, suddenly and uncomfortably, that the sound was coming from the phone on the desk.  Someone was on hold. 

He scanned the waiting room—there no one; no one coming down the hall or lurking in the door frames.  The receptionist had put someone on hold and walked away, knowing an interview was coming.  Alec glanced at his watch.  Three minutes until his meeting.

“Hello?” 

Alec looked up, pasting his most charmingly professional grin on his face.  The Forest Mist cologne he patted on this morning was a good choice.  His grin faltered.

“Hello?”  A tinny disembodied voice echoed again.  “Hello?” 

The phone, Alec realized—the person had come off hold.  Or rather, Wunderland Designs had been taken off hold. 

“Hello?”  The voice asked again.  Alec glanced around. Nobody.  He froze, staying as quiet as possible, hoping the leather wouldn’t squeak at his minor adjustments.

“Hello?”  The voice sounded more pointed this time.  Alec glance at his watch—it was time for his interview

“Yes, hello, I believe it is time?”  The voice said.  Alec frowned.  Finally, feeling bad for the receptionist who was missing her call, and for the person on the other end of the phone who was talking to nobody, and for himself most of all, he got up.  He rebuttoned his jacket as he walked closer to the desk, looking around.  Where was the receptionist?  He projected his voice,

“Hello, sorry, I think you’ve been on hold, and the receptionist will be right back.”

“I have not been on hold—I put you on hold.”  The voice said matter of fact-ly.

“No—” Alec said, craning his neck around and wondering how this would look to a potential employer.  “No, I don’t work here.”

“Then what are you doing here?”  The voice asked.  Alec’s mouth popped open.  There was nothing about this in any of the interview books and blogs he read.  He cursed himself for having answered.  Knowing his luck, the receptionist would return to her desk just as he said allowed, “Well, I hope to get a job here.”  He decided instead just to stay quiet.

“Oh, now you’re going to just ignore me?”  The voice asked huffily after a long moment.  Alec looked up at the sky with raised hands and finally leaned forward on the desk to make the phone understand. 

“Look, I don’t work here—”

“Yes, I think we’ve established that,” the phone snapped.  Alec’s eyes widened and he felt dampness under his arms.  The Forest Mist was beginning to smell a tad humid. 

“I’m not who you want to talk to—the receptionist will be coming back shortly I believe.”  The cursed receptionist with her little woolen sweater tabs—she should be more professional.  “I’m here for an interview with this company.” 

There was a long pause as the phone processed this and the flush rose in Alec’s face.

“I bet you’re going to do great,” the phone said.  “Though you might want to work on your people skills.  Proceed down the hallway, last door on your left.” 

Then Alec heard a click, and the lit button turned off.  Alec stared at the phone for a moment, mouth hanging agape.  Had the phone just instructed him to walk into the office?  He didn’t move, unsure of what to do.  The phone speaker crackled back on.  “Hop too!  You don’t want to be late—this is a very important meeting for you.”

Alec jumped, lunged back to grab his portfolio, and hurried down the hallway. 

The floor was smooth grey cement with a singular long carpet, composed of innumerable hues of green, which saved the place from feeling too cool and barren.  He continued down the hallway. It was very long, with the slanted glass wall on the right providing a full view of the city.  Given the rainy overcast day, the view wasn’t particularly impressive, and the wall of white clouds felt like an extension of the building around him. 

On the other side, he passed windowed conference rooms.  A few were full of people discussing building pictures on a large screen at one end, or pouring over huge blueprints with more tubes of paper at the other end.  The conference rooms were interspersed with doors, each designed differently; made out of glass, metal, or wood, and then carved or painted in its own unique fashion.  How odd.  There was no standard to it, as though each door had its own personality, as though it was its own statement.  It created an ununified feeling, which Alec was silently critiquing until he passed the next door and found himself taking in the charm and sophistication of its design.  Behind some of these, he heard conversations. 

He kept walking.  He’d been walking this whole time you see, clutching his portfolio under his arm.  The hallway was long enough that he felt his pounding heart slow.  He reminded himself to stay calm—best foot forward—and fixed his professional smile on his face as he knocked on the last door to the left.

“Come in!” a voice called.

There was a squat glass jar with incense reeds sticking out, filling the open room with a floral smell: the honey fragrance of sweet alyssum.  Behind the desk was a tall man wearing a business suit and a bright orange high visibility vest.

“Ah, hello,” he said, getting up from his desk and offering his hand.  Alec strode forward and took it.  “And who might you be?”

Alec’s mouth hung open for a moment.  Had he walked into the wrong door?  But this was the last one on the left…

“I’m your nine o’clock,” he said.

“What happened to the old one?” the man asked with a glance at a clock on his wall.  There were no numbers on it.  “Ah,” he said, answering his own question, “I see he’s run off, well thank goodness you’re here.”

“No, I mean I’m your nine o’clock appointment, I’m here for the interview.”

“Ah, well then, the question stands, doesn’t it?  Who are you?”

“I,” Alec gaped at him, feeling flustered.  “I’m sorry sir, who exactly are you?  Perhaps I walked in the wrong door.”

“Did you mean to walk in the last door on the left?” the man inquired.

“I did.”

“Then you’re in the right place.  What have you got there?” he asked, pointing to the leather portfolio tucked beneath Alec’s arm.

“Samples of my work,” he said, offering it up between them as some sort of defense or offering, but the man held his hand up and then gestured to the open seat.

“No need, here at Wunderland Designs we’re looking for a very particular kind.  Our customer’s satisfaction is always our highest priority.  We want to know if you can work with difficult clients who may have very specific and particular tastes, but without any clear vision for what they actually want.  Which brings me to our second requirement: we want employees with ideas, visionaries whose imagination soars beyond the standard architectural aspirations.  All this brings me to our third requirement: we’re looking for people who can work well under very unusual circumstances.  Can you handle pressure, can you make the best use of the resources provided to you, and still blow our socks off with the results?”

“I graduated from RISD School of Architecture, and over the last five years have designed projects for various big-name clients.  Sir, I believe my work speaks for itself,” Alec said, not moving to gesture at his portfolio. 

He’d worked with men like this before; people who were all talk and bluster, and who were only impressed by other arrogant men who could talk and bluster as loudly as themselves.  The quality of the work was the last thing they considered: you had to sell yourself first, promise them the moon, and then charge enough that they were obligated to like it or admit they had been scammed.  This place felt very much like an emperor with no clothes, where everyone remarks on the deliciousness of the tiny portions of food and walks away with a bigger appetite than when they started the meal. 

The man was grinning at him. 

Bingo.  Alec smiled back.

“Excellent!  It sounds like you’re the man for the job.”  He picked up a manila file and flipped it open.  “You can help us with our newest client case.  You’ll create a proposal, and we’ll make it your job interview.  If we like your work, we’ll hire you.”

Alec’s heart surged—this was exactly what he wanted.

“This particular client is a head-scratcher for us; they like closed spaces but have claustrophobia if it’s the wrong kind of closed space.  They want a residence they can enter from multiple levels, but also require maximum privacy in conjunction with spectacular views.  They’re not fond of humid climates, can’t stand sand, and hate winter.  And above all, there must, must, must be outdoor plumbing.” 

The man flipped the file shut and looked at Alec.

“I just love pens, don’t you?” 

“Love them,” Alec said, working to keep the alarm off his face.

“Oh!  I’m so relieved!  If not…” he pressed a large boney hand to his chest and widened his eyes as if it had indeed given him serious concern.  “We can proceed to the next phase of the interview process.”

Alec kept the relief off his face.  The man got up from behind his desk and walked through a small door which Alec had assumed was a closet.  He stared after the man.  Where was he… trepidation stalled him.  He shook himself.  Go!  Move!  He was past the first phase, wasn’t he?

He hurried to follow him and found that it opened to another hallway.  This one had a long green carpet like the first, but there were no doors or windows.  Instead, there were lights positioned at regular intervals.  The first few near the office were on, but then every once in a while, one was dead. The further they walked the more regularly these came until Alec found himself walking into darkness.  The man talked to him the whole time.

“My name is Harold Fly by the way, but you can call me Harry.  This is the way to the storage room, where we keep all the supplies necessary for running an internationally acclaimed architecture firm.  We don’t take clients back here.  As I’m sure you know, everyone has a public face and a private space where the work actually gets done.  Well, this is where the magic happens, where we put in that sweat equity, rectify mistakes, and transform them into our clients’ dream buildings.  It’s a team effort, as I’m sure you know, which is why I was so happy to hear you love pens…” 

Harry’s voice was the only thing guiding him down the pitch-dark hallway at this point.  Alec strode to keep up but kept his hands stretched forward, a portfolio in one, to warn him if he was about to walk into a wall or—forbid—the man interviewing him. 

“Bernadette, who works in accounting, also manages ordering supplies for us.  Whiz with numbers, that one.  Her gifting lies in seeing things on a grander scale, though she’s just as savvy a forensic accountant in a pinch,” Harry said.  Alec flinched.  Thankfully, it was too dark for anyone to notice.  Anyone but you and I of course, dear reader.  Alec knew all about forensic accounting.

“So, Bernadette sees a sale on pens, and she thinks, ‘well, I might as well order enough for all our office locations all over the globe’.  Genius idea if you ask me, only Bernadette missed a zero, or rather a decimal point, and added a few zeros, I’m really not sure, it’s all legalese to me.  Well, when the shipment came in and the error was discovered, and Bernadette tried to return the bulk order, it turned out the company had put in a specialized mass production to meet the demand.  The CEO was so pleased that he processed our order, closed the company, and bought himself a house in Tahiti.  Ha!” Harry barked a laugh.  “You gotta love it.  Gotta love pens.  Well, anyway,”

A door opened, a rectangle of light in the endless black corridor, with the tall shape of a man in a high-viz orange vest outlined in it.  The reflective parts shone into Alec’s startled pupils.  He blinked, and despite the temporary blindness, followed the man into the chamber on the other side.  He blinked a few more times and saw it was a very large room, so large the metal beams supporting the ceiling disappeared into the black, which was interrupted at regular intervals by large warehouse lights hanging over the whole room.  To the left, there was a little kitchenette with a fridge and a rectangular laminate table surrounded by an eclectic mix of beaten up and broken down office chairs.  Some had lumpy old cushions, some had tears or stains in the fabric, some seemed uncomfortably small, while others looked like they belonged in a board room, they were so big.  It must be where employees took their breaks.

To the right of the kitchenette was a series of unassuming grey cabinets above a counter.  There were also several island countertops.  Alec assumed these were for spreading out blueprint drawings.  To the right of these were cardboard boxes.  Harry walked over to these and opened one.  He pulled out a pen, clicked it twice, and tossed it to Alec.

Alec looked at the pen in his hand.  It was blue gel.  Alec stepped up to the cardboard box and looked inside.  They weren’t even individually wrapped in smaller cases.  The huge cardboard box swam with pens like a box of snakes.  Alec looked up at the mountain of cardboard boxes towering over him, feeling his mouth go dry.  Exactly how many zeros did Bernadette add?

“Hope you’re not a ballpoint pen sort of man,” Harry asked, giving him a suspicious look.

“No—I mean it doesn’t really matter.”

“Excellent!”  Harry patted him on the shoulder.  “Well, you can see this presents a unique opportunity to us.  So!” he clapped his hands, “that’s that, I’ll see you when you’re done!”

Harry turned on his heels and left.  Alec was so confused it took him a moment to shake himself and call out,

“Forgive me, sir, Mr. Fly, I mean Harry, what is it you want me to do?”

Harry stopped and turned to look at him as though he were surprised it wasn’t obvious.  “Oh!  Your task is to build a home for our wonderful client with these pens!  Waste not, want not.  I just knew when you said you loved pens you were the architect for the job.” 

Alec stared at him, wondering if it was a joke, but seeing that Harry was about to walk away, and remembering just how much he needed this job (it was Wunderland Designs after all) he asked, “Can I use other supplies in the cabinets?”

Harry looked at the cabinets with equal surprise, as if he forgot they were there or wondered why Alec might want them. 

“Help yourself,” he said.  He put the manila file on one of the planning islands and left.

Alec hurried over to the island, shoved his portfolio to the side, and opened the file, hoping for some more specific instructions on exactly what kind of home he was expected to build.  He’d wanted to stay away from residential and move into commercial, but if this was his interview project, then he would design the best home he was capable of.  Inside he found a single piece of paper with a short paragraph on it; Harry had read it to him word for word in the office.  Alec stared at the page for a long moment, and then looked up.  Was this a joke?

He looked at the mountain of pens in disgust.  How did they expect him to build a home with just pens under such vague and ridiculous guidelines?  He picked up his worn portfolio and started to walk away, head hanging and wondering if he’d be able to find his way out.  Halfway back to the doors on the other side of the warehouse he stopped.  He had an interview with Wunderland Designs.  Was he really just going to walk away?  Maybe this insane test was just to assess his “vision” under “difficult circumstances.”

He left his portfolio on the island and scoured the cabinets.  The most promising yield was rubber bands.  There was glue too, but it would take too long to dry and wouldn’t be strong enough to hold up under the pressure.  He pulled out a pad of post-it notes, and then—even better—found a stack of legal pads.  He assembled his supplies on the island, drew a quick sketch of an idea, and then, conscious of the time and not knowing how long Harry would give him, grabbed one of the huge boxes and dragged it over to the planning island.  He took great handfuls of pens and dumped them on the island, beginning to rubber band them together.

This job had to work out, it simply had to.  His cat needed to eat, after all, never mind that rent was due next week.  He removed his blazer and folded back the sleeves before Forest Mist became Forest Swamp.  The heat built on the back of his neck as his work became more fevered.  At this point, you may be wondering why Alec was behaving too desperately.  He walked into this story wearing an expensively modest suit with simple stitching on the lapels, after all.  He graduated from RISD, and his designs are brilliant, aren’t they?  Well, yes, all of that is true.  It’s also true that a design flaw in his most recent job cost a client tens of thousands of dollars.

The client had insisted on a fully itemized list of expenses.  The firm’s accountant went through the line items, ferreting out the truth, and unearthed the evidence of Alec’s error.  The client was out for blood; forensic accounting delivered the body.

This left Alec jobless and Ms. Whiskers in dire risk of missing her next can of tuna.

When he saw an old college buddy at a local café, he simply could not let it be known how far he’d fallen, so when his friend asked how the job was going, Alec had said,

“Good, good, you know how it is, always looking for the next challenge, always looking for new opportunities to grow, expand, diversify.”

The friend had nodded and smiled, but the architectural world is much smaller than outsiders would think, especially for those with the same alma mater, and so the friend had known that Ms. Whiskers was anxiously wringing her paws, wondering about the bills and the rent and her next meal and above all, Alec’s sanity. 

The friend, who was actually a fairly decent fellow and not like the unforgiving sort that fired Alec for an understandable error, said,

“Well, that’s great, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a new firm, I hear they’re hiring.  Anyone who gets with this company is set up.”

Thinking back on this conversation, Alec supposed his friend was having a good laugh at his expense as he rubberbanded pens together.  It looked like, well, it looked like a four-year-old got into the supply cabinet.  He looked down at his efforts, feeling as childish as he looked.  A door opened with a screech and slammed shut with a metallic clank.  Alec looked up into the darkness in the general direction of the clank, assuming his time was up.  The clicking coming near sounded more like heels, however, and into the white industrial light of the kitchenette stepped a short woman.

It took him a moment to recognize that the small thing pinned to her head (consisting of a few feathers and stylized ribbons) was a hat like women wore in the fifties.  She took a glass jar from its slot in the coffee machine and filled it with water at the tap.  She put it back and began measuring out grounds.

“Would you like some?” she asked when she looked over and noticed him leaning over the island with his failed mess.  He nodded.  At this point, coffee would either give him a stroke of genius or allow this interview to end in a flaming blaze of glory. 

While the coffee was brewing, she pulled out various platters of picked-over fruits and baked goods.  It looked like she was expecting a party.

“It’s ready,” she called over a few minutes later.  She held up a cup poured for him.  He walked over and took it with thanks, about to return to his work.

“You’ve got to drink it here.  No food or drink in the planning area.  They don’t want to get it on the papers, ruin the designs,” she told him.  He sighed and took a seat, adding some cream to his coffee from where she left it on the table. 

“Bernadette,” she said, offering her hand.

“Alec,” our hero returned, taking her hand in a shake.  He took a bracing sip of coffee. 

“You’re interviewing?” she asked.  He nodded. 

Frustration under panic often boils out sideways at other people, even in somewhat inappropriate situations, like addressing a person you just met at an unfamiliar company you hope one day to work at.  For this reason, along with a crumbling understanding of the security of life (right on time for his quarter-life crisis), Alec decided to ask a somewhat personal question.

“Hey Bernadette, can I ask you something?”

Bernadette nodded.

“You’re in accounting, right?  Aren’t numbers kind of your thing?  Wouldn’t you notice if you ordered too many pens?”

“Invest while the stock is low,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.  He frowned and was about to ask what she meant by that when another door screeched open and clanked shut.  Two more people joined them, both women.  One had curly grey hair that bounded away from her head, the kind of hair with an untamed body that models achieved only with much hair spray.  Hers fell on just the wrong side of avant-garde.  The other was unremarkable except for a pert nose and very beady eyes.

“He’s in my seat,” this one said.  She looked at Alec like he was a bit of gum on her shoes.

“No, he’s not Doris,” Bernadette said, taking another sip of her coffee.

“There’s not enough room for him,” said the wiry-haired woman as she and Doris took seats.  They started on the baked goods on the half-eaten platters.

“This is March and Doris,” Bernadette introduced.  “This is Alec, he’s having a hard time with the interview process.”

“Well maybe he’s not cut out for it,” said March. 

“Most people aren’t,” Doris agreed.  Alec wasn’t sure if that was supposed to make him feel better about himself.  Doris fixed her tiny black eyes on him, which was unnerving.  “You’ve got to think out of the box.  Not everyone can survive at Wunderland Designs.”

“He’s already taken the pens out of the box,” March observed, craning her neck to see his pitiful construction.

“And still nothing.  I told you I didn’t like the sight of him!” Doris ejected, before stuffing her mouth with a blueberry muffin. 

How were these women keeping Wunderland Designs running?  How had this company done so well?  There was a break room…and pens...  Suddenly Alec wondered if the lack of transparency about the company in the news wasn’t just part of Wunderland’s ‘mystique.’  Harry Fly’s comment about the public and private face came back to him. 

‘This is where the magic happens...’

It was beginning to feel more like madness.  How many clients would seek them out if they knew the kind of machinations that went on down Wunderland’s hallways. 

‘It’s a team effort…’

Then was everyone here this strange?  If so, they seemed to protect each other. 

A company committed to its employees, and to excellence, no matter how odd the process behind closed doors.  There was something alluring about that.  Still, the idea was so foreign to what he’d experienced in this industry up to this point that his instincts rebelled.

“Being an architect isn’t about thinking out of the box.  It’s about thinking in boxes and seeing what you can do with those boxes,” Alec said, wanting to add some semblance of sanity to this conversation.

“Well, well, well, doesn’t he have all the answers,” March scoffed.  “You listen to me.  We’ve been in this industry longer than you’ve been alive, and succeeding at it, if we say ‘think out of the box,’ you go find a circle!”

“He’s not entirely wrong, you have to learn to work within the standards to know how to break out of them,” Bernadette said, coming to his rescue.

Why was he arguing with these women?  He wasn’t going to get this job, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted it anymore.  Alec looked back at the pens on the planning island in frustration.  He wasn’t a builder; he was an architect, a designer for goodness sakes.  Why would they ask him to build something?  He leaned forward.

“What’s back there?” he asked.  Pointing to the unlit void next to the mountain of boxes.

“Nothing, just a wall,” March said.  Doris got up and pushed a big red utility switch on the wall.  Lights turned on, illuminating the dark empty spot next to the mountain of pens.  It was just a wall.  Well, there was also a ladder leaning against one side.  Alec’s brain started churning.  He left his coffee on the table and the women to their half-eaten platters. 

He went back to the planning island, glanced at his rough sketch, picked up a single pen, and walked to the wall.  Alec was eight when he realized he wanted to be an architect.  He had drawn an impossible structure, invented right from his own mind.  His mother had oohed and ahhed over it, and his father had said, “Well, you’re going to have to go to school to learn how to build a thing like that.” 

Fireworks.

Alec tested the pen against the wall.  The gel transferred easily enough.  He began drawing: sweeping ceilings, colonnades, entrances from multiple levels, with stairs and elevators, and definitely outdoor plumbing.  The roof of one room was the basketball court of the next level, which led naturally into the rock wall, which conveyed one to the kitchen on the fourth floor.  But there was a pulley system to get the groceries up because it would be ridiculous otherwise. 

Something changed as Alec worked, something imperceptible in the set of his shoulders, the looseness of his jaw.  He didn’t notice when the women left, nor when other employees filed in and out over the hours and watched him, entirely absorbed in his work. 

It was turning out well.  The slashing mess of lines were organizing themselves, out of the chaos, into a most extraordinary house.  Alec grabbed the ladder and climbed up, accentuating the higher floors.  Blue ink smudged his face, but you would have liked him quite a lot now, if you were standing in the room.  The proposed house was not clean, pristine, or perfect, but there was something authentic about it.

Did Alec want to be an architect?  Yes, but not the way he’d been doing it, playing it safe, traditional.  The target was always moving.  He was always having to pretend to be something he wasn’t to maintain the “high-rise lifestyle”.  It never really brought satisfaction.  He was still paying off this suit, which he’d bought for a business conference instead of visiting Machu Picchu on his last vacation.  He would have preferred to wear the cargo pants buried at the back of his closet anyway.    

Sometime later, he took a step back, pleased with the results. After a pause, he stepped up and wrote out a contract.  He left a line for Harry, or whoever was actually in charge of hiring, to sign.  He signed his own name underneath in huge letters.  He grabbed his coat but didn’t put it on because he was covered in the bleeding blue ink of exploded pens.

He grinned.  Who was he kidding?  He’d already lost this job at the coffee table; everyone knows you don’t mess with the accounting department.  Except… part of Alec thought Bernadette might not play by the same rules as the last accountant.