Malcolm had not shown up to work in over three days.

Karen was extremely worried.

She had tried to call him on the third day that he did not show up. He had never officially given her his number, but it was still listed in their company’s database. A woman answered, “Sorry new number.” Karen hung up. There was no other way to contact him. Four days later, she returned to Malcolm’s old account notes.

She immediately felt guilty.

There, on her screen, was digital proof of her casual callousness. Her failure to practice empathy. Yes, practice. Empathy was a core human feeling, a necessary and good one. You could always feel empathetic for someone, but how much did that matter if you did not act on it? Karen had failed to act empathetic then.

Malcolm was a man acting out in desperation for a human connection and a sense of purpose. Was he crazy? Hallelujah! Was he ever! But crazy was just a negative word for ill, and when the ill show up to your door, do you shun them, or help them? Karen had not practiced her empathy, she had shunned him… and now…

And now it was too late. Now he was gone, doing god knows what, and there was no way for her to contact him.

Two seasons ago she failed to help a man who clearly needed it, and she did so without much thought or deliberation. Time passed, and by cruel serendipity this same man showed up in her life in person. She resolved to help him, but did she do enough?

She did not know.

It was easy to guilt herself on this. But maybe Malcolm was too far gone to help. Saving a drowning man means very little if they refuse to breathe once above water.

She honestly did not know how much of Malcolm’s agency played a role in her efforts to help him. She honestly did not know if she should have taken greater measures.

It was impossible to do that now.

If she knew where he lived, if she knew how to contact him, maybe she could have done more. After she brought up therapy Malcolm started avoiding her. Instead of ranting about an eccentric idea that was bothering him during their lunch break he disappeared into the men’s room. The one room polite society would not allow her to go to.

Karen took a deep breath. She tried to center herself. She tried. Maybe not enough, maybe too late, but she did extend her hand outward to a drowning man.

Her simple callousness over Malcolm’s first pleas for help inspired a course correction in her life. She made a change. She applied to a community college, and had decided to major in therapy. She would equip herself with the knowledge and the toolkit to help people. She would find a purpose, and one that had value.

…But it was time to make another change.

This place. This job. Was toxic.

She should have quit months ago. Hell, she should have quit the moment she wrote “Brazil” onto a sticky note. There was nothing here for her. Well, nothing but security, a means to live, and a way to pay for her school. Leaving frightened her, but she could not bear what this job had done to her. Her future was uncertain, there was no guarantee that things would work out…

…But hadn’t she watched what that type of fear did to a person? Hadn’t this corporate world broken and crippled Malcolm?

He was a good man. A smart man. His mind was a beautiful one filled with wondrous imagination. Malcolm was a philosopher. But this, this way of living, these expectations and dreams and goals and constant consumptions, they broke him. Karen had heard so many of his rants, had listened to a man who knew that there was something deeply wrong with the way that the world was ran… and he accepted it. Here was a man who could not fit in the cookie cutter that was being pressed against him, who knew that the action was detrimental, and who chose to try and squeeze in anyways. No. Not Karen. She saw the writing on the wall. It was time to escape. She would not let this system break her the way it broke someone that she admired.

She did not realize immediately that she was silently crying. That she was grieving. When she did, it just strengthened her resolve.

Karen stood up.

The cacophony of phones and human voices cramped the air. No one noticed that she had left her chair, that she had left her cubicle space. That had to be rectified.

She raised her keyboard over her head, and with all of her strength slammed it to the ground. Silence spread from one co-worker to the next like a virus. Only the trilling of phones remained.

“Long live Malcolm Steadman!” she screamed.

Silence.

“Who?” a timid voice asked.

Karen walked out.

The next day, her breakfast tasted better. Everyday things got better.

She at least, will never forget him.

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