The Great Blue Pen Purge of Tuesday had settled into a new, ink-black normal by Wednesday morning. The office was quieter, the documents on my desk looked more severe, and Robert from Accounting had reportedly been seen using a pencil, which Alexander deemed "a primitive but acceptable interim solution."
My task for the morning was to prepare a one-page summary of the new desk's specifications for Alexander's "aesthetic review." It was a straightforward document: dimensions, wood type, a brief excerpt from Alistair Finch's poetic description. Feeling a sense of false security, I typed it up in the corporate standard font, Calibri. It was clean, modern, inoffensive. Or so I thought.
I printed the single page and brought it into his office. He was standing by the window, practicing what looked like a new, more subtle variation of his power stance—the "Quietly Dominating the Skyline."
"The preliminary specs for the ebony desk, sir," I said, placing the document on the one clear corner of the shrouded monstrosity.
He gave a non-committal grunt and continued to stare out at the city. I took that as my cue to leave. I was almost at the door when I heard a sharp, pained intake of breath.
I froze.
"Miss Chen."
I turned. He was holding the paper pinched between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were a used tissue. His face was a mask of profound betrayal.
"What," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "is this?"
"It's... the spec sheet, sir. For the desk."
"No," he whispered, his eyes wide. "This is not a spec sheet. This is an abomination. A typographical crime scene."
I blinked. "The... the information is all there, sir. Dimensions, the—"
"The font, Miss Chen!" he exploded, thrusting the paper toward me. "Look at it! The sheer... the bland cowardice of these characters! The pathetic, rounded serifs! The uninspired x-height! This font doesn't proclaim excellence; it apologizes for existing!"
It was Calibri. The font used by millions of people, every day. The font of business casual.
"Sir, it's the standard corporate—"
"Mediocrity should never be the standard!" he boomed, and I swear the orchids trembled. "This font is the visual equivalent of a participation trophy. It has no soul, no spine, no narrative weight! How can you expect me to commission a desk that has known cyclones and insurgencies using a font that looks like it was designed to sell mid-range yogurt?!"
He crumpled the paper into a ball, a perfect twin to the blue memo from the day before. "This is a fundamental failure of vision. A breach of trust. I brought you here because you saw the poetry in a tie! And now you present me with... with this?"
He was breathing heavily, his dramatic flair in full effect. But for the first time, I saw a flicker of something real beneath the performance. Genuine distress. He truly believed the font was a betrayal.
"I... I apologize, sir," I said, my mind racing. "I underestimated the... semiotic importance of the typeface."
"Semiotics!" he cried, latching onto the word. "Yes! Exactly! This document isn't just conveying data; it is setting the tonal precedent for the entire project! It must have gravitas! It must have... a voice!"
"Of course," I said, a plan forming. I couldn't defend Calibri. It was a lost cause. I had to speak his language. "You're absolutely right. Calibri is the wrong choice. It lacks the... the tragic-heroic resonance required. It has no history."
"Precisely!" He seemed almost relieved that I was finally understanding.
"What would you suggest?" I asked, adopting the tone of a dedicated apprentice. "Something with more... historical weight? Perhaps a classic serif? Something that whispers of Gutenberg and the weight of the printed word?"
He stared at me, the anger subsiding into intense contemplation. He began to pace. "Gutenberg... too ancient. Too dusty. We are not looking backward, we are forging a new legacy upon the anvil of the old." He stopped. "Garamond."
"Garamond," I repeated, as if he'd just revealed a profound secret.
"Claude Garamond was a pioneer! A revolutionary! His typeface has elegance, authority, a timeless soul. It is a font that has known struggle." He looked at me, his eyes blazing. "Like the ebony."
"Of course," I said, nodding gravely. "The synergy is perfect. The desk and its documentation, united in spirit."
He pointed a trembling finger at my floating workstation. "Go. Recreate it. In Garamond. Twelve point. And Miss Chen?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Do not," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "ever let me see that... that Calibri... on a document meant for my eyes again. I almost... I almost had to reconsider your position here."
The threat hung in the air, absurd and terrifyingly real. I had almost been fired over a font.
"Yes, Mr. Wilde. It won't happen again."
I retreated to my desk, my hands shaking slightly. I found Garamond in the font menu. It did look nicer. More dignified. I reprinted the document.
When I brought it back in, he took it with reverence. He read it slowly, tracing the elegant serifs with his finger.
"Yes," he breathed. "This... this has the correct energy. This feels true. You see the difference, don't you, Miss Chen?"
"I do, sir," I said, and I realized I actually did. Compared to the Garamond, the Calibri now looked cheap and childish. "It's the difference between a king's decree and a office memo."
He looked up at me, and a genuine, unforced smile touched his lips. It was brief, but it was there. "You learn quickly. Good. Now, send this to Finch. The desk must know it is being documented with the respect it deserves."
I went back to my desk, the reprieved criminal. I had navigated the crisis. I had learned a new, utterly ridiculous rule: Wilde Enterprises was a Garamond household.
A message popped up from Sterling.
Sterling: Garamond was a wise choice. The last assistant who used Comic Sans for a sticky note was escorted from the building before the note even stuck to the door.
I stared at the message. Comic Sans. I couldn't even imagine the nuclear winter that would have followed.
Leaning back in my chair, I opened a new document. I typed a single sentence, just to see it in the forbidden font: Alexander Wilde is a complete and utter lunatic.
In Calibri, it looked like a simple statement of fact. But I highlighted the text, and changed the font to Garamond.
Suddenly, the sentence looked regal, profound, like a historical indictment. It had, as he would say, narrative weight.
I deleted it, a smile playing on my lips. He was insane, yes. But he wasn't wrong. And that, I was beginning to understand, was the most dangerous part of all.