The unsold Phantasia Pro 12s were neatly stacked in a box on the loading dock, last year’s model destined for a local landfill east of the river.

Martin glanced up from the packing slip. “Hey, Josh. Is it all right if I take one of the old 12s?”

“Whoa, that’s a big negative, Martin,” Josh replied. “Those are company property. Inventory Control needs to account for every last unit.”

“Yeah, I get it. And I appreciate that, I really do. But they’re going to Surplus, right?

“Affirmative.”

“Where they strip the serial number…“

“Yep.”

“…and then send them to the dump.”

“And your point?”

“My point is, who would care?”

Josh narrowed his eyes. “Inventory Control, that’s who.”

And it’s true, thought Martin. The boys in Inventory were known to be sticklers about any missing, well, inventory. Then again, it was easy for Josh to say, being management and all. What with his corporate credit card and his online MBA and an attractive wife who still looked good for her age despite having twins. Although Mrs. Josh was kind of a snob, he remembered. Rude to Alison. But still. What he wouldn’t give. Ha! Like that time at the holiday party. She was wearing that fitted sleeveless shirt exposing her well-toned arms, and her hair was pulled into a long floppy ponytail. And as Martin stood behind her in line at the cash bar, he couldn’t help but think she looked like a thoroughbred horse, sleek and beautiful. Which, he had to concede, was a pretty sick image if you thought about it too much since he wasn’t the least bit attracted to horses (and why would he be).

It’s not as if Martin didn’t understand Corporate’s logic. He knew that the 12’s market exit was designed to artificially boost demand and generate sales of the 13. Still, it seemed wasteful to get rid of a perfectly good device, especially given its return-on-investment potential. Recent studies had shown that owning a Phantasia Pro, even an obsolete model, increased lifetime earnings by up to 23%.

Waste not, want not, that’s what his Ma liked to say. Of course, Ma said a lot of things, like Martin was too damn old to be working as an assistant logistics technician on a loading dock. The fact that he might one day be on salary with full medical and dental benefits had failed to impress her.

But it wasn’t just wasteful, he reasoned. They kept building more and more landfills east of the river, landfills next to his neighborhood. Heaps of e-trash rose like smoldering mountains along the riverbank. Martin and Alison were both deeply concerned about the environment; it was a core family value, and they worried about the world their children would one day inherit. Assuming they ever had kids, which, he had to admit, seemed highly unlikely given the current state of their relationship.

And yet, there’s no doubt that owning a Phantasia would please Alison. Nobody on their block had one, not even a refurbished first generation, let alone a Pro 12 with its increased work-life balance efficiencies that were off the charts (albeit, child’s play compared to the 13). More importantly, Martin hoped it would give a much-needed boost in the marital department, evidence that Alison had made the right decision despite the hurtful things her mother had said about him, especially given that some of the old bat’s predictions were spot on. Which might explain why they hadn’t been talking much lately. Not much at all. And, in fact, Martin couldn’t help but notice that when Alison wasn’t out with her friends (which was rare), she spent most of her time playing on her goddamn phone doing god knows what and texting god knows who.

The truth was, they were rarely in the same room together, let alone talking and laughing and playing with the twins like Josh and Mrs. Josh. The sole exception being at night when Alison was asleep and Martin would lie awake only inches from her shadowed face. And as he stared at her in the gray static light, he longed to reach out across the bed and touch her. Which he knew was a terrible idea, considering she didn’t want him touching her when she was conscious.

“Hey, Martin,” Josh said. “I need you to take two of the 12s over to Building B.”

“Why’s that, boss?”

“Archives wants ‘em.”

Then it dawned on him.

Martin had never stolen anything before in his life, unless you count that time when he was eight years old at his cousin’s house (the shame on Ma’s face still remained). But the more he thought about it, the less it seemed like actual stealing.

Luckily, Security between Building A and B had been paying little attention, glassy eyed and bored, not bothering to notice that the approval slip on the interoffice travel pouch listed only two devices, not three. Once out of view, Martin placed the extra device into an overstuffed trash can in the hallway above the atrium, the one near the escalator, and then made his way past the fountain over to Archives. When he returned to his shared cubicle, he inputted the transfer of three devices into the fulfillment system, which, in a broad sense, was true, although only two had reached their stated destination. The third was still sitting in the trash beneath a greasy fast-food wrapper, waiting for him to take home at the end of his shift. The probability of Inventory talking to a forgotten backwater like Archives, or Archives proactively talking to Inventory, was practically nil given the amount of paperwork required for such an interdepartmental interface to even be scheduled, let alone actually occur.

Simply put, he was in the clear.

Brilliant.

The afternoon was endless; the clock above the loading dock refused to move. When Josh went to the bi-weekly innovation meeting, Martin punched out for his fifteen minutes of sanctioned work stoppage and went to the break room, where he found a few of the guys complaining about the recent cut in their hourly pay (a difficult decision during these challenging times). Typically, he would join in with their daily bitch session, but today they just sounded whiny. Martin took a seat alone at the back table and checked his phone for messages. Nothing.

They said the Phantasia Pro makes the man. Or, so claimed Corporate’s new tagline that had saturated the market this holiday season. If true, then Martin realized it wouldn’t be long before Josh noticed something different about him, something elusive yet undeniable. At first, Josh might be confused, or even feel threatened, but then he would accept Martin as an equal, someone to mentor and nurture. And after Martin was promoted into a supervisory position, they would become fast friends, practically joined at the hip.

Can I call you Marty? Josh would ask.

Only Ma calls me that, Martin would reply. But now that we’re best buds, no problemo.

Sorry I was such a jerk before, Josh would say. It seems I underestimated you.

No worries, pal. You wouldn’t be the first.

You and Alison really have to come over for dinner, Josh would practically beg.

Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Dinner would be a blast. Mrs. Josh would greet Martin and Alison at the door with a warm embrace, and apologize for not inviting them sooner. It’s so great to finally meet you both, she’d say as she led them out onto the veranda, graciously not mentioning that time at the holiday party when she’d been so rude to Alison (by all accounts, she’d been withering). Although Martin couldn’t help but notice Mrs. Josh’s hair was different this time around—short and spiky, which he found a little annoying. But later, when they were alone in the kitchen, he would gently tell her that she looked a whole helluva lot better with a ponytail. Which she would readily agree with, and blame Josh for suggesting otherwise. The meal would consist of many little plates and different types of forks, and of course they’d had pheasant before, just never prepared in this particular way. Then he’d break the good news that Alison was pregnant, and Josh and Martin would go out on the deck to drink scotch and smoke cigars, while Mrs. Josh and Alison tucked the twins into bed.

Let’s do this again, Josh would say, as they hugged and said their goodbyes.

Next time at our place.

“Hey, Martin. I need you on loading dock 3. ASAP.” It was Josh, standing in the doorway to the break room.

7 o’clock. Finally. Late shipment from Surplus. Of all the days. Martin’s heart rate was definitely up. Security was lax, the guards debating last night’s game.

He turned right between Building A and B and picked up the pace, a brisk walk, a trickle of sweat. No one else was around. The squeak of his shoes on polished tiles. Fluorescent lights, a white paneled ceiling that hung too low. The trash can at the end of the hall drawing closer and closer. Almost there.

“Good night, sir,” the janitor said.

Martin stopped and stared at the man. What? Where’d he come from? No, seriously. Where the hell did he come from? And why was he pulling a cart behind him like that? Of what? Of trash!

The janitor disappeared around the corner. Then Martin rushed to the trash can and looked inside. Empty.

His chest tightened. Think, man, think. Should he run after him? The guy was seriously old, almost decrepit. Martin could definitely catch him, even with a bum knee he’d busted up last year on the loading dock. He’d have to rummage through the cart, pulling out bits of half-eaten food and soiled napkins, and sticky bottles and cans that should have been recycled, until he found it, until he had the Phantasia Pro 12 in his hands. Of course, Martin would have to threaten the geriatric janitor. No squealing. Or else.

Ugh. Terrible idea. Not your first, he admitted. Ha.

What did Ma like to say? The best laid plans.

Martin couldn’t bear the thought of going home empty handed. How would Alison react when he told her, assuming she was even at home? Would it be the usual disappointed shake of the head and then back to her phone, or would she finally say the words out loud, that her mother was right, that he was a loser, that she no longer loved him?

Enough! Stop beating yourself up, he admonished himself. That’s some seriously negative thinking, recalling the words of the wellness instructor, a nice lady from Corporate who’d taught the class, Positive Self-Talk in the Workplace: Good for You, Good for Us.

What did she always say at the end of each session? Change the words in your head to get ahead. Yes, that was it. Sure, his plan had failed miserably, but didn’t it show some serious gumption on his part? That was undeniably, right? Alison would certainly be impressed by his initiative, if not the final execution.

I didn’t think you had it in you, he imagined Alison saying, as she reached out and gently touched his forearm, a playful glint in her normally dull eyes.

I guess I’m just a late bloomer, he’d respond with a wry smile.

I like your newfound moxie, she’d continue, still touching Martin’s arm, which made it hard for him to concentrate.

Then Alison would apologize for being so distant lately and for going out at all hours, and especially for not letting him look at her screen when she was texting to people he didn’t know. And Martin would reassure her that he would have done the same in her position, that there is still a thing called the right to privacy, and that he was always impressed with how deftly she shielded her phone every time he tried to sneak a peek over her shoulder.

Then she’d take him by the hand and lead him to the…

Oh, geez, Martin muttered. For Christ sakes, get a hold of yourself. He peered into the trash can again. Still empty.

Then he heard the sound of footsteps, a familiar voice. Martin glanced nervously over his shoulder. It was Josh, talking loudly on the phone. “Do we really have to go,” he practically shouted. “He’s such a bore.”

What’s that all about, Martin wondered? The smug bastard, with his starched white shirt and skinny chinos and his weekend plans, and his beautiful wife and adorable twins. He had the sudden urge to stick out his leg and trip Josh, to watch him tumble to the floor with a heavy thud, bewildered and scared. How does it feel now, big shot? Martin would scream in Josh’s face. Not so good, huh? Speak up, Joshy boy. I can’t hear you.

“Thanks for staying late, Martin,” Josh said as he passed, covering the phone with his hand. “Have a good night.”

“You too, boss.”

Josh rounded the corner.

Martin took a deep breath and zipped up his jacket. He checked the time. The last bus of the night left in just a few minutes. He noticed his left shoelace was undone so he crouched down and tied it. Then Martin stepped onto the escalator and slowly descended to the atrium below; the skylights black beneath the evening sky, the center fountain filled with coins and wishes.