Business Case

Marion stared at her screen, the knot in her stomach tightening.

The form stared back.

“Business Case Form 29.3 — Office plants, 5 inches and smaller, green.”

All she wanted was a small bamboo shoot by the monitor. A bit of organic sanity in an otherwise sterile room.

She’d already come to terms with the corporate off-white walls (no pictures, fittings, or otherwise, unless brand-compliant and sanctioned); the standard-issue laptop (conformity-gray) with its equally standard-issue “productivity” apps; the bargain basement monitor that she could never quite get to sit straight.

Each one pulled a little thread joy out of her, to the point that she was feeling decidedly thread-bare.

But she persevered. After all, she was here to work — that’s what they paid her for. Not to be happy. Or content. Or joy-full (certainly no business case for that). But to be productive.

It was just that … everything that was supposed to make her more productive simply made her want to curl up and cry.

Maybe, just maybe, this small, seemingly insignificant plant would bring some balance back, and infuse a touch humanity into what, Marion was beginning to realize, was an increasingly inhuman environment.

“Business Case Form 29.3 — Office plants, 5 inches and smaller, green.”

Surely this couldn’t be that hard.

“Question 1: Describe three ways the proposed installation will support compliance with acceptable keystrokes per hour …”

Marion closed the form, fighting the urge to throw the laptop with its business case-approved keyboard in the trash can. No office plant, 5 inches and smaller, green, this time.

Where the form had been, the screen background subtly reminded her of the company’s slogan — as if she needed reminding:

“Machine-led, human-assisted, future-optimized”