Ava was cautiously intrigued by the question. I’m not sure. I’m just . . . curious. Somewhere between disturbed and curious. Disturbed, not curious.
Curiosity is very good for the brain, her SHRNK wrote. When was the last time you felt curious about someone new?
Andie, Ava responded easily. She’d felt curious about Andie when she’d first seen her in STÄDA’s original offices, which would have felt cramped if it hadn’t been for Karl’s charming utilitarian design. There was only a handful of STÄDA employees, and they shared a long wooden table with a landscaping firm. On her first day of work, Ava spotted Andie bent over the end of the table, wearing a pair of surgical glasses as she adjusted the gears of a watch. Immediately, as though tugged, Ava felt drawn toward her.
She’d been curious.
Of course you were curious about Andie, her SHRNK wrote. How long ago was that?
Ten years.
Ten years ago, her SHRNK repeated. That feeling must have been incredibly strong to endure for ten years. And yet it seems to have held you back from feeling curious about other things, other people.
What does that mean?
Well, if you believe that your curiosities begin and end with Andie and storage boxes, you’re building yourself a relatively small life.
A minimalist life, Ava corrected.
Who could you be if you allowed yourself to be curious about someone else?
Ava closed the app and pocketed her phone. She glanced over at Mat, worried that somehow he had seen her conversation with her SHRNK. That she was using the app at all was embarrassing. But he was on his own phone, swiping, one leg crossed over the other, his earbuds in.
She forced herself to focus on her work for the rest of the day. She would not think about their ride home. She would not think about her father’s totaled car. She would not think about anything besides potential latches for the Very Nice Box.
* * *
“You good?” Mat said as they got into his car later that afternoon.
“What? Yes, why?” Ava said. She felt each word emerge from her mouth as though someone else were speaking them.
“Awesome, awesome.” He fit the tongue of his seatbelt into its buckle while pulling out of the parking lot, which made Ava grip her seat. She hated being in the passenger seat. Her mouth was dry. Maybe she should learn to bike, or buy a new car. Both thoughts exhausted her. She stared at the veins in Mat’s forearm while he turned the knobs that controlled his stereo and heat. She felt on the edge of another panic episode and conjured an image of Brutus as a puppy. Brutus licking Andie’s ear. Ear spa, Andie called it. Ava tried desperately to hang on to the thought while they careened onto the highway.
“Ave!” Mat said suddenly, and Ava’s heart barreled out of her chest. “I’m really sorry about your car! What the fuck!”
“It’s okay,” Ava managed. “It happens.”
“Does it, though?”
He was right. Teenagers did not ordinarily destroy innocent storage designers’ cars with sawdust. Ave. She repeated the nickname to herself. She wondered what Ave was like—surely more fun, more relaxed, than Ava. The rest of the ride was painfully silent. Mat briefly fiddled with the radio, but there were only ads and static. When he finally pulled up to her apartment, she felt exhausted from the effort of simply sitting beside him.
“Well, that was a blast,” Mat said, smiling. Ava was mortified.
“Okay,” she said, but couldn’t say more than that.
“Any time,” Mat said.
“Sorry, thank you for the ride,” Ava said, opening her door, and she didn’t look behind her as she made her way inside.
8
Ava watched with a now-familiar cocktail of anticipation and dread (That’s what some would call having a crush, her SHRNK had suggested the night before) as Mat’s car pulled up along the curb the next morning. She patted Brutus on the head and pulled herself together, determined to make conversation this time.
“Morning,” Mat said brightly, handing her a coffee as she slid into the passenger seat.
“You really don’t have to get me coffee,” Ava said.
“Have to?” Mat said. “Who said I had to?”
Ava noticed he’d made a cursory effort to clean the inside of his car. There were no textbooks, empty sports drinks, leashes, or basketballs. The only thing that had apparently made the cut was the ornamental disco ball.
“Why do you have this?” she said, poking it. It swayed gently. “Did you actually purchase this?” She could not fathom why someone would buy something so tacky and useless.
“Oh god, no,” Mat said, laughing. “A buddy of mine gave it to me as a sort of gag gift. But it actually does hold some meaning for me now.”
Ava did not want to ask what that meaning was, but she felt obligated. “What’s the meaning?”
“Long story, but it’s basically about personal change,” Mat said.
She hoped he would not continue. She disliked self-improvement language for its imprecision.
To her relief, he didn’t elaborate on his personal change. For a moment she marveled at the fact that he was her boss. The disco ball swung steadily from the mirror like a metronome. He glanced between the oncoming traffic and his phone. Ava gripped her door handle. She tried to ignore the knot in her stomach. This was a second language for her—containing her discomfort.
“You okay?” Mat said.
“Yes,” Ava said. “Just thinking about the Very Nice Box. Its size is going to make shipping a nightmare.”
“See, that’s going to be a problem,” Mat said. He fiddled with the air vents. “There’s only one rule in this car, and that’s no talking about work before work. We spend enough time there as it is. Gotta stay present.”
“Enough time there as it is? You’ve worked at STÄDA for a week.”
“Exactly,” Mat said, but he didn’t elaborate.
The sunlight filtered softly into the car. Mat had combed his hair, and the light caught the tips, revealing some product that he hadn’t fully worked in. He smelled woody and clean. He wore a fleece vest over his crisp T-shirt. Ava involuntarily imagined him folding it before shaking the image out of her head.
“Do you like podcasts?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Ever listen to Bitcoin or Bust?”
“No.”
“What about Circle Back?”
“No, sorry.”
“How about Thirty-Minute Machine?”
Ava lit up. “Yes. I love Thirty-Minute Machine,” she said.
Thirty-Minute Machine was exactly the sort of entertainment Ava sought out. The show was hosted by a retired duo—a robotics engineer and a carpenter—and in each episode a guest pitched a problem that could be solved by a simple machine. The hosts would debate different ways to build the machine, and at the end of the season listeners voted on their favorite solution, which the hosts would then attempt to build, the results of which would be described on the following episode—a true cliffhanger.
“What episode are you on?” Ava asked. She was embarrassed by her own eagerness but couldn’t contain it.
“I’ve been inhaling it,” Mat said. “I’m already on episode seven and I started last week. Could you plug this in for me?”
Ava connected his phone, which had only 3 percent battery life. As she scrolled to find the episode, several notifications popped up. One was a reminder from Mat’s calendar: Guys, 8 p.m. Ava averted her eyes, not wanting to snoop. But the second notification was too flashy to ignore. It was from an app called Dope Horoscope, and the notification was silver, purple, and blinking. Today’s gonna be hella dope! it said.
Mat glanced over. “Oh yeah, that’s my horoscope app.” He took the phone back from her. “You haven’t even seen tomorrow’s horoscope yet.” He tapped an arrow, glancing between the screen and the road. She took a breath. Her stomach turned. Mat passed her his phone, which now read: Tomorrow’s gonna be crazy dope! “Pretty good, right?” he said.
“So insightful,” Ava said. She braced herself, watching his hands on the wheel. She held tightly to the underside of her seat. Her thoughts cycled through the safety instructions on an airplane—where the flotation device was located, how to pull down on an oxygen mask. She watched him scroll through a list of Thirty-Minute Machine episodes until he landed on seven.
The hosts introduced themselves at the top of the show with their usual caffeinated vigor:
Hey there, machinists! This is your host, Roy Stone—
And I’m Gloria Cruz!
Today on the show we’re talking to a new homeowner from San Diego. But first we wanna give a shoutout to our favorite sponsor, STÄDA. Gloria, how big is your apartment?
Umm . . .
If it’s anything like mine, it’s small. Like, really small.
Yeah. It’s a shoebox.
Well, have you ever considered Cozy Nesting Tables?
Cozy whats?
Cozy Nesting Tables! They’re STÄDA’s latest ingenious answer to the question of small spaces. Designed to stack and store, they are the most useful surfaces known to humankind.
Says who?
Says the New York Times! And I quote: “The Cozy Nesting Tables are the most useful surfaces known to humankind.”
Dang.
I know.
STÄDA. Simple furniture for your complicated life.
“Great ad,” Mat said.
“Great product,” Ava said.
“Hi, Roy, hi, Gloria, I’m Gabe, long-time listener, first-time caller. I’m hoping you can help me out. My wife and I just bought our first house and we have a ton of projects to take care of. I drive a sedan, and I’m getting really tired of tying a million knots just to carry a sheet of plywood home from the hardware store. I wish I had a special roof rack where I could just snap in a four-by-eight sheet of plywood without the hassle. Thanks!”
First of all, Gabe, Gloria said,congrats on the new house. This sounds pretty simple, but of course there are a lot of safety considerations. This should be fun. All right, machinists, let’s help Gabe realize his home improvement dreams. You know what time it is. Let’s! Build! This! Machine!
Just as the hosts were discussing whether the plywood should rest parallel to the roof or slope slightly downward toward the hood for aerodynamics, a car cut in front of them from the left. Mat leaned on the horn, jolting Ava. “No!” she heard herself yell. She saw the sharp light, felt the hair on her arms prick up, heard the crunch, felt the edge of the seatbelt cut against her neck. Her mother’s voice, the smell of cinnamon, the horn’s tinny blare in her ears, the screech of tires on asphalt, and the horrible, rhythmic whirl of a car flipping over, then predictably the memory looped back to the beginning. The current of light—what was that? She tried to pull herself out of the panic, but it was a black hole she’d stepped into.
“Whoa. You okay?” Mat was glancing between Ava and the road. They had cut into the fast lane, unscathed. “Sorry about that. Guy came out of nowhere, almost clipped my mirror.”
“Yes—sorry.” A sharp pain erupted behind her eye, right on cue. She knew it would linger there well into the afternoon.
“Did the coffee spill on you?” Mat said. He reached across her to open the glove compartment.
“Please,” Ava said. “Please just keep your hands on the wheel. I’m fine.”
His energy flattened.
“Sorry,” she said, softening. “It’s just . . . I was in a little car accident once, and sometimes I just get nervous when I’m not the one behind the wheel.”
Mat perked up immediately. “It’s okay, I totally get it,” he said, waving in her direction as if to wave her worry away. “I should lay off the horn anyway.”
He tapped Rewind, backing up the episode by thirty seconds. It was as if the entire morning had rewound thirty seconds. They settled back into an almost comfortable silence as the hosts discussed different ways to adhere plastic to metal.
Ava was determined to feel okay about riding in the passenger seat. She was tense and her head throbbed, but she could at least fake an ease she didn’t feel, and that was progress. Her SHRNK had suggested she could use the experience of driving with Mat as exposure therapy. You can’t get through life without riding in the passenger seat sometimes, her SHRNK said. Who could you be if you actually welcomed the rides?
She tried to focus on this thought as Mat pulled into the parking lot of the Simple Tower. I welcome these rides, she tried. I look forward to these rides.
9
Over the next several days Ava and Mat built a small universe of routines that they attended to during their commute. They identified the worst bumper stickers, funniest vanity plates, and storefront signage that was missing letters, like the restaurant DYNASTY PIZZA, which appeared to be called NASTY PIZZA.
They read from Dope Horoscope, sometimes checking the romantic compatibility of people at STÄDA: Jaime and Judith’s relationship would be aggravatingly dope! It was impossible for Ava not to laugh at the thought of this coupling. On a few occasions Jaime and Judith had been roped into appearing side-by-side on STÄDA’s new Diversity Panel, during which they were essentially asked to applaud STÄDA’s commitment to empowering its employees of color. Their open disdain for this sort of tokenism appeared to be where their similarities ended.
This morning, as they waited at a stop light near the Simple Tower, Mat suddenly turned to her.
“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?” Mat said.
“Here at STÄDA? Sometimes,” Ava said. “When I first got hired, I had this dream of eventually becoming a full-time woodworker. That was my main skill, and I imagined I’d be able to work more with my hands. But then I grew to love product engineering, and it paid more and felt more practical, so . . .”
“Oh, I meant more like here on earth,” Mat said. “But that’s cool. So that’s why you spend so much time on the Test Floor. That, and to avoid office parties, of course. Your other great passion.”
Ava felt a pulse of excitement at the idea that he noticed where she spent her time. “I guess so.”
“So if you found yourself without a job and with a full wood shop tomorrow, what would you build?”
The thought of being without STÄDA was like staring off the edge of a cliff.
“I can’t, um . . . I don’t know—”
“It’s a fantasy, there’s no can’t.”
“Okay, well,” Ava said, “my parents had this beautiful piano—a Steinway—made out of walnut. I see listings a few times a year for cast-iron piano frames, which is the part the strings are attached to. The body deteriorates and they go out of tune and people don’t want to pay to fix or move them. Anyway, it’s sort of a silly obsession, but I’ve always wanted to try rebuilding a piano from one to replicate my parents’. But I’m definitely not skilled enough. Just something I think about sometimes.”
She briefly considered telling him the truth about her family, the whole story, but she couldn’t bring herself to paint the details of the accident. The intent lingered on her tongue, but she swallowed it away.
“Well, if anybody could do it,” Mat said, “I think it would be you.”
Ava’s face burned. They turned the corner and were stuck in a short line of cars on their way into the STÄDA parking lot, rubbernecking a crowd.
“What the—” Mat said, coasting forward. Several news vans had gathered around the Vision Tower construction site, which was flanked with green plywood. An interview was underway beside graffiti that read Imagine a garden here. Mat rolled his window down as they passed by.
“They want to call us Vandals,” said a voice straining to be heard over the crowd. “That’s not how we see ourselves, and frankly it’s ironic! Their presence will gut this neighborhood, but they still manage to see themselves as victims.”
A crowd of voices encouraged her on. The newscaster cut in. “And what would you call yourselves? Activists? Protesters?”
“We don’t have an offic
ial name for ourselves, not like they’ve given us. It’s interesting how they try to belittle . . .”
“Whoa,” Mat said, rolling up his window. “I didn’t realize we’d reached a boiling point here. Tension is the enemy of productivity. I’m talking to Security about this.”
By the time they reached the elevator, Ava’s phone was buzzing with S-Chat messages about the scene on the street. Someone had dropped a livestream link to the interview in the company-wide chat room, and people were rattling off responses. GIFs of celebrities eating popcorn. A handful of angry emojis. A few sincere attempts from the Customer Bliss team to thread a conversation about STÄDA’s corporate social responsibility efforts.
The elevator doors opened on Floor 12, and a woman dressed in red was waiting on the other side, looking annoyed. Ava recognized her—she had led the Marketing campaign for the Cozy Nesting Tables. She had a silky curtain of dark hair and lipstick that was somehow both deep and bright. She was one of the few employees who wore heels to work, and they brought her almost to Mat’s height.
“Sonia!” Mat said, swiping a palmful of hand sanitizer and rubbing it in. The three of them walked through the bright glass corridor toward their desks, other employees bustling past them with tablets and furniture samples.
“It’s Sofia,” she corrected.
“So sorry,” Mat said. “Of course, that’s what I meant—”
“And I thought you were going to look at my campaign for the Supportive Door Hook an hour ago.” Sofia checked her watch, which was a new edition of the Precise Wristwatch. Instead of ticking, its second hand glided.
“My bad,” Mat said. “We got caught up in the commotion down there.”
“Well, I managed to be here on time, for this. Can we do it now?” Sofia said, moving out of the way for a man carrying a Polite Hamper into the Imagination Room.
“Actually, I . . . the problem is,” Mat said with a conciliatory smile, “it’s going to have to wait until—”
“I booked him next, I’m sorry,” Ava said. “I have to run preliminary user manual copy by him before it goes to press.”
The Very Nice Box Page 6