🔴 MY BOSS ASKED ME TO SHARPEN HIS PENCILS LIKE IT WAS 1950
I walked into his office to drop off the report, but he just stared, blank-faced, at the wall. “Sharpen these,” he croaked, pushing a handful of dull pencils across the desk.
The wood smelled like sawdust and something faintly metallic, like old blood. I felt sweat prickle my skin under my new blazer. “Seriously, Mr. Henderson? Are you… testing me?” He didn’t answer, just kept staring at the wall, a thin film of drool gathering at the corner of his mouth.
Then he started humming a tune, something old-timey and scratchy, like from a phonograph. A wave of nausea hit me, hard. I just wanted to get out of that office, away from his vacant eyes and the smell of decay.
Suddenly, he blinked, focus returning. “Did you sharpen those?” he asked, his voice sharp. “I have a very important presentation.”
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I hadn’t. The pencils still lay untouched, dull and mocking. “No, sir,” I stammered, “I was… waiting for instructions.”
His face contorted into a displeased frown. “Instructions? Are you incapable of using a pencil sharpener?” He gestured towards the clunky, brass device on the corner of his desk. It looked ancient, a relic from a forgotten era.
My stomach churned. This was ridiculous. “Of course I can, Mr. Henderson,” I said, trying to project confidence, “But I assumed this was, perhaps, a metaphorical test?”
He narrowed his eyes. “A test? No. I have work to do. Now, sharpen the damn pencils.” He leaned back in his chair, his gaze returning to the wall. The humming started again, a discordant melody that vibrated in the air.
Swallowing hard, I picked up the first pencil. The wood felt rough, almost unpleasant in my hand. I fed it into the sharpener, the grinding sound echoing in the silent office. The shavings fell into a small receptacle, releasing a cloud of that peculiar, metallic scent.
One by one, I sharpened the pencils. With each rotation of the handle, the tension in the room seemed to ease, the humming fading slightly. I focused on the task, trying to block out the unsettling atmosphere, the weight of his gaze.
Finally, the last pencil was done. I placed them neatly on his desk, their points sharp and ready. Mr. Henderson didn’t move. He remained frozen, staring at the wall. The humming had stopped.
I took a deep breath. “They’re done, sir,” I announced.
He slowly turned, his eyes meeting mine. His expression was no longer vacant, but something else entirely – a look of profound relief, mixed with a trace of… sadness? He reached for a pencil, examining its sharpened point with a critical eye.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice now soft, almost apologetic. “I appreciate it. I… I needed that.” He paused, then added, with a slight tremor in his voice, “It helps me remember.”
Remember what? I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. I just nodded, relieved to be out of that office, out of that unsettling atmosphere. As I walked away, I caught a glimpse of his face, and saw a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. The presentation was forgotten, replaced by something far more important – his memories of a life long gone.