The Office Mascot, a Lifesize Cardboard Cutout, Went Missing
In our office, the atmosphere was usually predictable, gray, and bordering on monotonous. We spent our days staring at monitors and listening to the rhythmic hum of the HVAC system. However, standing guard near the coffee machine was the highlight of our daily grind: Cardboard Carl. He was a life-sized cardboard cutout of our CEO from an old marketing campaign that had long since been forgotten. Carl was tall, perpetually tan, and wore a suit that was just a shade too vibrant for an office setting. He had a big, fake, blindingly bright smile that seemed to follow you around the room, especially when you were sneaking a second cookie from the breakroom tray. We all grew strangely attached to him because, unlike our actual management team, Carl never once demanded a status report, never asked us to work late on a day, and never complained about the office temperature being too chilly. Over the months, he became our unofficial mascot. We made it a tradition to dress him up for holidays. At Christmas, he wore a sagging tinsel garland and a Santa hat that kept sliding over his eyes. During St. Patrick’s Day, he sported a cheap green bowtie. We felt like he was one of us, a silent observer of our successes and our small, daily frustrations. Then came a particularly dreary, rainy morning. I walked into the office, shaking my umbrella, and went straight for my usual caffeine fix near the breakroom. When I turned the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks. There was just a perfectly clean, rectangular patch on the gray carpet where his heels used to stand. He was gone. I rubbed my eyes, thinking I was still half-asleep, but the space was definitely empty. My heart sank. I checked behind the breakroom door, scanned the supply closet, and even wandered near the elevators, but he was nowhere to be found. By mid-morning, the mood in the office had shifted from our standard that day gloom to genuine concern. Sarah from accounting walked by, clenching her coffee mug, and she looked truly devastated. She stopped, looked at the empty floor space, and then looked at me with wide, worried eyes. She asked if someone had finally decided to throw him away, her voice tinged with actual sadness. It felt like we had lost a valued, if silent, teammate. People started coming out of their cubicles to whisper about his disappearance. We asked around, cornering the cleaning crew and checking with the folks in IT, but nobody knew anything. To make matters worse, the office security cameras had been glitching for weeks, so they provided zero help. It was a genuine mystery. We spent the entire day speculating on his fate. Some people were convinced it was an elaborate prank, while others joked that the real CEO had finally grown tired of the imitation and demanded his likeness be brought home. Our office, which had always been quiet, suddenly felt empty and cold without that cardboard smile to greet us. that morning brought a shift in the air. Just as we were settling into our emails, a notification pinged on everyone’s computer. It was a company-wide email from Dave, who works in the logistics department. My curiosity spiked as I clicked on the attachment. It was a photo of Cardboard Carl, standing bravely in the middle of a dense patch of woods, leaning against a pine tree. Carl looked surprisingly funny yet majestic, with the dappled sunlight hitting his face as if he were truly overseeing the forest. The email from Dave was a confession. He admitted that he had taken Carl on a weekend camping trip as a spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment joke. He had wanted to take some funny photos of Carl in the great outdoors, but in the chaos of packing up his tent One day, he had accidentally left him behind. He didn’t realize it until he got home, leading to a frantic, three-hour drive back to the campsite in the rain to retrieve our missing mascot. When Carl finally returned to the office that afternoon, he was looking a bit worse for wear. He was slightly damp, the edges of his cardboard suit were peeling, and there was a small but noticeable rip in the shoulder of his jacket. Despite his rough appearance, we were all genuinely relieved. We threw a small, informal party to welcome him back. We had leftover donuts, and someone even made a small banner that said Welcome Home. Our office manager, perhaps deciding that Carl was a flight risk, went out and bought a heavy-duty bike lock. She chained his cardboard base to a thick, sturdy filing cabinet near the printer. He is safe now, secure in his spot, still watching over us with that familiar, unchanging cardboard grin. Life in the office is back to its usual routine, but the sense of relief that he is back at his post is palpable. We still decorate him for the seasons, and every time I walk past to get my coffee, I make sure to give him a friendly nod. It might sound silly to outsiders, but having him there, locked in place, makes the long days feel just a little bit shorter and a whole lot friendlier.