I Think My Boss Believes in Lizard People
The conference room at Sterling Corp was always cold, but lately, it felt like it was hovering just above freezing. The lights buzzed with that irritating, low-frequency hum that seemed to vibrate inside my skull. Outside, the sky was a flat, miserable shade of grey, perfectly mirroring the mood of the team stuck inside. I watched my boss, Mr. Abernathy, pull his outdated suit jacket straight. He was a man who had clearly bought his wardrobe in 1998 and refused to acknowledge that fashion had moved on. He cleared his throat, a sharp, metallic sound that signaled the start of our that morning ritual. I sank into my chair, forcing myself to look attentive while my mind drifted to my weekend. Usually, these meetings were a dull slog through sales goals, quarterly projections, and the occasional scolding about our coffee habits. I had mastered the art of nodding while thinking about what I wanted for lunch. But lately, Abernathy had shifted. The meetings were becoming increasingly strange, like we were all participants in a theater production that nobody else had a script for. He started the meeting with a strange, sweeping gesture of his hands. He told us that things were about to change in ways we couldn't possibly comprehend. He spoke about how we needed to be vigilant, how there were forces at play trying to control the very essence of our daily workflow. At first, I assumed he was using some kind of aggressive, weirdly worded corporate buzzword-heavy metaphor for a hostile takeover or a new aggressive competitor. Brenda, who sat to my left, had her pen poised over her notepad. She was the smartest person in our department, the kind of woman who could dismantle a spreadsheet with a single glance. She was actually taking notes, nodding along as if Abernathy were reciting a profound strategy for market dominance. But then, the shift happened. His tone dropped, becoming intimate and frantic, as if he were letting us in on a dark, forbidden secret. He leaned over the mahogany table, his eyes darting toward the closed door. He started whispering about lizard people. He claimed they were embedded in every level of society, pulling strings and dictating our market choices from the shadows. The room went dead silent. You could hear the hum of the air conditioner louder than ever before. I looked at Brenda, but she had stopped writing. She looked like she wanted to disappear into her chair. A few weeks later, on a that morning, the situation hit a new peak of awkwardness. We were discussing the regional sales figures when Abernathy suddenly stopped mid-sentence. He pointed a shaking finger directly at our coworker Kevin. Kevin, who was just trying to finish his coffee in peace, nearly choked on his drink. Abernathy stared at him, his eyes wide and unblinking. He told the entire room that Kevin possessed the classic signs—cold, unblinking eyes that were, according to him, a hallmark of being a lizard person. Kevin looked absolutely bewildered. He didn't know whether to laugh, run away, or apologize. He just sat there, mouth slightly agape, while Abernathy gave him a tight, unsettling smile and abruptly pivoted back to talking about our quarterly revenue targets. The tension in that room was thick enough to cut with a knife. It felt like walking on glass. None of us knew what to do, so we just looked down at our notebooks, pretending we were fascinated by the sales graphs. The absolute worst of it occurred last week. Abernathy called an emergency meeting at four in the afternoon on a that day, the worst possible time to be trapped in a conference room. He hooked his laptop up to the projector and started cycling through a slideshow of famous actors, world leaders, and high-level CEOs. The title slide read: 'Identifying Non-Human Influencers.' He had bulleted lists that seemed to come straight from the deepest, darkest corners of the internet. He talked about skin texture, pupil dilation, and an apparent lack of human emotional range. He paced back and forth in front of the screen, gesturing at the faces of people we saw on the news every night. He went on for an hour, spiraling into a lecture about how these creatures could shift their shape to blend in with humanity. He didn't point at any of us specifically this time, but the implication was heavy. Every time he mentioned a trait, I found myself checking my own pulse, wondering if I looked suspicious or if I was somehow part of the infiltration. I felt physically sick. I looked at the faces of my friends, the people I grabbed lunch with every single day, and for a split second, I wondered if he was right. It was a terrifying, irrational thought, but the environment he created was so oppressive that my brain started looking for any kind of explanation. I watched him—a man I used to respect for his sharpness and his ability to land a deal—and realized he was acting like a character in a low-budget horror film. It was surreal. Finally, Chloe from HR, who had been sitting in the back with her arms crossed, couldn't take it anymore. She stood up and asked, in a very calm, professional voice, if he had any actual, concrete proof. Abernathy just let out a hollow, raspy laugh. He told her that the proof was everywhere if we simply chose to open our eyes to the truth. That was the end of the meeting. He just packed up his laptop and walked out, leaving us all in a state of stunned silence. I sat there for a long time after everyone else had left. I felt a cold knot in my stomach that wouldn't go away. I walked back to my desk, trying to process what had just happened. I felt paranoid, constantly glancing at my coworkers, noticing things I never paid attention to before. Does Brenda blink enough? Is Kevin’s skin tone actually just a trick of the light? I knew I was being ridiculous, but the fear was contagious. I decided right then and there to start a secret list on my laptop. I kept it hidden in a folder labeled 'Project Alpha,' a name so boring no one would ever look inside. Every time Abernathy made an offhand comment or did something bizarre, I jotted it down. It felt silly, and a little bit insane to be doing it, but I had to keep track. I felt like I was witnessing a slow-motion breakdown of a person I had worked with for years. The office felt different now. Everything was a little bit creepier, the silence a little bit louder. I find myself wondering if I should bring this list to someone else, or if I should just keep my head down and pray for a change in management. For now, I just want to survive the workday without being accused of being a reptile. I am hoping I never have to show this list to anyone, unless this story helps me find a way to explain the madness that has taken over my office. Writing this down on JIMAC10 feels like the first real thing I have done in weeks. It is a relief to put it out there, even if only to confirm that, yes, my life has become a bizarre, real-life mystery.