no.

Me: Hey, can I borrow the stapler real quick?
Receptionist: No.

Hmm. That’s interesting. Enduring a long and uncomfortable pause, here I stand, a loose-leaf stack of papers in my clutches. A few seconds ago, my objective was to simply fasten them together. Now, I find myself engaged in some sort of weirdly psychological game of chicken with a gum-smacking receptionist. Rather than simply sliding my tidy stack of bright white, still-warm-from-the-inkjet-printer paper between the stapler’s protruding metal arms, stamping down, and proceeding on my way, I am faced with the challenge of deciphering this receptionist’s clandestine motives. Oh, fun. The situation requires me to start right at the top of the list of possible explanations for her inconvenient deviation from normal office etiquette. I would surmise that the most basic, though somewhat unlikely, possibility is that she is truly some sort of twisted malcontent, hardwired for domination of the communal office stapler, sincerely bent on preserving exclusively for herself its utility. Her somewhat guarded expression, however, does not seem to exhibit the wildness that I would expect to behold were she indeed the sort of psychopath that would so jealously harbor an office appliance like it was the final crumb of food to be shared between Himalayan plane crash survivors immediately before devolving into cannibalism. No, her expression is much more cloaked in Wednesday afternoon boredom than it is unfettered derangement. Perhaps, then, the stapler is out of staples. Perhaps she is simply denying me usage because the stars have aligned at this particular juncture as to produce a stapler void of staples at the very moment in which I am in need of the quick, firm fastening that only a stapler can reasonably provide. I think it’s probably best for me to inquire regarding this particular matter before jumping to any conclusions.

Me: Oh, is it out of staples?
Receptionist: No.

I wait for her to offer some sort of explanation, but she offers none. I note that her retort smacked of a faux sort of curtness. Her brow is crinkling, her eyebrows bobbing almost imperceptibly. I now see that it is sarcasm with which I am forced to wrestle on this busy Wednesday afternoon. I’m glad someone here is amused because I certainly am not. These papers have a destiny. And it’s not to wear out their respective existences in singularity. No, it is to have a single, collective existence as a bundle, a unit, a family. I straighten the already straight stack by tapping them like face cards on her desk. I clear my throat. She shows no sign of budging. But a smile is starting to surface on her lips. She pops her gum. Here I am, standing like an idiot, with a stack of unstapled papers in my hands and she's smiling. I’d make a lunge for the stapler if she were not sitting, so broad-shouldered as she is, like a soviet tank before the westbound entrance to West Germany, between me and it. I think this behavior is inappropriate for the workplace. I might even go as far as to say that this juvenile form of pranking is downright inconsiderate. Certainly, not professional. What if a blast of air-conditioned air was unleashed at this moment from the vents just a few feet above? The sheets would surely fly from my grasp, scatter all over the office floor, un-collate. Un-collate! Page seven would settle right atop page two and page thirteen would fraternize not with its natural and immediate kin but with page nine. Oh, all the sorting that such a scene would necessitate, the man hours wasted, the paper cuts that lay in wait. And where’s page eleven? It’s missing. Where the bloody heck is page eleven?! It's really inhuman and debasing the sort of maltreatment she is subjecting me to. I don't like being subjugated and I am pretty sure I am being subjugated. I’m sure she would just watch from her perch on that squeaky office chair as I bent and crouched and scrambled to collect the debris, her one hand still protectively stroking the stapler’s smooth black metal, its hard lines and soft curvature.

Me: So, can I use the stapler?
Receptionist: No.

I am going to run you over with my car. That is what I will do. And then I will staple my stack of paper with the utmost satisfaction and not the least inhibition by office staff. She is smiling now, smiling unabashedly. It’s sick the satisfaction she gains from this. It’s all a big gag, a big hilarious joke. Don't worry, I get it. I ask politely to use the stapler. You reach into your bag of comedic genius and pull out a morsel of unique brilliance: you will defy convention and expectation by denying my polite and reasonable request; you will wait and wait and wait until the discomfort grows so unwieldy and clumsy like untrimmed hair before finally relenting and allowing me use of the stapler that is just as much mine as it is yours—maybe even more mine, because I would never establish such unrighteous and discriminatory regulations to its handling; and you’ll chuckle because that’s all your life is; that’s all you have going for you. It’s clever I must admit. It’s right up there with tapping a person on the shoulder in trying to get them to look the wrong way or with your finger identifying a spill on a another's shirt only to flick them in the nose as they look down to investigate the purported stain. It’s all part of your jocular shtick. Real cutting edge stuff, definitely pushing the comedic envelope. Great. I get it. But give me the stapler. Give it to me before I explode. Because I will explode. And though it will not be the type of explosion that ends with my blood and guts splayed all across this office foyer, it will end very badly. It will end at a high decibel and you will be crying because I will have dismantled you. You will be a puddle on the floor and I will walk right through you and place my stack of paper in the stapler's path and calmly squeeze the arms together. If you do not give me the stapler, that is what will happen. I grit my teeth and ask one final time.

Me: May I use the stapler?

You look a little concerned now. Is it because of the tick that has formed above my left eye? I think it might be. Your smile is gone, likely because no smile of mine was ever party to this perverted interchange. Who’s feeling awkward now? Huh? Not I. The tables have turned. We both know that now. In fact, the tables aren’t turned. They are brand new tables. Tables you never could have anticipated when you started this little charade of yours. You’re moving slowly, cautiously swiveling for the stapler. That’s right, nice and slow. You’re wise to concede. These papers cannot wait another moment. These have to be filed now, sandwiched by manila in a lack of space behind the sliding drawer of a metal cabinet, not to be looked at for years, and maybe never. Give it to me. Give me the stapler.

Receptionist: Here you go.
Me: Thanks.