The Conference Call… Or… The Meeting That May Have Never Happened But Refuses to End

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

I need to tell you about a conference call.

Or… what I *believe* was a conference call.

What I *remember* as a conference call.

What might have been—

and I say this with complete sincerity—

a fever dream conjured by propofol and the lingering anxiety of capitalism.

But here’s the thing.

The troubling thing.

The thing that keeps me up at night, staring at my ceiling, questioning the nature of reality itself:

Things from that call keep happening.

Let me start at the beginning.

I had a procedure.

Minor. Routine. The kind where they say, “You’ll be a little groggy afterward.”

*A little groggy.*

What a quaint understatement.

What a gentle lie.

I woke up in recovery.

Or… I *think* I woke up.

The room was soft around the edges.

The light had a quality I can only describe as “sympathetic.”

The nurse was there, saying something about crackers and juice boxes, and I remember thinking:

This is the most reasonable thing anyone has ever said to me.

And then—

my phone rang.

Not buzzed.

Not chimed.

Rang.

Like it was 1997 and the phone had feelings about being ignored.

I answered.

Because of course I did.

I was in an altered state.

A pharmaceutical fugue.

The veil between dimensions was thin.

Who wouldn’t answer a phone call from the void?

THE VOICES

There were three of them.

Maybe four.

Possibly seven.

They all had names that sounded like law firms.

Brandon. Kendrick. Possibly a Stephanie.

They were talking about… metrics.

Synergy.

Deliverables.

Bandwidth.

That cursed word.

“Do we have the bandwidth for this, Orson?”

someone asked.

And I—

still tethered to the waking world by the thinnest thread of consciousness—

said:

“Bandwidth is a myth. We are all infinite.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

Someone coughed.

Then Brandon—or Kendrick, or the composite entity I now think of as “Brandrick”—said:

“Right. Well. Let’s circle back on that.”

THE AGENDA

They had an agenda.

I’m almost certain.

Seven items.

Or twelve.

Numbers were fluid.

But I remember—vividly—hearing:

“Item four: the pelican initiative.”

The pelican initiative.

I said, “What is that?”

And someone—Stephanie? The void itself?—said:

“You proposed it last quarter, Orson.”

I did not propose it.

I have never proposed anything involving pelicans.

I don’t even particularly *like* pelicans.

They’re unnerving.

But in that moment—

floating somewhere between sleep and a conference room I may have astral-projected into—

I said:

“Ah yes. The pelicans. How are they progressing?”

“Slowly,” said Brandrick.

“But with great intention,” added Possibly-Stephanie.

I nodded.

Even though no one could see me.

Even though I was in a hospital gown covered in tiny moons.

THE ACTION ITEMS

At some point, they assigned me tasks.

I know this because I *wrote them down.*

I found the paper later.

Crumpled in my jacket pocket.

In handwriting that looked like mine but… tilted.

Haunted.

The list said:

1. Follow up with the pelicans

1. Confirm the Tuesday slot

1. Realign the northeastern verticals

1. DO NOT FORGET THE BUTTER

That last one.

DO NOT FORGET THE BUTTER.

In all capitals.

Underlined three times.

I have no memory of why.

But I felt—deep in my soul—that this was critical.

That the butter was somehow load-bearing.

That without it, the entire structure would collapse.

THE AWAKENING

Eventually, the call ended.

Or I hung up.

Or I simply… ceased to be on it.

I drifted back to full consciousness.

The nurse asked if I was okay.

I said, “Did I just have a conference call?”

She blinked.

“You’ve been asleep for twenty minutes.”

“But my phone—”

I looked at it.

No recent calls.

No missed notifications.

Just my lock screen.

A photo of a sunset I don’t remember taking.

I laughed.

Relieved.

It was a dream.

A strange, corporate, pelican-filled dream.

And I went home.

Ate soup.

Watched Star Trek.

Forgot about it.

Three days later.

I got an email.

Subject line: Tuesday Slot - Confirmed

From: Brandon Kendrick (or possibly Kendrick Brandon—the name was blurred, like my brain refused to let me see it clearly).

The email said:

“Orson, thanks for confirming on the call. Tuesday at 2pm is locked in. See you then.”*

I stared at it.

Read it again.

And again.

I had confirmed nothing.

I had been unconscious.

I replied:

“I think there’s been a mistake.”

The response came immediately:

“No mistake. You were very clear. Looking forward to it.”

A week later.

A package arrived.

No return address.

Inside?

Butter.

European-style butter.

Wrapped in wax paper.

With a note:

“Per your request. - The Team”

I stood in my kitchen.

Holding butter I did not order.

From people I was no longer sure existed.

And I thought:

This is how it starts.

This is how reality unravels.

Tuesday came.

2 PM.

I was sitting on my couch, minding my own business, when—

My doorbell rang.

I opened it.

A man in a polo shirt.

Holding a clipboard.

He said, “Orson? Here for the site assessment.”

“The… what?”

“The northeastern verticals,” he said, as if this explained everything.

“You called about realignment.”

I had not called.

I had *dreamed* about calling.

Or… had I?

I stammered something.

He smiled.

A patient, professional smile.

The kind you give to someone who is clearly losing their grip.

“I’ll just take some measurements and be out of your way.”

And he did.

He measured my hallway.

Took photos of my walls.

Thanked me.

And left.

I stood there.

Paralyzed.

Haunted by the distinct possibility that I had—while unconscious—hired a contractor.

THE PELICANS

I haven’t heard about the pelicans yet.

But I know—

I know—

they’re coming.

Maybe not today.

Maybe not this week.

But somewhere, in some office, in some dimension adjacent to this one—

there is a meeting happening.

And someone is saying:

“Has anyone followed up with Orson about the pelican initiative?”

And someone else is saying:

“He’s been quiet. But he confirmed it on the call.”

And they’re all nodding.

Taking notes.

Moving forward.

With confidence.

With intention.

With pelicans.

THE CONCLUSION (OR LACK THEREOF)

So here I sit.

With butter I didn’t order.

A Tuesday appointment I don’t remember making.

And realigned northeastern verticals in a home that didn’t need realigning.

Was the call real?

I don’t know.

Does it matter?

Apparently not.

Because the consequences are real.

The butter is real.

The contractor was real.

And somewhere—

in a boardroom or a dream or the space between—

Brandrick and Possibly-Stephanie are checking off action items.

Nodding approvingly.

Saying:

“Orson really delivered this quarter.”

And I?

I’m just trying to figure out what to do with all this butter.

And preparing.

Preparing for the pelicans.