Paul Tully's Bubble

Routines are wonderful, predictable, and safe. Until they aren't.

Paul Tully was having a great day.

After following his normal morning routine — wake up, quick shower, get dressed, brew an artisan coffee from a pod — Paul stepped into his Chevy Cruze and started on his commute to the office. He never married, which was just fine for him. He never wanted kids, which was just as fine. Paul enjoyed his bubble.

His job at a local corporate office as an Account Manager also suited Paul nicely. No direct reports. Better-than-average performance reviews. Vested retirement. Predictable in almost every way.

That is until his coworker, Fred, walked into the office cafeteria with an expression that was anything but routine.

Paul had just started brewing his second cup of processed coffee (no more than two, of course, lest his cardiologist scold him at their next appointment) when Fred shuffled into the room and sat at one of the three tables. His clothes were disheveled, his hair was uncombed, and Paul noticed what might have been dirt on Fred’s hands.

Paul had a choice to make. Would he engage with Fred, which was the courteous thing to do, or ignore him entirely as to not mess with Paul’s routine? After all, Paul had no responsibility toward Fred, aside from being a coworker of course.

With a deep sigh, Paul tossed his spent coffee pod into a nearby bin and engaged Fred, more out of curiosity than concern. He approached the table with his coffee, gesturing toward the dirt on Fred's hands and his appearance.

"Fred, you look like you had a rough morning," Paul remarked, his tone neutral. He blew on his coffee.

Fred looked up, eyes wide with a mix of fear and desperation. He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Paul, I did something terrible. I—I hit someone with my car on the way to work. They... they're dead. I panicked and hid the body."

Paul's expression remained impassive. Internally, he felt a slight irritation at the disruption to his perfect morning. He didn't want to deal with this mess; it wasn't part of his plan for what was a picture-perfect day to this point. But he also realized that dismissing Fred's confession outright could potentially create complications for him. He needed to handle this delicately to maintain his comfortable life.

"Where did this happen?" Paul asked, keeping his voice steady. His primary concern was to assess whether this situation could affect him personally. His coffee cooled.

Fred swallowed hard, eyes darting around the room. "Near Route 5, in the woods. I didn't know what else to do."

Paul considered the situation. He had no desire to get involved, but he also didn't want Fred to do something reckless that could draw attention to both of them. What had Paul’s therapist once told him? Connecting with others was important, she had preached. Now look where that got him.

"Fred," Paul began, his voice calm and measured, "the important thing right now is to think clearly. Panicking won't help either of us. Did anyone see you?"

Fred shook his head, looking relieved to have Paul listening. "No, I don't think so. I was alone."

Paul nodded. "Good. That simplifies things. Here's what we need to do: you have to stay calm and not say a word to anyone else. If you start acting suspiciously, people will notice, and that could lead to questions we don't want to answer."

Fred’s eyes welled up, perhaps out of fear or adrenaline, but likely out of thankfulness he was being helped. Paul stood up, walked toward the cafeteria sink, and poured his coffee down the drain.

Throughout the day, Paul maintained his usual demeanor, carefully monitoring Fred to ensure he kept quiet. Paul’s mind worked through the logistics of the situation, not out of guilt or concern for the deceased, but from a desire to prevent any disruption to his orderly life. He decided that the best course of action was to help Fred cover up the incident more thoroughly, ensuring that nothing could be traced back to them.

After work, Paul and Fred met in a secluded parking lot. Paul had brought a change of clothes for Fred and cleaning supplies. They drove to the spot where Fred had hidden the body. The sun was setting, casting long shadows through the trees as they arrived at the site.

Paul’s focus was clinical. He inspected the scene, noting any details that could be problematic. He directed Fred to clean up any evidence while Paul checked the surroundings for anything that could lead back to them. The body was a problem, but one that could be managed.

"Fred, we need to make sure there's nothing left behind," Paul said, his voice steady. "We'll move the body to a better location, somewhere it won't be found easily."

Fred, now fully under Paul's influence, complied without question. They relocated the body to a remote area, burying it deeper and covering the traces of their presence.

Over the next few days, Paul continued his routine, meticulously ensuring that no one noticed anything out of the ordinary. Fred, meanwhile, was a nervous wreck, but Paul kept him under control with calm reassurances and subtle threats. Paul’s priority was maintaining the status quo, and he was willing to go to great lengths to preserve his bubble.

As days turned into weeks, the incident slipped into the shadows of obscurity. No news emerged of a missing person, no clues surfaced to disturb the still waters of Paul's life. He moved through his routine with a subtle, lingering satisfaction, like the faint scent of cologne on a suit—an imperceptible reminder of his success in sidestepping chaos. The world continued, unperturbed, and Paul basked in the unbroken monotony of his existence.

Weeks turned into months, where Paul continued on with his meticulously ordered routine as if nothing had been disturbed. One day while preparing to brew his second cup of coffee in the office cafeteria, Paul once again noticed Fred seated at a corner table.

Fred’s eyes were bloodshot and his button-down shirt untucked. He sat motionless, staring down at the table in front of him. His hands were on his lap, one picking at the fingernail on the other.

Paul considered engaging with Fred, but what good would that do? It wasn’t his duty to make sure Fred was doing well or if he just wanted to talk. Besides, any further interaction than absolutely necessary might seem odd to other coworkers, especially with Fred clearly paying no mind to his appearance.

Paul poured two packets of artificial creamer into his coffee — he and his cardio preferred real cream, but no need to get picky today — and tossed the spent packets into the trash. He grabbed a nearby plastic stirrer before walking out of the cafeteria door.

He stirred his coffee and blew gently across its surface, allowing the steam to filter out into the office hallway. Sounds of keyboards and mouse clicks could be heard throughout the office cubicle farm, and that suited Paul just fine.

It suited him just fine, indeed.