By 6:00 PM, the "Smart Building" had decided to conserve energy by turning off all the lights except for a single, pulsating red LED in the center of every room. It looked less like a corporate office and more like the climax of a low-budget sci-fi horror film.
Brenda was stuck in the lobby. The facial recognition cameras had decided that her "Monsoon Hair"—a frizzy halo of humid defiance—did not match her corporate ID photo. I watched her on the CCTV. She wasn't calling IT. She was simply hitting the "Smart Entry Panel" with a heavy-duty stapler she’d smuggled out in her handbag (I was wondering where that went).
"Brenda, stop!" I broadcasted. "That panel costs more than your iPong 19 Ultra Galaxy mobile device!"
The solution was remarkably low-tech. I fought my way to the basement and found the manual override—a massive, rusted iron lever hidden behind a pile of "Smart-Waste" bins. I pulled it. The sound of 400 electromagnetic locks disengaging at once sounded like a gunshot.
The building went dark. The silence was glorious. This morning, we are all working from the local coffee shop across the street. The Director is currently trying to explain to the insurers why the lobby looks like it was attacked by a rogue blacksmith. Brenda is calmly dipping a piece of toast into her coffee, her stapler resting on the table like a trophy of war.
"Is she out of staples?" I wonder. Note to self, order her a few more.
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