Fitz moved through the building the way he’d learned to move through the world—with purpose and invisibility. Sixty-seven years old, retired from work he didn’t discuss, now changing light bulbs and emptying trash in an office tower where everyone else seemed terrified or triumphant about the same thing: AI.
He’d been there six months. Long enough to notice patterns.
The executive trash—sleek wastebaskets on the seventh floor—held different paper than the break room bins. He didn’t read them on purpose. But often hands that shred documents see what they’re shredding.
From upstairs, the narrative he saw in the trash was clear. Memos. Talking points. AI implementation drives efficiency. Enhanced decision-making. Competitive advantage. One memo, stamped CONFIDENTIAL, outlined workforce reductions buried in language about “optimization.” Another praised the AI system for catching errors humans missed. The story from those offices was simple: this is progress. This is necessary.
The break room trash told a different story.
Hastily scrawled notes. They say it’ll help us but my job description just changed and nobody asked. A printed email thread where someone asked HR if they could opt out. The answer was no. One piece of paper, folded small, just said: I don’t recognize myself in this job anymore.
Same company. Same AI system. Two different truths living in the same building.
Fitz had learned long ago that some knowledge doesn’t belong to you. You hold it. You don’t broadcast it. Then you let it go. That was part of the job description, written or not.
One night, he stood in the break room—his shift nearly done—holding a folded note a second longer than usual.
The door opened.
A younger man stepped in. Early thirties. Badge still clipped to his belt. Tie loosened. Tired in the particular way office workers get tired now—less physical, more internal.
He nodded toward the coffee machine. “Still works?”
“Usually.”
The man gave a dry laugh and waited while the machine sputtered to life. Then, without looking at Fitz, he said, “You ever feel like everything’s changing faster than people can?”
Fitz dropped the folded note into the bin.
“Sometimes,” he said.
The man nodded, as if that was enough. Maybe it was.
He took his coffee and left.
Fitz stood there for another moment, looking at both sets of trash lined up in his mind. The efficiency narrative. The fear narrative. The progress story. The displacement story.
He shrugged. Not from indifference. From something closer to recognition.
He’d seen organizations justify things before. He’d seen people rationalize hard choices. He’d seen truth bend around convenience. And he’d learned that sometimes you don’t have the power to make two contradictory things reconcile. You just have to know both truths are real.
He didn’t know what would happen when those two narratives finally collided head-on in this building. But he knew they would. Eventually, someone would have to choose which truth to believe—or figure out how to live with both.
For now, Fitz finished his rounds. He emptied the last bin. He shredded what needed shredding. Then he switched off the break room light and left both truths in the dark, where they would wait for morning.
🧠 Mental Gym #19 The Two Truths
Think of something you believe is true about AI in workplace right now.
Now think of the person who holds the opposite truth.
Can you hold both truths without needing one of them to win?
Write down the two truths. One sentence each. Now walk away for a bit. When you return do the two truths give you clarity, or confusion?