Pumpkins Are Not Beige

By 9:03 on Monday morning, Brightway Solutions had committed its first Halloween crime.

Someone had placed a pumpkin on Morgan Vale’s desk.

Not a real pumpkin, which might have had dignity. This was a foam pumpkin painted the color of a latte left in direct sunlight, with a vinyl sticker on the front that read: FALL INTO SYNERGY!

Morgan stood in the aisle between cubicles, coffee in one hand, black satchel in the other, staring at it the way one might stare at a raccoon operating a fax machine.

Tasha Green appeared beside her with a clipboard, a walkie-talkie, and the grave expression of a general delivering news from the front.

“I tried to stop them,” Tasha said.

“Who is them?” Morgan asked.

“The Mandatory Fun Committee.”

Morgan slowly set her coffee down. Her tiny skull, Mortimer, stared from beside her monitor with his usual hollow patience. Someone had placed a miniature orange scarf around him.

“Oh, absolutely not.” Morgan removed the scarf with two fingers. “Mortimer does not participate in seasonal knitwear without a written contract.”

Tasha checked the corridor. “There are thirty-seven of those pumpkins. One for every desk, plus conference rooms, plus Greg’s office, plus two extras because Cheryl in Business Development ordered in bulk and got excited.”

“FALL INTO SYNERGY,” Morgan read aloud.

“I know.”

“It sounds like a threat.”

“It was originally FALL INTO FUN,” Tasha said. “But leadership wanted it more actionable.”

Across the office, Bryce from Sales popped up over his cubicle wall like a golden retriever who had learned quarterly revenue language.

“Yo, Morgan! Pumpkin looks sick on your desk.”

Morgan turned her head slowly. Bryce was wearing a pale blue button-down, tan chinos, and the bright optimism of someone who believed kombucha could fix any meeting.

“Bryce,” Morgan said, “if this pumpkin were any less sick, it would be at a wellness retreat.”

He grinned. “I mean, it’s kinda goth if you think about it. Pumpkin. Halloween. Death season.”

“Death season?” Tasha repeated.

“Like, leaves die. Weather gets moody. People wear sweaters.” Bryce leaned on the cubicle divider. “I’m learning.”

Morgan looked him up and down. “You are circling the concept from a safe distance.”

“I’ll take it.”

From Greg’s office came the soft, panicked sound of a man attempting to close three browser tabs before anyone saw them. Morgan caught a glimpse through the glass: Greg, their manager, hunched over his keyboard, earbuds in, tapping his foot to something with a suspiciously synthy beat.

Tasha followed Morgan’s gaze. “He’s been in there since eight-fifteen.”

“Depeche Mode emergency?”

“Worse. Halloween planning email chain.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “How bad?”

Tasha handed over the clipboard.

At the top of the page, in Greg’s careful meeting notes, was written:

BRIGHTWAY SOLUTIONS AUTUMN APPRECIATION EXPERIENCE
Theme: Spooky, But Approachable
Action item: Ask Morgan to advise on tone.

Morgan stared at the words.

Tasha winced. “Before you say anything—”

“Spooky, But Approachable,” Morgan said.

“I know.”

“Ask Morgan to advise on tone.”

“I know.”

Morgan placed the clipboard on her desk as if it might explode. “This is how it begins. First, they ask for tone. Then they ask if skulls can smile. Then someone suggests a ghost with a quarterly goal.”

“Too late,” Tasha said. “Cheryl pitched a ghost holding a bar graph.”

Morgan closed her eyes.

Bryce, still hovering, raised one finger. “Okay, but what if the graph is trending up?”

Morgan opened one eye.

He ducked back down.

At 9:12, Greg emerged from his office carrying a mug that said LET’S CIRCLE BACK in beige letters on a slightly different beige background. His tie featured tiny navy dots, though one dot near the knot was actually a coffee spot. He gave Morgan the look of a man walking toward a decorative haunted house while unsure whether the fog machine was up to code.

“Morgan! Great. You saw the pumpkin.”

“I have perceived the pumpkin.”

“Wonderful. Great. So, quick alignment opportunity.” Greg clasped his hands. “Leadership loved how, um, constructively you contributed during the dress code discussion.”

“By preventing the phrase ‘acceptable use of black’ from becoming policy law?”

“Yes. Exactly. Big win.” Greg laughed once, quietly, then seemed startled by himself. “Anyway, the Halloween event is this Friday, and we want it to be inclusive, fun, festive, but not—”

Morgan waited.

Greg’s eyes flicked to her boots. Today’s platforms had silver buckles and enough structural confidence to qualify as architecture.

“—not too intense,” he finished.

Tasha made a tiny choking sound and covered it with a cough.

Morgan folded her arms. The sleeves of her black blazer were lined in deep purple, visible only when she moved, like the outfit had secrets.

“Greg,” she said, “define intense.”

“Oh! Sure. Great question. Love definitions.” Greg looked down at his notes. “Leadership wants to avoid anything too scary, too gloomy, too… specific.”

“Specific?”

“Like, uh, bats.”

Tasha blinked. “Bats are too specific?”

“Apparently bats test poorly with two members of the executive team.”

Morgan tilted her head. “Did they interview the bats?”

Greg’s lips twitched. He fought it. Lost slightly. “Not to my knowledge.”

From the accounting corner came a calm voice. “Bats have excellent brand recognition.”

Eleanor had arrived without a sound, as usual. She wore a charcoal cardigan over a black blouse with a delicate silver brooch shaped like a crescent moon. Her silver hair was pinned up in a twist so precise it looked engineered.

Greg startled. “Eleanor! Didn’t see you there.”

“No one ever does when they’re speaking nonsense,” Eleanor said pleasantly.

Tasha put a hand over her mouth.

Morgan smiled. “Eleanor, what’s your professional opinion on Halloween tone?”

Eleanor considered this with the seriousness of a CPA reviewing an expense report. “Fog is acceptable if it does not damage electronics. Cobwebs are acceptable if clearly artificial. Pumpkins are fine, provided they are not painted beige.”

Morgan gestured to the foam offender.

Eleanor’s eyes sharpened. “Oh dear.”

Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, so maybe we can circle back on pumpkin color. But leadership really does want your input, Morgan. You have, you know, subject matter familiarity.”

“With Halloween?”

“With… atmosphere.”

The office went briefly quiet except for the distant hum of the copier, which was jamming in a rhythm suspiciously similar to industrial percussion.

Morgan looked at Greg. Greg looked like he wanted to sink into his beige mug and live there.

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll help.”

Greg brightened with visible relief.

“On three conditions.”

His brightness dimmed by exactly twenty percent. “Okay.”

“One: no beige pumpkins.”

“Reasonable.”

“Two: the phrase ‘Spooky, But Approachable’ is retired immediately.”

Greg looked wounded on behalf of a phrase he had probably not invented but had definitely put in a slide deck. “What do we call it?”

Morgan picked up the foam pumpkin and turned it away so the synergy sticker faced the wall. “The Brightway Halloween Social.”

Tasha gasped. “Simple. Clean. No hostage situation energy.”

“Three,” Morgan said, “you let people be as Halloween as they want, within normal workplace boundaries. No one is required to dress up. No one is required to tone down unless they’re blocking a fire exit.”

Greg wrote that down. “Unless blocking a fire exit. Got it.”

“And no smiling skull clip art.”

Greg paused mid-note. “Can skulls not smile?”

“Skulls are already smiling. That’s the point.”

Bryce’s head popped up again. “Whoa.”

Eleanor nodded. “She’s right.”

By lunch, the secret goth lunch club had relocated from the far corner of the break room to Conference Room C, which Tasha had booked under the name “Q4 Print Vendor Debrief” because no one at Brightway voluntarily attended print vendor meetings.

Morgan arrived with a black bento box. Tasha brought leftover spicy noodles in a container decorated with cartoon dinosaurs. Eleanor carried a thermos and a neat stack of crackers. Bryce arrived last with a protein bowl, two energy drinks, and the cautious expression of someone entering a room where he knew he had once said “death season.”

“Am I allowed in?” he asked.

Morgan looked at the others. “Did you complete the initiation?”

Bryce’s eyes widened. “There’s an initiation?”

Tasha nodded solemnly. “You have to name one band without adding ‘the’ in front of it incorrectly.”

Bryce opened his mouth. Closed it. “Sisters of Mercy?”

Eleanor set down her thermos. “Acceptable.”

Morgan pointed to a chair. “Barely. Sit.”

Bryce sat with the relief of a man who had survived a compliance audit.

On the conference table, Tasha placed her phone face-up. The screen showed Alt Chat’s Hangout, open to a private room called Lunch Crypt Logistics. Its tiny room icon was a cartoon bat holding a sandwich.

“I made it for notes,” Tasha said. “Also because my regular notes app doesn’t let me use enough bat emojis.”

Morgan peered at it. “You named the group Lunch Crypt Logistics?”

“Print Vendor Debrief was taken by cowardice.”

Eleanor adjusted her glasses. “I approve.”

Bryce leaned in. “Wait, is Alt Chat like a goth Slack?”

“No,” Morgan said.

“Is it like a forum?”

“Also no.”

“Is it—”

“It is a place where people are less likely to ask if my lipstick is for a costume.”

Bryce nodded. “Got it. Sacred space.”

Tasha tapped the screen. “Agenda: Halloween Social intervention, beige pumpkin disposal, and whether we are officially a club yet.”

“We are not calling ourselves a club,” Morgan said.

“We literally keep meeting in secret at lunch.”

“That makes us a scheduling anomaly.”

Eleanor sipped from her thermos. “Every meaningful movement begins as a scheduling anomaly.”

Bryce raised his energy drink. “To the anomaly.”

They all looked at him.

He lowered it. “Too much?”

“A little,” Morgan said, but she smiled.

Tasha took notes. “First issue: beige pumpkins. I can swap them out for orange ones if Cheryl hasn’t emotionally bonded with the order.”

“Do it,” Morgan said. “Or black. Or white. Or any color found in nature or eyeliner.”

“Second issue,” Tasha continued, “music. Leadership suggested ‘family-friendly Halloween hits.’”

Morgan, Eleanor, and Tasha all reacted at once.

“No,” Morgan said.

“Absolutely not,” Tasha said.

“Unacceptable,” Eleanor said.

Bryce blinked. “What’s wrong with Halloween hits?”

Morgan pointed a chopstick at him. “The office has survived many things. The copier fire of 2022. The motivational poster refresh. The sales team’s brief podcast era. We will not be defeated by a novelty playlist.”

Bryce held up both hands. “Okay. Respect.”

Eleanor opened a small notebook, which Morgan immediately suspected had once contained club addresses from 1984. “I can provide a tasteful list. Darkwave, post-punk, some synthpop. Atmospheric, but not disruptive.”

Greg’s voice came from the hallway. “Did someone say synthpop?”

Everyone froze.

The conference room door, which Bryce had failed to close all the way, eased open. Greg stood outside holding a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and the expression of a man who had accidentally found a portal to his true self.

“I was just passing by,” he said.

“No one passes by Conference Room C,” Tasha said. “It’s behind the broken shredder.”

Greg looked at the shredder, which had been unplugged since July and wore a sticky note reading DO NOT TRUST.

“Fair,” he said.

Morgan leaned back. “Greg, are you joining the print vendor debrief?”

He looked at the table: black bento, spicy noodles, Eleanor’s notebook, Bryce’s energy drink, Tasha’s phone glowing with a bat sandwich icon.

“I can leave.”

Eleanor’s voice was mild. “Don’t be silly. Sit down before someone asks you to approve more beige objects.”

Greg sat.

For a moment no one spoke. Greg unwrapped his sandwich with extreme care.

Then Bryce said, “You like Depeche Mode, right?”

Greg nearly dropped his lunch.

Morgan’s eyebrows rose. “Bryce.”

“What? We all know.”

Greg’s face turned a shade of pink that clashed with the room’s taupe wall. “It’s not a secret.”

“You hid your earbuds under a spreadsheet when I walked by last week,” Tasha said.

“That spreadsheet was due.”

“It was blank,” Morgan said.

Greg looked down at his sandwich. “Okay. Fine. I like Depeche Mode.”

Eleanor smiled faintly. “There are worse admissions.”

Greg glanced up. “I saw them in 1998.”

Morgan sat forward. “Excuse me.”

Tasha slapped the table once. “Greg.”

Bryce whispered, “Is that good?”

“Bryce,” Morgan said, “that is lore.”

Greg’s shoulders loosened. “I still have the tour shirt. It doesn’t fit the way it used to, but I have it.”

Eleanor’s smile deepened. “Keep your shirts. They become evidence.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the print vendor debrief became a music summit. Eleanor vetoed anything too abrasive for a shared office event, then suggested several songs that made Greg stare at her like she had just revealed a second moon. Tasha proposed metal-adjacent instrumentals for cleanup. Morgan curated a playlist that had atmosphere without making Accounting file a formal concern. Bryce contributed one suggestion, was gently corrected, and accepted the correction with admirable growth.

By the time lunch ended, the Halloween Social had a name, a playlist, a decoration policy, and an unofficial planning committee wearing mostly black.

“This,” Tasha said, gathering containers, “is the most productive secret meeting I’ve ever hosted.”

Greg stood with his sandwich wrapper. “I appreciate everyone’s engagement.”

Morgan gave him a look.

He cleared his throat. “I appreciate everyone’s deeply cool engagement.”

“Better,” Eleanor said.

Friday arrived under a sky the color of copy paper, which Morgan considered rude but thematically useful.

Brightway’s lobby had transformed. The beige pumpkins were gone, replaced by real orange pumpkins, black paper bats, silver streamers, and tasteful faux cobwebs that Tasha had installed with the precision of a woman who could pack a minivan for a camping trip, a bake sale, and a metal festival without rearranging twice.

The motivational poster near reception—TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK—now had a small bat perched on the frame. Someone had taped tiny fangs onto the stock-photo business team. Morgan suspected Eleanor.

At 4:00, the Brightway Halloween Social began.

Cheryl from Business Development arrived dressed as a “brand witch,” which meant a pointed hat, a blazer, and a wand with a QR code taped to it. Dev from Analytics wore a cape over his usual hoodie and claimed he was “a data vampire” because he only came alive at night and feared direct questions. Two interns from Client Success came as identical spreadsheets. Tasha wore her normal office clothes but had added black nail polish and a tiny enamel pin shaped like a guitar.

Bryce entered wearing all black.

Not fancy black. Not Morgan black. But black jeans, black sneakers, black button-down, and a black blazer that looked newly purchased and bravely uncertain.

He walked straight to Morgan’s desk. “Okay. Be honest.”

Morgan was wearing a fitted black dress over a mesh long-sleeve top, a cropped blazer, layered silver necklaces, and boots that made her almost as tall as the artificial ficus near the printer. Her lipstick was black. Her eyeliner could have cut glass. Mortimer wore no scarf, but he did have a tiny paper crown reading DESK GOBLIN.

Morgan examined Bryce’s outfit.

“You look like you’re attending a tasteful networking event after the sun has personally disappointed you.”

Bryce pumped a fist. “Yes.”

“Why all black?”

He lowered his voice. “I figured if Sales can wear matching polos for team spirit, I can try this for cultural exchange.”

Tasha passed by carrying a tray of cupcakes with black frosting. “Careful, Bryce. That’s how it starts. Next week you’re reading liner notes.”

“I already listened to a playlist Eleanor sent me.”

Morgan looked toward Accounting.

Eleanor sat at her desk, serene in a velvet jacket that had absolutely seen better parties than this one. She lifted her tea in acknowledgment.

The music began softly over the conference room speaker. No novelty hits. No cartoon screams. Just moody bass, shimmering synth, and the kind of rhythm that made the beige carpet seem briefly ashamed of itself.

Greg emerged from his office at 4:17.

He was wearing his normal work clothes. For three seconds, Morgan felt disappointment on his behalf.

Then he opened his blazer.

Underneath was a vintage black band shirt, faded to charcoal, the lettering cracked with age and devotion.

Tasha inhaled. “No way.”

Bryce leaned toward Morgan. “Lore shirt?”

“Lore shirt,” Morgan confirmed.

Greg looked like he might faint from being perceived and also proud enough to levitate. “I thought it would be, um, appropriate.”

Eleanor gave him a solemn nod. “Well done.”

The Halloween Social, against all Brightway precedent, worked.

People talked. People laughed. No one had to play a game involving trust falls or candy corn estimates, although Tasha did place a jar of candy corn on the counter with a note that read GUESS OR DON’T. YOU HAVE FREE WILL. The note became more popular than the candy.

Morgan spent twenty minutes helping Dev untangle his cape from a chair wheel, then another ten explaining to Cheryl that “brand witch” did not require a trademark symbol. Bryce introduced himself to two people from Finance as “currently exploring death season,” which Morgan had to walk away from because laughing would only encourage him.

Near the end of the event, Greg approached Morgan by the snack table, where black-frosted cupcakes had turned half the office’s teeth dramatic.

“This was good,” he said.

“It was.”

“I was worried.”

“I noticed.”

He smiled into his cup of cider. “Leadership liked it. They said it felt authentic.”

Morgan reached for a cupcake. “Dangerous word.”

“Yeah.” Greg glanced around the room. “But maybe in a good way.”

Across the office, Eleanor was telling Bryce a story that involved a club, a power outage, and someone named Spider Dave. Tasha stood nearby, delighted and horrified. The interns dressed as spreadsheets were comparing eyeliner with Dev the data vampire.

Morgan felt something warm shift in her chest, which she immediately chose not to name because naming things made them vulnerable to committee review.

Greg lowered his voice. “Also, the executive team wants to talk to you Monday.”

Morgan paused with the cupcake halfway to her mouth. “About Halloween?”

“Not exactly.”

“About the pumpkins?”

“No. Though Cheryl did ask if we can keep the orange ones.”

“Greg.”

He winced. “The beige rebrand.”

The music seemed to dip at exactly the wrong moment.

Morgan set the cupcake down. “What about it?”

Greg looked toward the glass-walled conference room, where someone had left the rebrand mood board from a leadership meeting. Beige swatches. Beige logos. Beige taglines. A whole desert of safe choices.

“They saw what you did with the Halloween Social. They think you understand how to make things feel… real.”

“That sounds flattering and like a trap.”

“It can be both.”

Morgan crossed her arms. “What do they want?”

Greg took a breath. “They want you in the rebrand meeting Monday morning. With the outside consultants.”

Morgan stared at him.

Tasha appeared at her side, summoned by the vibration of approaching nonsense. “Did you say outside consultants?”

Greg nodded.

Eleanor joined them, silent as a shadow with a teacup. “What sort of consultants?”

Greg looked as if he would rather be trapped in the broken shredder. “Brand consultants.”

Bryce arrived behind Eleanor. “Are those like vampires?”

Morgan looked through the glass at the beige mood board. At the center, in large serif letters, was the proposed new slogan:

BRIGHTWAY SOLUTIONS: SOFTENING THE EDGE.

Morgan’s expression went still.

Tasha read it over her shoulder. “Oh no.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not.”

Greg whispered, “I know.”

Bryce, who had been doing so well, said, “Maybe edges can be sharp but, like, friendly?”

Morgan turned to him.

He nodded once. “I’ll stop.”

The office lights flickered, just slightly. The playlist shifted into a darker bassline. On Morgan’s monitor, Mortimer the tiny skull sat crowned and watchful, as if awaiting orders.

Morgan picked up the abandoned beige foam pumpkin from under her desk. She had kept it there all week as evidence.

“Monday morning,” she said, “we circle back.”

Greg blinked. “Did you just—”

“I did.”

Tasha grinned. Eleanor smiled like she remembered every club door that had ever opened for her. Bryce looked inspired and mildly frightened.

Morgan placed the beige pumpkin in the center of the snack table, turned the synergy sticker toward the room, and gave it one firm pat.

“Enjoy your weekend, little threat,” she said. “We ride at nine.”