Too Much Confidence

I’m sorry.

I realize that, on paper, those two words are supposed to do quite a lot of work—work that is typically distributed across several conversations, three emails, and at least one person saying, “Let’s take a breath.” I am not trying to rush the process. I am only beginning where one begins, because if I do not begin, I will remain in the unhelpful position of standing in the doorway holding a tray of consequences.

To be specific, I’m sorry about what happened this morning with the lobby.

When I say, “the lobby,” I mean the lobby as a concept and not, as it turns out, the lobby as a stable physical location with predictable properties. I had previously assumed the lobby would continue to be the lobby regardless of what I did near it. That assumption was both convenient and, as you have now seen, optimistic.

I also want to apologize for the noise.

It was not a “bang” in the straightforward sense, like a dropped binder or a door closing with unnecessary conviction. It was a sequence of bangs with a clear narrative arc: uncertainty, confidence, regret, and then the brief, meaningful silence that only occurs when a building is deciding whether to participate in your plan.

I should say, in my own defense—which I am not offering as a defense, only as context—that my intention was to be helpful. This began as an effort to improve the building’s “first impression.” You know, “the vibe”. The greeting. The feeling that says, “Welcome, competent people, to a place where you will do competent things,” as opposed to, “Welcome, people, to whatever the fuck this place is.”

The root of the issue is that I took it upon myself to install what the packaging described as an “industrial-grade ambient scent solution.” Now, “industrial-grade” should have been my first sign that this product’s primary market is not, strictly speaking, people who want guests to feel at ease. It is more likely the kind of thing you use when a warehouse has had an incident that you would like to pretend didn’t happen.

I selected a scent called “Crisp Alpine Confidence.” I want you to know I did not make that up. If anything, I would have called it something far less aggressive. The sample strip was lovely—clean, subtle, with just a hint of- someone somewhere is successfully chopping wood. What I did not appreciate is that the sample strip was a polite suggestion, whereas the machine itself was more of full-fledged wilderness commitment.

Within three minutes, “Crisp Alpine Confidence” had become less of an ambient note and more of a weather system that ends up on people’s local news channels. The wall of pine and ambition stopped people entering the lobby like a wall of humidity that’s supposed to be outside the front doors. While neither question was a compliment, I did get two creative comments such as, “Is there a gas leak trying to be festive?” and “Did y’all open a spa?” At least they were nice about it.

At this point, my next course of action was to turn it off. I need to be very clear that this is exactly what I did. I did not, however, succeed in turning it off in any meaningful, lasting way.

Turns out the “industrial grade” part includes a safety feature that prevents “unauthorized tampering,” so the machine is designed to survive the kind of person who says, “I can probably fix that,” which is, unfortunately, me. The shutoff switch is behind a panel. The panel is behind a latch. The latch requires a key that is, according to the manual, “retained by the facilities administrator.”

I did not have the key. I did have a small screwdriver I keep in my bag for reasons that I am now reconsidering. I also had, due to a recent online purchase I regret mentioning, a compact multi-tool that includes an item described as a “mini pry bar.” This incident has taught me that the word “mini” does not guarantee “low impact.”

This is when the noise happened.

The machine, in addition to being locked, is mounted directly into the ventilation intake. I didn’t know that at first, because it looks like it’s simply sitting there, minding its business, like a harmless appliance but in reality, it is fused—spiritually and, as it turns out, mechanically—to the building’s breathing apparatus. When I nudged it, the vent cover responded the way an offended bird responds: immediately, loudly, and with consequences.

Cue the fire alarm.

Not because there was fire. I want to reassure everyone that there was no fire…in the traditional sense. There was, however, a quantity of aerosolized “Crisp Alpine Confidence” moving through the ducts at a rate that, to the smoke detectors, apparently reads as THE FOREST HAS ARRIVED. The building’s safety system did what it is designed to do: it assumed the worst and responded with sirens and flashing lights and the kind of voice that says, “You have made choices.”

At this point, the lobby became full of people doing the careful-fast walk that says, “I am not panicking, I am simply relocating with purpose.” The front doors did that thing where they unlock and lock in quick succession, as if the building itself is conflicted about letting anyone leave with the information they now have. The elevators, sensibly, removed themselves from the conversation.

I would like to apologize to the security team for the phrase I used when they asked, over the radio, what was happening. I said, “It’s under control,” which was inaccurate in the way that a small boat in a storm is “under control” in the Bermuda Triangle in the middle of a Hurricane.

I would also like to apologize to the fire department.

They arrived quickly and professionally, carrying equipment that suggests they had prepared for an event with heat, smoke, and structural danger. I met them with the expression of someone who has caused a problem but would like, if possible, to be perceived as a person who merely discovered it.

That is not how it worked out.

The most difficult part to explain was that the “smoke” was actually confidence, crisp Alpine confidence. And possibly, that it was, in some sense, my confidence—my confidence that I could install a thing without involving the people whose job it is to install things.

This is where I need to clarify that there was not one scent unit. There were three.

The website offered a discount if you purchased the “multi-zone experience.” The idea being that you can give different parts of the building different “moods.” A lobby can be “Crisp Alpine Confidence,” a hallway can be “Neutral Productivity,” and a conference room can be “Gentle Citrus Consensus.” I would like to emphasize that, at the time, this sounded like reasonable adult behavior.

What I did not fully appreciate is that “multi-zone” is achieved through a shared controller. One controller. One app. One cheerful interface with sliders that go from “Low” to “High” to “Retail,” and then, if you keep swiping, to a setting I can only describe as “Commitment.”

After the alarm, while everyone was outside looking up at the building as if it might confess, I attempted to resolve the situation through the app. The app suggested a “quick update for improved performance.” I assumed “performance” meant “doing less.” What it meant, in practice, was a firmware update that restarted all three units simultaneously, returning them to factory settings. Please let me emphasize, I just wanted to be helpful.

The factory setting is not “subtle.” It’s what you would use if you were demonstrating the unit at a trade show to someone standing ten feet away wearing a mask. The factory setting has confidence in itself. It doesn’t need you to like it. It only needs to be felt.

This is why, for those of you who were not in the lobby, you still noticed something. The scent traveled. It traveled with purpose. It found the stairwells. It found the vents above the restrooms. It found, in at least one case, a closed office where someone had been quietly eating yogurt and suddenly had to reassess their life.

I am especially sorry to the people in Conference Room B who were hosting the 9:00 a.m. vendor meeting. I understand there was an attempt to begin with introductions, but the room decided instead to begin with “aggressive pine” and then proceed directly to “questions about whether the building was being cleaned with a holiday.”

At this stage, I made my second major mistake, which was attempting to neutralize one manufactured atmosphere with another manufactured atmosphere.

In my car, I had a case of odor-neutralizing spray left over from a camping trip, because I am someone who plans for bears and does not plan for myself. The spray is marketed as “enzyme-based.” It promises to “eliminate odors at the source.” It does not specifically address what happens when the odor is not an odor but a deliberate corporate decision made by a device you installed.

When combined, “Crisp Alpine Confidence” and “Mountain Enzyme Shield” did not cancel each other out. They formed a third thing—something like “Pine-Scented Accountability,” with notes of citrus and a quiet warning. If you found yourself thinking, “This smells like a hotel trying to hide a secret,” that was not your imagination. That was chemistry and my anxiety working together.

The building responded to the alarm by increasing ventilation, which is sensible for smoke but less sensible for ambition. The result was that we did not merely contain the situation. We distributed it. Several people in the adjacent suite have since asked if we are “renovating” or “starting a wellness initiative.” One person asked if we were “burning Christmas.”

I understand there may also be questions about procurement.

I want to preempt those questions by saying: the units were not purchased with malicious intent. They were purchased with a combination of optimism, late-night scrolling, and a promotional code that promised me I was a “Facility Hero.” I recognize now that a true hero does not generally begin with a promo code.

There is also a subscription component.

I didn’t initially view it as a subscription so much as a “maintenance plan,” which is a phrase the website used in a way that felt responsible. The cartridges are designed to be replaced monthly. If you do not replace them monthly, the system will “alert you.” The alert, I have learned, is not an email. It is a sound. It is the sound of a device beeping in a locked panel while the building smells like a high-end lumber aisle.

Because I am thorough, I selected the “annual savings bundle,” which means there are, as of this morning, twelve months of “Crisp Alpine Confidence” en route. Not twelve months in an abstract sense—twelve months in boxes, labeled, with my name on them, arriving in the mailroom like a series of decisions I can no longer undo.

I am also sorry to IT.

In order to enable “remote control,” the system required Wi Fi access. I followed the instructions, which included the words “create a guest network” and “open port,” which should have been my cue to stop and gently put my phone down. Instead, I did what the app asked because it had a progress bar and I am, at my core, suggestible.

If you noticed the Wi Fi blip around 8:47 a.m., that was the scent network negotiating its place in the world. The units “checked in” for an update. The update included what the app called “community fragrance trends.” I do not know what a fragrance trend looks like in data form, but I do know that our building spent several minutes exchanging information with a server whose name contained the word “cloud.” I understand why this raised questions.

Eventually, Facilities arrived with the key. This should have been the resolution. It was, instead, the beginning of the part where the situation becomes a story everyone will tell slightly differently.

When the panel opened, it became apparent that I had, in my earlier helpfulness, secured the units with zip ties. I did this because the adhesive strips seemed “temporary,” and I thought permanence would communicate seriousness. I recognize now that zip ties communicate seriousness in the same way handcuffs communicate flexibility.

Cutting the zip ties triggered the tamper alarm built into the unit, which is a feature designed, I assume, for factories where someone might steal the smell. The tamper alarm did not summon the police, but it did produce a shrill beep that sounded like a smoke detector learning to speak. We now had a building alarm, a device alarm, and the distinct sense that we were layering systems the way one layers sweaters in panic.

I know that none of this is why any of you came to work today.

You came to work to answer emails, to attend meetings, to make plans that are sensible and proportional. You did not come to work to stand outside while a fire captain asked, carefully, whether the building was “emitting a fragrance on purpose.” You did not come to work to have your productivity enhanced by pine.

I also understand that there are secondary impacts. The carpet will, eventually, forgive us, but it is taking its time. The mailroom is currently storing a box that is gently humming because the subscription shipment includes a “smart refill monitor.” I have turned it face down so it cannot make eye contact with anyone.

Here is what I am doing to make this right:

• I have requested the cancellation of the subscription. It asked me why I was leaving. I did not select “too much confidence,” but I considered it.

• I will personally take responsibility for the removal of all units, under Facilities supervision, with no tools that could be described—by anyone—as a bar.

• I will reimburse any costs that are mine to reimburse, and I will not describe myself as a “Facility Hero” again, even conversationally.

• I will, going forward, restrict my building-improvement ideas to suggestions that can be expressed without a diagram.

I am aware that this does not immediately restore the morning to what it could have been. It does not un ring alarms. It does not un arrive fire trucks. It does not undo the moment when someone said, “It smells like a tree is being promoted.”

But I am, sincerely, sorry. I wanted the building to feel welcoming. I achieved something else: a shared experience, involuntary but unifying, like a company retreat no one scheduled. If you have lingering concerns—about the air, the network, or the fact that the app still shows a fourth “zone” I do not recognize—please know that I, too, have concerns, and I will be working with the appropriate people to address them in the correct order, starting with: turning everything off the normal way.

With far less confidence,

Ben