I step into the elevator as always. It’s a habit to pick the third one on the right side. But it’s a habit that comes with some deliberation. This elevator has the least chance of malfunctioning in May. For some reason, each elevator’s efficiency seems dependent on the season. The first elevator favors the winter months. The second elevator on the left refuses to function for more than two runs in a row during the spring.
I can’t say switching elevators, or whether one will take me to my destination on what day during what season, irks me. It gives me something to do, gives me something other than my life to think about. I’m a low level technician in a small computer software firm. I hate my job and can’t stand my boss. And, all those things are my doing, my fault. I’m not dumb. I never was. If I were egotistical, I’d flout my IQ. But I dropped out of college my first year. I was bored. And now, I’m momentarily stuck here until I go back for a degree. But the elevators, they pose an interesting problem. Which one will be loyal? Which one will fuck me over this time? I’ve been working here three years and each year the pattern changes. I’m probably the only who notices.
Before the doors close, two fat ladies push their way through. It’s the ground floor of a building that has 62 levels. The fat ladies ignore me. And they should. Everyday I scowl in their direction to keep them from rattling off the names of their offspring and showing cheesy pictures of their already overweight grandchildren. The elevator ride is mine. I’m proud to stake my territory, even if it means appearing like a total asshole.
It’s the third floor. Two women with cardigans get on, followed by three men in business suits. I back into a corner, determined to have my space and my right to lean against the walls. I work on the top floor, if today is like any other day, the elevator will stop at every three floors or so, which means about fifteen minutes for me to actually get to my tiny cubicle. But, as always, I have plenty of time to get where I need to be.
We’re moving and then we halt. I raise an eyebrow. Since when are we stopping on the fourth floor on this day in May? The doors open and I see the reason why. I scowl. A blonde man enters the elevator. He’s wearing dark pants and a light shirt. His tie is partly loosened and he is carrying a jacket in his hand. He enters the elevator with a smile and waves to the fat ladies. The two women in cardigans blush as he fixes a genial gaze their way and the businessmen give him nods of acknowledgement. I scowl even more as the blonde stubbornly throws a smile in my direction. My eyes move away from him. For the last week, he’s been throwing me off, popping into this elevator from any one of the first ten floors…
He stands by the businessmen and they start some good-natured small talk with him. My stomach turns. I think of how much money they make. I’m not greedy or jealous, but the words, “golf”, “summer condo,” and “Italy” make me tense. After work, I have night school. And, after that I have homework, and after that I have a nap before getting up and coming to this God-awful job again…
But the blonde throws me for a loop again. He excuses himself from the businessmen to talk to the fat ladies. And I turn green as he asks about their grandchildren. I have one more reason to hate him. The women smile and begin digging into their respective bags for their photos. Rolls of fat jiggle as they enthusiastically wrench their collection of keepsakes from their bags. I look away. But, over the hum of the elevator, I hear them. Despite myself, I find myself watching them again.
“Oohhh, this is Marie, isn’t she cute?! And Damian, he just started walking a week ago… and Maron…” There was a punctuated sigh. “Maron is such a handful but isn’t she adddoorable?”
“Someone shoot me.” Both women suddenly turn around and look at me and I realize that I had, in fact, just spoken aloud. Damn me. I didn’t want any attention. I debate for a moment whether to look away or continue ogling, daring the rotund ladies to say something to me.
But I’m saved. Blondie pipes up and starts asking questions about Maron. The women turn away and I’m easily forgotten. Somehow, I’m annoyed. But I do nothing and start focusing on the hum of the elevator.
It’s the 11th floor. A guy with a fez gets on. He smells like spices. At this I smile. I don’t mind this guy. He makes me think of dinner. I wonder if homeless people follow him home, driven by the promise of a warm curried meal. I frown. Damn it. I forgot to bring lunch. That means--
The blonde has left the fat ladies and is talking to me. Why? I look at him, trying to make him shrink to midget height with my penetrating gaze. It’s a waste of effort. He’s asking me what time it is. I tell him I don’t know. He makes a comment about my watch. I tell him it’s broken. Then curse my watch. The alarm goes off as soon as he walks away. He gives me a look. And I give him one back that says “fuck off.”
He leaves me alone and is back talking to the businessmen. They all pull up their sleeves. After a glance at their Rolexes they tell Blondie the time. Each one is a minute off from the other. They look puzzled. Way to be stumped, big boys, I think and look above the elevator’s doors. It’s the 20th floor and the businessmen escape into a world of simpering secretaries and shiny mahogany desks topped with rolodexes filled with the numbers and addresses of people just as important as or more important than they. The two fat women get off on the 22nd floor with the women in cardigans.
The blonde glances back at me. I half think he’s going to wink at me as though we’re both aware of some inside joke the women are oblivious to as the elevator doors close behind them. But once again, he throws me off. He wasn’t looking at me but glancing at the guy with the Fez who must have worked his way to my side while I was mentally lambasting the suits. Despite my stubbornness and disgust, I feel my face growing hot as Blondie waves to curry boy. With a side-glance, I realize that Fez guy is surprised by the sudden genial gesture. He looks back at me trying to figure out if Blondie was waving at him or me. One glare from me and he turns around. There are three of us in the elevator now and no friendly vibes are coming from me. There is no doubt. The blonde was waving at him.
I watch as the blonde approaches Fez guy and sticks out his hand. Fez guy sticks out his as well. They shake hands and then the blonde goes one step further in his latest display of his penchant for being a social butterfly. While shaking Fez guy’s hand he closes his other hand over Fez guy’s, trapping him in a friendship lock. The blonde leans in closer. I arch an eyebrow. What is he doing? Trying to figure out if Fez boy needs a breath mint? My eyebrow drops back to its original position when he brings his head close to Fez boy’s and they greet each other by touching cheeks…on both sides. For a moment, a ripple of unease moves down my abdomen and makes a pit-stop in my gut. Am I witnessing a cultist greeting? My eyes are riveted to Fez guy’s fez. The blonde starts speaking to Fez boy…and my suspicions grow until I realize they’re conversing in some Middle Eastern language. Occasionally, I recognize an English word. Winner. Part of the name of the building. Manguanac. Part of the name of the International Association on the 40th floor.
The elevator dings. It’s the 40th floor. Blondie and Fez guy have a final male-bonding moment. They embrace and Fez guy takes his leave. The elevator closes. It’s just me and the blonde. I glance at the elevator buttons and realize only one button is lit: the one I pressed when I entered this sorry excuse for upward transportation. It’s been 15 minutes and I’m only on the 40th floor. Then a thought sprints through my mind like a deer on speed: Blondie is heading to my floor…meaning there are 22 more floors in which I have to prevent him from breaking into my personal space. I realize he’s on to me. I can feel the weight of his stare. He’s to my right, in another corner, leaning against the wall looking like he wants to do that cheek-to-cheek thing he did with the other guy but this time with me.
“The elevator’s stuck,” says the blonde, breaking me out of my lengthy mental diatribe.
I look up above the elevator doors and realize that we’re still on the 40th floor. He does and says nothing as I reach for my cell phone. Out of necessity, I attempt to phone my boss to keep him off my back for being late. But, and I should have remembered this, I can’t get a signal in the elevator. This contraption must be made of lead. And it’s probably poisoning me.
I look at the buttons and at the emergency one for the fire department. I don’t waste my time. I know my luck and deduce that it’s broken, like everything else in this damn building.
“You hate it here,” ventures the blonde.
I ignore him. But he’s persistent and repeats himself as if I am hard of hearing and not trying to pretend he’s not there. Finally, after the third repetition, I lose my patience and mutter, “No one appreciates being stuck in an elevator on a daily basis.”
The blonde gives me a half-smile and I twitch as he says, “I meant your job.”
I look back.
“You must be the most bitter and miserable employee in this building.”
He stands up from the wall and approaches me. I glance at the jacket he has resting on his arm before looking up. I’m startled at how confident and empathetic he seems. It’s an unusual mix and I find myself taking a step back, but I’m backed into a corner, the corner I chose.
He leans in so that we’re almost nose to nose. I’ve been violated. My personal-space alarm is sounding at full power. I imagine a large flashing sign above my head that declares: “Invasion! Invasion! Breach! Breach! Abandon ship! Leave the women and children behind!” Then I realize I’m being moronic and my attention is brought back to the blonde and the fact I can feel his breath on my lips. I am too startled to deck him.
After inspecting and watching me twitch, the blonde leans back and the warning sirens quiet. That is, until he claps a hand on my shoulder and says good-naturedly, “You’re fired.”
I choke. “What?”
“You’re fired. Take a vacation, a paid one. And find someplace where either your crabbiness is appreciated or won’t affect others.”
At that my mouth drops, but I straighten up and my latent machismo wakens up, full throttle. “Wait a damn minute. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Quatre Winner.”
“Quatre Winner…” My stomach turns…twice. “The CEO’s son…”
“No, the new CEO. I’m cleaning up this decrepit building and getting rid of the chaff,” he says with that peculiar half-smile of his.
“Chaff?” Either he just called me a seed pod or something incredibly worthless. The smile is making it difficult to discern what he meant.
“Your name. What is it?”
“Heero,” I reply numbly. I’m fired. Even my moroseness can’t save me from feeling stunned.
“Well, Heero, now that you’re no longer an employee I can be less formal.”
“Less formal,” I repeat like a drone. Since when was he being formal?
“You’re peculiar. You attempt to appear disinterested but you spend a great deal of time eyeballing people. It’s like you’re anticipating something. Or, maybe you’re anxious…anxiously waiting for that ideal intervention.”
I suddenly realize that his hand had never left my shoulder and now that sneaky hand is squeezing me.
“An ideal intervention, where you’re not responsible,” continues the blonde. But he isn’t smiling.
“Responsible?” I manage to say.
“Responsible for removing that bitter but ultimately needy expression from your face.”