Elevator Love part 23 (End)
By Tralla

<< recollection >>

A year wasted. A bunch of dead-end jobs. And now I have another one. It’s day 10 in this building and everyday I’m confronted with its inadequacies. 5 elevators are on the ground floor and only one of them works. Getting here, having to run here because the one subway line I needed is under construction wasn’t enough. I frown. And now, knowing my luck, I probably have a 22 floor trek ahead of me. I’m not walking up 20+ flights. Let them fire me. I make it to elevator 5. A surprise. It’s still working. The doors open and people file out.

I get in and hit the button for floor 22. Before I can appreciate the silence, a woman with 2 children gets on. Great. I watch her hand as she reaches out to the buttons. I frown. She hits 12. Twelve agonizing floors with her loathsome spawn. And they don’t disappoint. Before the doors even close, the little boy is looking at me with his finger stuck up his nose. The little girl is tugging at her mother’s skirt…and crying…she doesn’t want to go to the Family Resource Center, where workers go to apply for employer funded daycare... I keep a snort to myself. Her children deserve to be tethered, not tended to.

I look back at the little boy. His finger is in his mouth. It’s the same finger that was excavating his nose. Perhaps, his mother doesn’t feed him enough and this is how he supplements his diet.

5th floor. The kids are joined by an old man with a cane. I’m scowling at this point. The old man presses 9. I relax. He’s hobbling in my direction. I watch him. By the time he makes it over to me, he’ll miss his floor. I was right. It’s floor 9 and he’s in front of me.

The doors open. His back is to them.

“Hey, sonny, do you know what floor the employment commission is on?”

I watch the doors close.

“9,” I respond.

“9?”

I look down at him. It’s doubtful this place is going to hire someone who’s half-dead. Not only is he dense, but he must also be nearsighted and senile. I’m scowling and he’s not getting the hint. And he hasn’t noticed that he’s just missed the stop he chose, correctly.

It’s floor 12. The woman and the kids get off. I hustle the old man out of the elevator. Tersely, I tell him to wait for another one, knowing fully well there won’t be one until this one comes back down. I get back in. The elevator is empty. I watch as the doors close. Then a hand appears, causing the doors to retract. A redheaded guy gets in. Great. It’s that same weirdo that’s been popping in from any of the first 10 floors for the past week.

I snort. There’s no one else here. I don’t have to listen to him chat everyone up. No questions about people’s grandchildren, or about someone’s last vacation, or whatever. And he knows better than to try that shtick with me today. He’s tried 3 times this past week. I’ve proven myself resistant to all his creepy efforts. I dare him to try again.

And he does.

“The elevator’s stuck,” says Red, breaking me out of my mental diatribe.

I look up above the elevator doors and realize that we’re still on the 12th 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. I’ve only been working here for 2 weeks and he’s already a tyrant. I must attract overbearing assholes with inferiority complexes. I look at the phone and frown. I can’t get a signal in the elevator. I should have seen this coming. This contraption must be made of lead, and it’s probably affecting my reasoning. I pocket the phone.

I look at the elevator 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.

Red’s talking again.

“You were cold to that old man.”

I ignore him.

“You could have been more forthcoming,” he says. “You could have told him that he had a long wait ahead of him.”

I continue to ignore him, but he’s persistent and repeats himself as though I’m hard of hearing and not trying to blow him off. Finally, after the third repetition, I mutter, “He’ll get where he needs to go.”

“That’s not good enough,” says Red. “I expect more from the people in this building.”

He approaches me. I glance at the jacket he has resting on his arm before looking up.

I watch his mouth as he says, “I know you’re capable of more. But you’re the stubborn type, aren’t you?”

He’s just a foot away and is staring. I take a step back. He leans in so that we’re almost nose-to-nose. I’ve been violated. My personal space alarm is sounding at full power.

After inspecting me and watching for a reaction, Red leans back and the warning sirens quiet. That is, until he claps a hand on my shoulder and says in a suddenly good-natured tone, “You’re fired.”

“What?”

He’s smiling. “You’re fired. Take a vacation, a paid one. Work on those personality flaws. With some time and effort, you might be less of a trial to be around.”

“Wait a goddamn minute. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Raberba Winner.”

“Raberba Winner…” My mouth is open. Not good. Not good at all. “The CEO’s…”

“Cousin,” he says. “I’m taking over until his return. I’m streamlining all operations and shearing off the fat,” he says with a peculiar half-smile.

“Fat?” Either he just called me lard or something superfluous. The smile is making it difficult to discern what he means.

“Your name. What is it?”

“Jiro,” I reply flatly. “Jiro Yuy.” I’m fired. I can’t delude myself. I’m screwed and...on top of that... later...I’m going to have to deal with that braided maniac’s carping.

Red’s talking again. I look back at him.

“Well, Jiro, now that you’re no longer an employee, I can be less formal.”

“Less formal,” I repeat. When was he being formal?

I’m in my apartment, seated in front of my laptop, in stunned disbelief. My gaze moves from the screen to the padded manila envelope and my name on it. Plain as day, the spot for the addressee says “Heero Yuy” with my current residence’s address just under it. It takes a while for me to settle down enough to acknowledge that the envelope belongs to me, that I am, in fact, who the envelope says I am. It takes a while for me to quiet a turning stomach. It takes a while for me to stop my hand from twitching, the same hand that had held the DVD-R I’d pulled from that envelope, the same hand that had placed that DVD-R into my laptop for viewing.

Ten minutes later, my body is calm enough, but my mind is still reeling from what I’d just witnessed...through the eyes and ears of my double...my double... Those were my thoughts that I heard uttered. Those were my reactions, my inner workings...and they were reproduced...emulated by a doll in, possibly, human skin.

Logical. I can be logical, with effort. It had mentioned the braid, but I know who’s really responsible for that walking offense...that walking offense that’s even miming my name. There’s no return address on the envelope, but I know who it’s from. It’s the blonde’s handwriting that’s staring back at me.

I left his estate just over 2 years ago and haven’t heard anything from him until today. Suddenly, there’s contact in the form of footage ...in the form of a recorded peepshow of his and my double with their first extended interaction, one unnervingly identical to the one I’d had with him.

I lift up my hands and look at them. My eyes leave them and go back to the screen. I think of Jiro’s words and how they were undeniably mine.

Am I predictable...to the degree that I can be reproduced in such detail?

I lower my hands. I’m still looking at the screen. From the vantage, from the eyes of my double, I see Raberba. He looks contented and, for a brief moment, my mind wanders into dangerous territory. I question whether he recalls, if he’s been allowed to recall, Jiro’s original. Jiro’s original who’s...

<<Psychologically...grinch-like>>

I eject the DVD-R, take it in hand, and throw it. It hits the wall and lands in the trash, a feat given the initial angle of its flight. An intervening force must have sent it where it belongs.

I’m rigid. I’m sitting and I’m as stiff as a corpse. But my mind is still traveling, meandering...grabbing details and fixing them together in a haphazard fashion.

From his own words, it seems as though my double has been operational for at least a year, a year in which he’s been living my lifestyle, the kind of lifestyle I’m still entrenched in with only one stark difference: there’s no rich oddball cozying up to me. Two years. That stand-in is the result of my two year absence: a year of existence on his part that was most likely preceded by an entire year of effort. It probably took that long to build him, to make him similar to me in everyway. It probably took the blonde a year to give him my body, my manner, my thoughts...

The blonde...he’d gotten what he wanted from me, hadn’t he? After I left, he’d still had a blueprint of me, his intimate knowledge of what I was and what I can be. He’d gotten what he wanted and further interaction was superfluous, unnecessary. There was no need to come after me--He was busy. He didn’t waste any time replacing me. And, now, he’s sharing that fact, flaunting it.

I look at the envelope and zero in on his handwriting. It’s rushed and slightly sloppy. It’s the result of a black felt tip pen handled hastily.

A rational, but unwanted, thought presents itself: Why was he rushing?

My gaze is still on the envelope. I look at the postmark. Ecuador. He’s in Ecuador, undoubtedly disobeying the laws of nature by not tanning in the unrelenting sunlight.

Black pants, white shirt, black tie. I’m dressed as the others. The only difference is that I’m self-employed, without pay, starting today. I’m at my old building, the stage on which all this absurdity began. I look around the lobby. A lot has changed. All the elevators are functional. There are no lines, no sweaty angry people on the verge of being late. The place is pristine, nauseatingly pristine. I stomach it and keep moving.

I head for the third elevator on the right side. I watch the doors open. Seven people file in. I join them. I wait for everyone to choose their destinations. The doors close. I step up and begin my task. I’m pushing buttons. Floors 2-5 are now lit up.

Second floor.

The doors open, but no one gets in and no one gets out.

The doors close.

Third floor. The doors open. No one gets in and no one gets out.

The doors close.

Fourth floor. The doors open. No one gets in. No one steps out.

The doors close.

Fifth floor. The doors open. No one enters. No one gets out.

The doors close.

I start hitting more buttons. Floors 6-10 are now lit up.

At first, there are incredulous whispers. By floor 9, someone cracks. I’m stopped from hitting more buttons.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Creep.”

I go about my business. No one stops me. Floors 11-15 are now queued up.

Next floor.

The doors open. No one gets in. No one gets out. The doors close.

“Asshole.”

Next floor. The doors open. There’s no traffic in or out. The doors close.

“He’s crazy.”

By floor 13, there’s one particularly ill-mannered elevator attendee. “What the fuck is your problem, you prick?” For a second, I wonder if he could be a long lost relative of the braid’s.

He doesn’t say anymore as I look back at all of them. They’re, intermittently, mouthing off. But they’re not going to do a damn thing, except get off to catch an elevator without a nutcase.

The doors open. I’m right. I watch them file out. The doors close.

I look at my watch and try to calculate how long it will take me to get to the top at this pace. The information will come in handy since I may have to do the same button pushing for the descent.

I’m on the pavement looking up at my old building. A few weeks of haunting elevators and I’m losing track of how many times I’ve been escorted out of here. Apparently, the Winners run a tight ship with a rigid protocol that even those on the lowest rung must obey. Throwing out even a remorseless, repeat offender would probably draw more attention than desired from the outside world. Instead of giving me the harsh booting I deserve, the guards usually walk me out, as though they’re introducing my feet to the pavement. But I know better. I’ve seen it on their faces and in their stances. I’m trying their patience. They can’t laugh off my behavior anymore. If they had their way, I would be arraigned on charges of disorderly conduct.

But the guards can’t have their way. I’m back. I walk into the building. Today, they are in formation. Each guard is positioned in front of an elevator. They’re watching me with their arms crossed over their chests. They don’t have me cornered. We all know the same things. They can’t touch me until someone complains. They can’t touch me until I become a nuisance. They can’t touch me until I make it possible for them. I walk over to my usual elevator. They’re all on edge as I reach out toward the up button.

We all know one final thing as my finger makes contact. There are enough different departments for me to be here on business, for me to find something legitimate to do. Not working here doesn’t leave me vulnerable.

With a familiar hiss, the elevator doors open. There are 3 people in it. They look at me, warily. I can’t recall if they have been witness to my recent antics, but apparently they know me. They walk around me. But, as soon as they’re behind me, they begin whispering. I snort. They’re adults who haven’t quite left elementary school.

I walk into the elevator. I hear a voice. It’s familiar. It’s been years since it assaulted my ears.

“Heero.”

I stiffen and turn around. My movements are slow, deliberately slow.

My eyes get the image my ears prompted: blonde hair, pale skin, and...a clownish expression.

“Alex,” I mutter. I wasn’t mistaken. A former coworker. A fellow ex-desk jockey. I snort to myself. I’m wrong about the last part. I look at him and our identical getup. I’m miming, but he’s authentic. Apparently, he still works here.

“Heero.” He laughs. “It’s true then.” He’s still laughing, obnoxiously.

He steps into the elevator. When a woman tries to get on, he blocks her. “You don’t want this one.” He jerks his thumb in my direction. He stage whispers, “Loony.”

She makes a quick retreat. He hits the doors close button and turns my way.

I begin hitting buttons randomly. There’s nothing wrong with variety. He watches me while I’m at task. He’s enjoying himself. It’s in his voice.

“Over two years absent and now you’ve returned to make yourself famous, Heero. As far as I know from the buzz around the water cooler, there’s an email, a formal memo, and I believe the security guards have had an official meeting about you.”

I snort. He’s telling me things I’d already surmised, things I’d expected.

The elevator doors open. He hits the doors close button.

He does his own snort. “You’ve become a cocky bastard, haven’t you?” He hits the button for floor 62. I was right. He’s still working the same job. When I don’t say anything, he keeps blathering. He rubs under his nose. “There are a few guesses as to what you’re up to, but they’re lawsuit related suppositions.” He looks my way. “The popular one is that you’re planning on faking an injury after being physically thrown out.”

Floor 13. The doors open. I see pants, a shirt, a tie, and then a jacket resting on an arm. I look up. Not blonde. Not him.

“You might want to grab a different elevator,” says the overly talkative goon beside me.

The businessman looks at me. An expression of recognition passes over him. He finds somewhere else to be. The doors close.

Alex snorts. “Look at that. You’re even scaring the suits. Anyhow, you keep acting crazy. It’s entertaining for the rest of us. Rage against the machine type of--”

He stops when he sees my expression.

The elevator doors open and I say what I should have said when he first entered. “Get out.”

He does.

I deserted my post. I’ve left the building without being taken out, but I haven’t hit the pavement. Outside, toward the back of the building, there’s space where grass and brush war for dominance. Overgrown and hardly ever tended, the area is usually deserted. I’m looking around. I’m momentarily getting out of that enclosed space I’d boxed myself in for the last few weeks. I should have come out here before. It has both new and old appeal. It’s still deserted, but different. I snort as I see more than I’ve ever seen. I see water. I see rocks. I see everything that was blocked by wayward weeds that masqueraded as veritable foliage. The Winners have changed more than the building’s interior. They’ve cleaned up this place with law and regulated disorder. They restricted the brush, by keeping it in line with shears and mowers, while letting nature handle the rest. I’m surrounded by the result. It’s a nice view, even I can admit that. It’s windy, the water is choppy, the sky is clear, and the air is slightly damp. I have no problem staying here for the time being. There isn’t anything waiting for me in my apartment.

I hear a noise. It’s from the doors I had just passed through. I turn. I’m standing against the wind. The very orientation of my body seems fixated on where my gaze had immediately landed. I knew the object before I saw it.

It’s the blonde. He’s walking out.

There’s no surprise, no apprehension, or acknowledgement from his end. He hasn’t paused. He’s moving forward, traversing. He walks past without looking at me. It was effortless, the indifference. I’m about to go on my way when I hear his footsteps halt. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t turn, but he speaks.

“I suppose...I should tell you more about Jiro.”

A gust passes over me from behind. He smells the same. It was an annoying, familiar detail that was carried on the wind.

But it isn’t just his scent that’s coming my way. There’s something radiating from him, something personal, but unconscious. It’s a message about his current state. His attitude isn’t aloof; it’s casual, casual in a lazy way, as though he’s simply killing time. And it isn’t artifice. I have proof. It’s in his voice as he continues on about my double.

He’s straightforward, but languid with his speech, as though he’s talking about something that doesn’t particularly concern him. “We’ve never been acquainted with one another. I designed him, but ended contact before he was complete. He wasn’t fashioned at my estate, nor has he ever been there. He believes Duo is his primary creator. They’re residing together 16 hours from here. Right now--”

“You’re still spying.”

“I’m monitoring him, but only temporarily.” He lets a minute go by. It was a long minute in which I’d counted from 1 to 60. “It was wrong to build him without your permission,” he notes.

“Knowing that...”

“I still did it.”

He’s trying to provoke me into giving more of a reaction, maybe. I supply a response, but no sentiment. “You’ve made your point. I’m replaceable--”

“It wasn’t my intention to replace you.”

He’s lying. It was a mistake to come out here. The wind is howling. I’m frowning. I could be wrong. His tone was convincing.

He sighs. I barely heard it above the wind. “I was curious to see...I’d wondered if...” He goes silent before beginning again. “I’ve made sure that Raberba no longer has memories of you, and I’ve done away with imprinting, entirely...yet...”

The wind is still howling, but not loud enough to block him out. I want him blocked out.

“Yet...” He laughs. It was a short sound of disbelief rather than mirth. “In your own way, you’ve admitted that you and Jiro are more than similar. He and Raberba...they’re seen together...often...without the influence of anyone’s meddling.”

I’m watching leaves blow past, but I’m listening.

He’s talking again. “There’s a memo circulating about a crazed former employee...who--”

“Crazed?”

“You earned it, Heero.”

“You were in Ecuador.”

He’s silent for a while before saying, “Briefly. I’m still looking for a long term destination.” He still has that same lazy casualness as he asks, “How often do you travel, Heero?”

I’m not casual. A leaf brushes past my nose. “Not often.”

---

According to http://www.babynamesworld.com/ : Jiro means “second male” ^_^

Click here to see the ending pic.