Elevator Love part 6
By Tralla
I agreed to work for him. He wished me well and left. I’m still in the health ward and looking up at the ceiling. Either I’ve grown stupid or masochistic, but I have played right into his hands. But, the money, I could use it.
“Heero Yuy?”
I look up at the sound of the female voice. There’s a woman with pigtails. I wonder if she’s Pippi Longstockings but older, lost, and damp, because her pigtails aren’t standing up the way they used to.
“I’m Doctor Sally Po.”
There’s something strange about her eyes and then I realize what it is. She seems to be reading my mind.
“I’m half Chinese,” she says while pulling up a chair beside my bed.
I snort. The blonde must have an Asian fetish. I’m wondering if the braid has some oriental in him as well.
“I just wanted to discuss a few things with you.” She folds her hands in her lap and has her gaze fixed on me…to the point where she looks slightly cross-eyed.
“I told QR that you had--”
“QR?”
She laughs. “Most people call him Quatre or Mr. Winner. Neither one feels fitting. I’m only 4 years his senior and our relationship is neither formal nor completely informal.”
Bored, I rub my running nose with the back of my hand.
“I told QR that you had an allergic reaction, but that is not true. I didn’t want to worry him.”
She looks serious. Maybe I have something terminal. Too bad I don’t have life insurance; otherwise, I’d try to collect on myself.
“To rule out allergies, I ran the necessary tests. You can see the prick marks on the undersides of your arms. You came up negative for _everything_, including the contents of what everyone was served for dinner. You’re one of the few people I’ve seen who have no reactions to dust or pollen. None at all.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
“Yes. Have you been under any stress lately?”
“Why?”
“It looks like you had an anxiety attack. With an infrequent outcome (I’m referring to falling unconscious), but an anxiety attack nonetheless.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Panting, profuse sweating, twitching… you were exhibiting those symptoms when I first saw you.”
Skeptical, I look back at her.
“Were you feeling hot, having stomach troubles, or feeling dizzy --did you feel as though you were suffocating before you passed out?”
I frown.
“You were, weren’t you?” She reaches out to pat me on the knee, but my reflexes are doing their job. My knee moves away before she can establish any contact.
She smiles. “Would you prefer to be called Heero or Mr. Yuy?”
“Heero is fine,” I respond mechanically. I can’t remember being called anything else with any frequency.
“Well, Heero, will you answer one of my questions?” After a moment of silence she continues, “Has this happened before?”
“No,” I respond.
I was given a map by the doctor. I was told I would need it to find my way back. I’m currently on the 4th floor. My suite is on the 2nd. I snort. I’m no imbecile. I don’t need a map. Instead of shredding it, I pocket it and start looking for a staircase. This place has elevators, but I’ve chosen to avoid them. Given my history, I’m not going to push my luck.
I step out of the health ward into what I think is a hallway. I start walking. After three turns, it looks like I’m in the same corridor I started out in, that is until I hear: “That’s great, just like that.”
I raise an eyebrow. The voice is distant, but I’m sure it belongs to the blonde. He sounds enthusiastic. With an ear cocked, I follow the voice. After a minute of walking I find myself on an indoor bridge. I look over the railing and realize that I am over what looks like a gymnasium. It has large glass windows. I take a step back. It’s day. By the light, it’s sometime between 9 and 11 in the morning. Before I awoke, I was at dinner, on the verge of passing out while the braid and Mr. Forehead decided to converse about my “Asian flush”. Perhaps, 15 hours have passed. Had I been unconscious for that long? And had the blonde sat there for the duration…leering?
I’m interrupted from the consideration as I look down and see the blonde with a camcorder. He’s filming using his one mobile arm. Filming what, I do not know. I lean over and follow where he’s aiming the camera. I catch a flash of black. There’s something or someone doing gymnastics across the expanse of the room. I lose sight of the figure. And then I see the blonde panning upwards. He’s aiming the camera at me. Or so I think until I see a head appear over the railing. I step back as the owner pulls himself up and then swings his legs over. I’m expecting to see a prehensile tail as he stands and faces me. Mr. Spider Monkey has just climbed up the wall and swung himself over the railing to greet me with non-human primate ease.
He looks back at me and I wonder if the blonde realizes his pet is up for a shearing. Half of his face is hidden by fur—hair whatever.
He’s staring at me with a hint of amusement marking his lips.
I wish I had a mirror. Then I could show him what’s really worth laughing at. I look at his black tights. I suppose he’s the type who has no inclination to father offspring. Given the tightness of his getup, he’s sterile. I suppose that’s ok. There are enough spider monkeys in this world.
“You’re Heero,” he says.
Scratch that. There aren’t enough _talking_ spider monkeys in this world.
I make no response. He does not appear to need one. He walks off. But as he does he says, “Go straight ahead, take two rights and one left. There will be a staircase.”
Despite my stubbornness, my curiosity wins out and I follow spidey’s directions. I take the staircase and make it back to my room. Given everything in the past day, I’m expecting some sort of spectacle at my door. I get nothing. I open my door and head into my suite. Nothing. No mariachi band. Or crypti,c suggestive note. Or annoying stranger to meet.
I am disappointed but it’s only disappointment due to boredom. I hit the entertainment room but realize entertainment involves making use of the amenities the blonde has provided. I’m working for him. I don’t need to feel indebted. I waver. I’m still standing as I hear chirping. It’s coming from the bedroom.
I turn at the familiar sound of a choking bird. It’s the blonde’s cell phone. I forgot that it was still in my possession.
I retrieve it with no intention of answering. I look at it. It goes dead. Then it starts chirping again. There’s a text message. As a reflex, I accept the message with a tap of a button. It reads: “Pick up.”
“Pick up?” I mutter to myself.
The phone begins chirping again. Skeptical, I answer it and bring the phone to my ear.
“You need clothing,” says a voice over the phone.
It’s spidey. I think of his attire and grimace.
“I don’t do tights,” I respond before clamping my mouth shut. I’m slipping. I’ve been thinking aloud more often than usual.
“How about underwear?” he replies. “I’ve heard you could use a pair.”
I hear snickering in the background. It sounds like the braid. I wonder if spidey has me on speakerphone.
“I can dress myself,” I reply testily. I’m about to disconnect when I hear the blonde over the phone.
“Heero, Trowa has come by to fit you.”
“Fit me?”
“Yes, for suits.”
I’m alone with spidey. And he has opted for jeans and a shirt over his seal gear. He’s taking my measurements. Out the corner of my eye, I watch him. He’s now writing my numbers down.
I’m getting used to my lax mouth. I don’t try to stop myself as I say, “What are you?”
He doesn’t look up from his scribbling. “What am I?” he murmurs. “Nationality? In relation to Quatre Winner? Occupation?” He looks back and scrutinizes me for a moment. “I was and am just like you. Except for the Japanese part.”
I snort. Right. I run around in tights and take people’s measurements for kicks.
Spidey’s feeling talkative because he continues in a contemplative fashion, “Let me guess. You were unhappy at your previous place of employment and you met Quatre...perhaps in an elevator.”
I look back at him.
He continues, “You somehow lost your job. Quatre reappeared and made it his business to intervene and offer you a new life.” He pockets the measuring tape. “And, no, I wasn’t told anything specific about you except your name and your need of attire.”
He walks over and hands me the paper with my measurements and says, “There are stores waiting for you. Tell them what you want and they’ll take care of the rest. There’s a car for you in the garage.” He hands me the keys. “Steer clear of Duo.”
It was obvious from my stance and lack of movement that I did not know the location of the garage. Spidey took it upon himself to be my personal tour guide.
He left me in front of an Aston Martin Vanquish, this year’s model. Apparently, my fateful demolition of the Porsche did little damage to my place in the blonde’s esteem. It makes little difference to me. I now have a means of escaping this kooky mansion on a hill. And with this Vanquish, I can do at a speed of 100 mph in ten seconds flat.
I open the door and get in. As I am seated behind the wheel I realize there’s a fat yellow envelope on the passenger seat. I pick it up and open it. I find a list of stores to go to. Their addresses and phone numbers are included. There’s nothing else in the envelope except cash. In mercantile zeal, I drop the list and begin counting. Three thousand three hundred and thirty-three dollars. I suppose this is my clothes budget. I snicker to myself. Clothes, my ass. I’m getting a laptop. But the techie lust in me dies down and reality sets in. I remember my conversation with Mr. Forehead. The more money I spend the more time I need to remain in the blonde’s employ. Fantasies of my laptop wing away and I start the car. My stomach grumbles. I’m getting breakfast. Then I’ll take care of my lackey duties.
I entered the first store on the list. I was viewed with some skepticism given the upscale establishment and my worn jeans and t-shirt and sour nature. But, apparently, someone there recognized me. Perhaps there is a mug shot of me floating around. I wouldn’t be surprised if my former boss put a bounty on my head. I never returned those no. 2 pencils I borrowed from work.
I was asked my name. After supplying it, everyone seemed satisfied. A chipper lady appeared and took me to a sitting area. With skeptical curiosity, I listened as she offered her services while I perused the catalogue she supplied me.
“If you have any questions about any of the apparel in our line, it would be my pleasure to answer them.”
From my seat on a couch with chipper lady standing at my side ready to serve, I stare at the open catalogue in my hands. I don’t want to be here and I don’t want to blow my newly acquired funds just to end up looking like a mobster. And, looking at the prices of these suits, I might have to break some knuckles just to foot the bill. I frown.
Chipper lady chirps up. “Mr. Winner has an account with us. Feel free to choose whatever you desire.”
Desire? What is this? Fantasy Island?
She hands me a pen after I look up at her. Apparently, she is not taken aback by disdain. I flip through the catalogue and randomly circle.
Lackey duties taken care of, I take off to do what I do best: glaring and mentally lambasting. I’m sitting on a bench in a park, people watching. But I don’t get much done before the blonde’s phone goes off. I suppose the chirping has grown on me because not only did I take the phone with me but I actually make an attempt to retrieve it from my pocket. I stare at it. I watch the flashing. I glance at the name that pops up. It says “Love” and there’s a number under it. I blink back at it. The phone goes silent.
My nostrils flare suspiciously. I look around. No one is paying me any mind, not that it would matter considering no one would suspect that I have some rich bastard’s phone in my possession and plan on scanning his call list.
Despite that fact, I find myself bent over the phone, blocking it from view and consequently making myself appear as the hunchback of Notre Dame.
The blonde made seventeen calls to “Love” in the past two weeks and received three, excluding the most recent one, in return. I close the phone.
It seems the blonde has a penchant for adult phone lines. Perhaps he’s auditioning. With four callbacks, he’s a shoe in.
I return. It’s some time past midnight. I would have gone to a motel, but the scrooge in me forbade it. I’m outside the estate’s gates. With annoyance, I realize I have to announce my presence to gain entrance. But as I sit there in the car, the gates open and I realize that the blonde has his property actively monitored.
I drive in and make it back to my room. It’s uneventful except for the fact that there’s now an electronic lock on my door. I spy it, the light is green meaning there’s no obstruction. I enter my room wondering what else has been added in my absence.
I look around. The closets are open and everything from the catalogues is neatly arranged, even the jeans and sneakers I’d checked off. Apparently, I’m an employee turned gigolo. I frown. Now, it’s only a matter of what I’m expected to do in return.
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Yeah…that part was not too exciting…getting Heero clothes and all. But he has to have clothes on in order to be undressed, ne?