April 33

By Wayne Benham

After receiving an unusual gift- temporary access to the 13th floor of a building that supposedly doesn't have one- Michael's uneventful and rather dull life is suddenly turned upside down. In a matter of days the local cops suspect him of murder, the FBI are thinking espionage, a pair of mob enforcers are trying to collect on a large loan he never borrowed, there's a fresh grave in his backyard and a dead body in his car that he can't seem to dispose of, and he's either about to be fired from his job for a stupid mistake or given a huge promotion because a Yorkshire Terrier peed on his face.
And that doesn't even include the really weird stuff happening on and emanating from the 13th floor.
Romance, sex, mystery, mayhem, magic, and a deep dish helping of iguana philosophy. With enough twists and turns to rival the Kama Sutra, and a roller coaster ride finale as Michael races the clock in an effort to prevent the end of the world as... well, as we don't know it.
April 33 is a fantasy adventure of darkly screwball humor and Twilight Zone atmospheres; graced with a large cast of delightfully eccentric, quirky, and just plain bizarre characters. And Michael, as narrator, is a truly fresh and original voice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Benham
• Release date: Aug 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476055138

Wayne Benham

Morro Bay, California resident. April 33 is my first novel, but I've written a number of stories and songs, and I hope to start adding more free short story collections with somewhat greater frequency. I like things that are a bit offbeat and not easy to pigeonhole (or predict). And apropos of nothing really, but I used to have an iguana named Blue. You can also find me on the Morro Bay commercial free, format free, all volunteer radio station... streaming worldwide through our website EsteroBayRadio.org.

Book preview

April 33

a novel by

Wayne Benham

-

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2002, revised 2011 Wayne Benham

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-Prologue-

Nature in its infinite wisdom, or utter foolishness, sees fit to bring a peculiar set of atmospheric conditions into convergence near a large sun cooked mudflat. Small but powerful eddies of air begin to whip across the almost bare landscape of this quietly neglected area.

For unmeasured seasons this low spot had been the location of an unremarkable little pond that lived and thrived for eight to nine months of every year, until recently when someone illegally diverted the flow path of the small stream that eventually fed this pond in order to obtain an additional source of crop irrigation. Now all that remains is an expanse of dry, cracked mud, the smell of death and decay, and one slowly dissipating pool of stagnant water thick with too little oxygen and too many tadpoles and newly graduated frogs.

The whipping winds continue to compress, compact and organize until a miniature twister forms. The twister tilts and dips a spiraling funnel into the stagnant pool, sucking up several gallons of water along with a few dozen amphibious bodies and injects them into a small airborne pocket of violently spinning air.

Caught between and chased by two conflicting air masses, the watery pocket is pushed to a height of fifty feet and begins to move in a southeasterly direction, crossing the county line and traveling a distance of almost eleven miles. As it draws within sight of a busy roadway the wind devil suddenly stalls, loses power and disperses.

Rosalind Ontivero is standing in the backyard of her modest home, smiling as she watches her toddler grandson Lucas try to catch and hold the constantly wagging tail of her old mixed breed dog. She is surprised when the first large raindrop splatters onto the arm of the long sleeve shirt she is wearing. She is even more surprised when this sudden and brief shower also begins to deliver a smattering of small falling frogs. The frogs are unharmed as they land on the soft lawn, but having just spent a considerable time in constant and rapid spin the frogs immediately begin to hop about in tight counter-clockwise circles. Rosalind rushes forward to gather up the frogs and protect them from her overly curious dog, and eventually she transplants twelve tiny frogs to a moist and secluded corner of her abundant garden.

Intent upon her rescue efforts she is completely unaware of the fate of the final frog to unexpectedly grace her property.

Thirteen month old Lucas squats and snatches the dizzy brown and green creature from the grass. He giggles at its odd movements and the slippery smooth feel of its skin. He pushes the frog into his mouth and swallows. He giggles again, makes a sour face and burps. And then, unheard by any other person, he speaks a word that he has never spoken before and will not speak again for several years.

Magic, he says.

-April 24-

It is a beautiful spring day. Or maybe it isn’t.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t really know one way or the other.

I was running late this morning, as usual, so my focus was more on the drive, and the traffic, and hurrying to make up for lost time. I wasn’t paying all that much attention to the prevailing weather conditions, okay? So what? Chances are it is a rather typical and moderately inclined day that simply didn’t require notice. I mean, I’m reasonably certain there were no funnel clouds brewing in the overhead sky and it was neither swirling with white out blizzard snow nor raining cats, dogs, or tornado relocated frogs. I assume I would have noticed that.

Well, probably. Although I could be mistaken. Possibly.

Perhaps the sky was dark and troubled and my commute punctuated with falling felines and windswept amphibians and I simply failed to pay proper attention to it. Unlikely, but it is possible.

And if so I repeat… so what? What difference does it make at this point? I am safely enveloped within a large atmospherically controlled building where the weather without is of negligible consequence and even the pitter-splatter of falling frogdrops would likely go largely unnoticed.

At the moment, I am waiting for an elevator to arrive.

Waiting for a metal box to respond to my desire and subjective need to become elevated. Gosh. I mean, that’s a pretty tall order to ask of a metal box, you might think. And yet, not only do we fully accept this rather remarkable act, we absolutely expect it.

Usually somewhat impatiently I might add.

And that thought provokes the sudden awareness that I am the only person standing here at this particular moment waiting somewhat impatiently for an elevator to arrive. And that’s a bit odd actually.

This is a busy commercial high-rise; and I’m standing in a wide passageway that is not only a major ground level artery of said building but is also home to six of the aforementioned miracle boxes of elevation, three to either side of the walkway. Now generally speaking, elevators in this building tend to attract impatient people seeking speedy elevation like porch lights attract amorous moths.

So why am I the only one standing here now?

Granted, I’m running a little late (as usual) but only by a few minutes. It’s still well within the normal parameters of prime elevation time.

Oh well, no matter, I guess.

And before I can dismiss this particular oddity from my mind as too mundane to bother pondering, an electronic bell announces the arrival of an elevator. The doors to the center car slide open and I step forward but then pause before boarding, waiting for the lone occupant to exit. Proper elevator etiquette, you know?

The young man remains however, leaning against a back corner of the car with his eyes closed, almost appearing to be asleep. I step inside and, seeing only the lobby button lit, assume that this must be the man’s intended destination. Holding the door open with one hand, I clear my throat deliberately to get the man’s attention.

No reaction.

Of course, I could take the position of tough luck, you snooze you lose, but fundamentally I’m a nice guy. Polite. Now don’t get me wrong, I have experimented with rudeness (particularly during my college years) and I will admit in certain circumstances it can prove to be somewhat entertaining, but, in general, isn’t it really rather pointless and, well, just plain rude?

Excuse me, I say politely. Lobby. Did you want to get off?

His head moves ever so slightly. Not right now, no. Maybe later. Thanks for asking.

I let the elevator door close and perform a quick examination of the young man. His eyes are still closed so I figure it’s acceptable. Not overtly impolite. College kid probably. Definitely going for that 60’s hippie look. Extremely faded and colorfully patched Levi’s, loose muslin shirt, well traveled sandals, and a head full of long, curly blonde hair. No big deal, but not exactly the typical look for this building either.

I push the button for my floor, 26, and since I’m still firmly committed to the value of polite behavior I ask.

You going up?

This time the head nods and the eyelids open and these unnaturally dark, almost metallic black eyes turn to look in my approximate but slightly off the mark direction.

Constantly, he says.

Right. The possibility that his personal elevator no longer makes the long journey all the way up to the top floor seems like a good bet. Probably best not to overtax his limited brain cells with further conversation.

I turn my attention to the digital display above the elevator door that posts the current floor number. Unfortunately that number is only 2, a long way from 26.

I wanted a few minutes to talk with you, Michael.

Hearing him speak my name prompts me to look his way again. Must have been just a trick of the light before, because his eyes aren’t really that odd looking. Dark brown, yes. Very dark. But cold, shiny black, no. Okay, so he looks a bit more normal now. But not in the least bit more familiar.

I’m sorry, have we met before?

He sighs heavily. Yes. And no. Perhaps we have met before. Perhaps not. Perhaps we haven’t met before, but perhaps we will meet later on. Perhaps we have known one another for all our lives. Perhaps even longer. Perhaps only one of us knows the other. Perhaps we are one and the same person. Perhaps we are all but one person. Perhaps we have never truly met ourselves, much less anyone else. Perhaps neither of us knows the answer to your question. Perhaps we have forgotten the question. Perhaps it all depends on one’s personal point of view. Do you follow my thought?

Uh… perhaps, is the most intelligent response I can muster up at the moment, and to be honest it seems more than adequate.

It doesn’t matter whether we have met before, or for that matter, since. What does matter is the here and the now. Greetings, Michael, it’s nice to meet you. My name is unimportant. My purpose is not. My purpose is to bring you the possibility of hope and salvation. A small gift, a spark that just might change your life. Perhaps.

Oh, hell, it’s just another pitchman for Jesus. Explain this to me, will you? Why can you never find a cop when you really need one; never find a cab in the rain; and never find an empty parking space within seven blocks of where you need to go, but you will never, by God, have any trouble finding a witness? Well, hallelujah. Praise the lord and pass the Prozac.

I redirect my attention to the digital 4 on the floor indicator display. That doesn’t seem right. This elevator is moving much too slow.

Consider it a birthday present, the young man declares.

And, damn, he’s got me again. I start to ask, but catch myself. Don’t get sucked in by some parlor trick. Don’t overreact. Name, date of birth… this is pretty basic information and fairly easy to obtain. I have no idea why this kid would bother to do it, but it’s nothing to get excited about. Give me a good computer database and about twenty minutes and I’ll deliver your mother’s maiden name, your second semester grade from Algebra II, and what you ate for dinner last Friday night.

Happy birthday, Michael. This is your special day.

No, I reply somewhat smugly. It’s not. Tomorrow is my birthday. Not today. Now I feel ever so much better. Mister Unimportant (which is, after all, what he said his name was) however, seems a bit shaken.

I… I don’t understand, he stammers. And if I didn’t know better I’d swear the color was fading from his eyes. Today is not your birthday? Are you quite sure?

Yeah. Quite. It’s tomorrow. Trust me.

Well, this is noticeably irregular. How awkward.

Oh well. Maybe we can try again tomorrow. Careful, or this loony-toon might actually think you’re serious. Hey, better yet, how about next year? Next year I’ll be forty. And that is one of those milestone birthdays, you know? The big four-oh.

The loon shakes his head. No, it’s too late now. The cerebrum underflow is already harvested and postulated, the paperwork has all been initialed and misplaced. Do you understand what I’m saying? The coasters are already under the glasses.

I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. Nor do I care. It’s not my problem. No, my problem, as I stare at the numeral 6 on the overhead display, is that two gerbils in a treadmill are apparently supplying the power to this elevator. And possibly one of them has died. And the other is still in mourning. And if I’m lucky just maybe I’ll be able to get off this elevator before my birthday actually arrives.

Well, it’s almost your special day, Michael, the loon announces cheerily. Apparently he’s come to rather swift terms with his oh so awkward blunder. And so this day I bring you a gift of great wonder. A ticket to forgotten dreams. A doorway to everywhere and yet nowhere. A most magical madness indeed.

I say thank you somewhat absently as I’m trying to use mental willpower to force those digital numbers to change faster.

You have no interest in this gift I bring? he asks.

No, no, I’m fascinated, really. Up elevator, the general concept is up.

You are skeptical, of course. That is only natural.

It goes without saying. Now if only this nutcase would do the same. C’mon elevator, move your sorry ass. Move my sorry ass. Move something.

Michael, I need you to pay attention.

He lays a hand on my arm, and before I can offer my opinion on the wisdom of removing that hand with great haste, something rips through me. Wham. Like a sudden jolt of jagged white lightning. Bam. Nerves on edge in sensory overload. No thank you, ma’am.

I collapse against the side wall of the elevator and cling to the handrail because I’m weak, and quivering, and gasping for breath, and I think an inordinate number of my major bones are currently either missing or well into the final stages of emulsification.

Perhaps now we’ll see a noticeable improvement in your interest level, the kid says with a sly grin, and then begins to giggle like a fool.

And what is up with his eyes because they certainly didn’t look like that before and those must be colored contacts because nobody could naturally have eyes that shade of electric blue but when did he have time to put contacts in his eyes and what the hell just happened to me anyway?

My, that was fun, loon boy exhales at the end of his giggle fest. Now, shall we try this again?

I’m beginning to regain some control of my senses, but I’m afraid coherent speech might still be a stretch so I just nod weakly.

Listen carefully, Michael. Listen and believe. Now, tell me, what do you see here?

I try to focus and follow the path of his pointed finger. I draw a deep breath and swallow, preparing to try out my tongue. The elevator control panel.

Yes, yes it is. But more specifically, Michael, there’s something different about it now. There, do you see?

No, I don’t see. It looks like a pretty typical elevator control panel to me. You know, a bunch of plastic buttons with numbers, a red emergency plunger, graffiti initials KM crudely scratched into the fake brass faceplate.

He steps closer to the panel and points again, with a little more emphasis and a lot more precision. Right here, Michael. Here. Button number thirteen.

Well, I have to admit it. The guy is absolutely right. No point trying to deny it. I mean, there it is, right there, right between the twelve and the fourteen. Button number thirteen. And this is a big whoop because… what? I mean, I’m trying, I am really trying, but I fail to see anything vaguely remarkable about this. I don’t know, maybe I’m missing something. Maybe I should pretend to be impressed anyway. But right now I just don’t think I could pull it off.

The thirteenth floor is for you and you alone, Michael. No one else can see that button. Only you. No one else can use that button. Only you. This elevator will stop on the thirteenth floor only for you. Only you will be able to visit the thirteenth floor.

What is this crap? I am aware that many buildings, maybe even most buildings, do not have a floor actually numbered or officially decreed as the thirteenth. Okay, fine. But obviously this building does. I’m sure that button has always been there.

Right?

Oh hell, honestly, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never had any reason to look for it before. Besides I can’t really think straight because my head is still feeling a little fuzzy from the shock treatment.

But this gift is not a permanent one, Michael. These wonders will not be here forever. And this is where we’re going to have to improvise a little now. He gives me a wink, which only calls more attention to his now lemon yellow eyes. Usually we do this for seven days, starting with your birthday. Except we have this irregularity here. Now, I could just throw today in as a bonus and give you seven days from tomorrow. But that would make a total of eight days. And eight is simply not an appropriate number. No, it is not. So I suppose we’ll have to make it nine. Which will stretch the subdural continuum very thin. Which may cause a noticeable portion of the eastern seaboard to disintegrate. But probably no more than a five percent chance, so I say we go for it. So nine days it is. Nine is a good number. A mystical number. Very sensual. And odd, of course. We certainly want an odd number, yes?

Of course. Everything else is certainly odd, why should the number be any different?

All right, it’s settled then. Your passport to the thirteenth floor will be here for nine short days. Or perhaps nine long days. Or perhaps four short days and five long days. Or perhaps… well, you get the idea. That part’s up to you. But when that button is gone, it’s gone forever. Probably. I do hate to proclaim absolutes. But it’s really, really about as close to absolute as you can get. Do you understand? You have nine days. What day is today?

Thursday, the twenty-fourth, I supply, and then add, Of April. I almost include the year but I’m not sure I want to be the one to tell him if he doesn’t already know.

All right. This button, and the portal it provides, will cease to exist precisely when the thirty-second day of April draws to an end. Almost positively forever.

Oh, great. I’ll be sure to mark that on my calendar. April 32. Last chance to visit the thirteenth floor. Christ, what do they teach kids in school these days? What is this, the new metric calendar?

All that remains now, Michael, is to push the button. Like so.

The elevator immediately stops. I glance up and, blink, the display above the door changes to number 13. At this point I don’t much care where we are. I’m edging toward the door. Because as soon as that damn thing opens I am out of here.

But when I realize the young man has turned away from the door and is facing backward I glance over my shoulder just in time to see a diagonal seam forming in the rear wall of the elevator, quickly spreading from upper to lower corner. The completed seam widens and the two halves slide apart revealing an inky black void. Tendrils of thick gray mist curl gently into the car near the floor and the sound of distant thunder rumbles from the impenetrable darkness.

This is insane. I mean, it’s real, except it can’t be. It has to be some sort of elaborate hoax. But why? And I turn to ask… and surprise, surprise. The loon is gone. Well, of course he is. Whatever else would you possibly expect? I spin around a couple of times but it doesn’t help. It’s an elevator. Doesn’t exactly offer a lot of hiding places. Nobody here but me. Just me and the gateway to the Twilight Zone.

I briefly consider panic as a course of action but it seems rather pointless with no one here to panic for. Panic is basically a useless exercise when you’re alone. The essential concept behind panic is to communicate to another person… I am unable to cope at this moment with the prevailing conditions, do please step in and take over, won’t you?

So, with panic thus stricken, I figure I’m stuck with handling the situation calmly. I move to the control panel and stab the number 26 button once or twice or possibly thirty times. The back doors close with a whispery hush and the two sides meld into a solid wall again. The elevator begins to rise. Quickly. The gerbils have apparently received reinforcements. Or steroids. Blink. Blink. Blink. The floors speed past, just the way God and Otis intended, and within seconds stop on twenty-six.

The doors open. The normal doors. I step out quickly and turn to make sure the doors close securely and no one else gets out with me. Everything appears to be normal.

The most logical explanation is that the only abnormality here is me.

And this very well may be the case. I probably just failed to take proper notice of it before.

So what just happened here? I am tired. I didn’t sleep all that well last night. Hell, I haven’t had a really good night’s sleep in weeks. Did I nod off in the elevator and dream this whole scenario up? That’s a scary thought. I admit, I do tend to fantasize sometimes. It’s a rather humane way to kill time. But I’ve never blurred the line between reality and creative thinking before.

The entrance to Swift Enterprises Inc. is only a few paces from the elevators and as I approach I look for any telltale peculiarities in this familiar territory. Nothing. Reassuringly normal. This is where I work. True, it may be an empty, black void in its own right, but at least it pretends to be something else.

*

I know this is my office because my name is on a simulated wood plaque affixed to the outside of the door. Michael Allyss. Beyond that, it could be anybody’s office. There are no pictures of the family, no photographs of me with prominent people, no framed awards or diplomas, no certificates of dubious achievement, no personal knick-knacks cluttering the desktop. Nothing. This is not a demand of company policy. Every other office, every cubicle, desk and workstation has been accessorized and personalized by the individual who commands it. Even temps, hired for the briefest of stays, usually do something to mark their territory. Well, I’ve been with this company for twelve years. And spent the last four in this very office. I’d like to think the lack of personal adulteration is merely a reflection of my lack of personal connection to either this space or this job. But I realize it could also stem from a basic lack of personality. Which may explain why I generally prefer simply not to think about it at all.

Not thinking about it seems to be the theme for today. It’s been almost two hours since I closed my office door and told myself to forget about the elevator. Let it go. It was all just bullshit. A momentary aberration of an overworked mind and overactive imagination. Don’t think about it. Thinking about it, worrying over it, would be like admitting there might truly be something wrong with me.

I know some people say admitting you have a problem is half the battle. I disagree. If there’s no admission, there’s no problem. Battle over.

Unfortunately the decision to cast these thoughts aside is simply not getting any local grass root support. Constantly thinking about the desire and intention to not think about something is also a constant reminder of the thing you’re trying not to think about.

A small pile of paper lies on the desk in front of me. Printed on these pages are fuzzy black markings that I am futilely attempting to translate into comprehensible words. The writing, apparently, is Sanskrit. A language of which I have absolutely no understanding. Occasionally, if I try really hard I can tap into a higher level of mental acumen and see, briefly, that the writing is, in actuality, standard English. But then I start thinking in Sanskrit and the end result is the same. I can’t read this crap. I can’t concentrate.

When the door opens I almost welcome Paul’s interruption. Almost.

Paul Morris is the youngest person ever to snag a brass ring VP position with Swift. He’s only a junior VP, and as such just one of many, and he’s only responsible for one of the smaller divisions, but then he’s young and just getting started. No doubt Paul will continue to climb the ladder and probably become the youngest senior VP ever and eventually move all the way up to play with the big boys out on the big playground.

Well, yippee for him.

Paul is my boss. Paul is an asshole. It’s a toss-up which of those accomplishments I find more annoying, but there’s no question which is best suited to his innate skills.

Generally I make no attempt to hide my general distaste for the man, but as far as I can tell he either isn’t aware of it, or doesn’t care. Either choice seems equally plausible. Now I suppose many people might assume that my low regard for Paul stems primarily from the fact that he’s seven years younger, been with the company half as long, and yet he’s my boss. Well, insert buzzer sound here, because sorry, but that is incorrect. Truly, I don’t care about those things. They are inconsequential. Because Paul abounds with a vast and fertile panoply of far better reasons to cultivate my personal distaste and professional ill regard.

Paul is a manipulative, two faced, four flushed, half hearted, zero principled, chauvinistic, bigoted, ungrateful, inconsiderate, insincere, in absentia, egotistical, phony, back stabbing, double crossing, double standardizing, family privileged, power hungry, win at all costs, take no prisoners, kiss butt now, kick butt later, cover butt always, lie, cheat, steal, cop an attitude, cop a feel, promise them anything, what they don’t know, enough about you let’s talk about me, my shit don’t stink but your breath sure does kind of guy.

Just to name a few of his ‘dysfunctional trouble spots’ off the top of my head.

Of course, a great many of these same traits also seem to define the very essence of the corporate creaminess that he’s rapidly rising to the top with. Ironic, perhaps. Disgusting, definitely.

Hey, Mike, how about that BTR analysis? You got that ready?

Another reason to dislike Paul. He insists upon calling me Mike. My name is Michael.

Fortunately I finished the report he wants yesterday, because so far today I have managed to accomplish absolutely nothing. I locate the desired folder and slide it across the desk.

Excellent, Paul announces as he skims through the pages. Listen, buddy, could you do me another big favor? I’ve got a couple of projects that are hanging fire that I just have not been able to get around to. You know how it is, there’s only so many hours in the day. I hate to dump this on you, last minute and all, but this is important and it just won’t keep any longer. Could you push whatever else you’re on now to a back burner and whip these out for me? I’d really appreciate it.

Sure, I reply. As if there was truly a question involved. Paul frequently finds it hard to free up enough time to do any actual work. And since my day has so many more hours in it than his, well…

Excellent. I’ll need this stuff ready to go first thing Monday morning, okay?

Sure. Meaning I’ve got less than two full days to do something Paul’s probably been sitting on for two weeks, and is almost assuredly more than two days worth of work. Oh well. Not like I haven’t worked late and on weekends before. Besides, maybe it’s just the thing I need right now. Get my mind off this elevator nonsense.

No problem, I say. As if Paul cared one whit whether it was or not.

I always know I can count on you, buddy. You are the man. Paul pauses briefly to afford me the opportunity to humble myself in the effluence of his praise. I scratch the side of my nose and wait patiently.

Yeah, he adds eventually, uh, great. So, Sandie should be on her way over here as we speak. She’s been doing the scut work, you know? Pulling some materials together and prelim shit. It’s probably not much but at least it’s a start. I thought I’d let her fill you in on the details and help you get the ball rolling. I’ve really got to run anyway, he says, glancing at his watch and taking a few steps toward the door before stopping and turning. Hey, here’s an idea. Since Sandie’s already working on this it might make sense if we just traded our girls for a while. I’ll borrow Maggie for the next couple of days and you take Sandie. Paul breaks into a lascivious smirk and offers a sly wink. But you be careful and not let her become too much of a distraction, okay?

I know I’m expected to return the leer and share the innuendo, but I thoroughly scoured every page of the employee manual and embracing witless camaraderie was definitely not listed as part of my job description. And I’m quite sure my failure to do so is yet another of the many shortcomings that seriously hinder my prospects for upper level advancement.

I am curious about the true motive behind this suggested exchange of assistants, however.

Sandra Enihauer was hired about four months ago, instantly becoming the office’s favorite piece of eye candy and unchallenged sex goddess. Unquestionably, the young lady has an incredible body and is quite generous, some might even say downright philanthropic, in sharing it. Visually speaking, that is. Anything more than that is none of my concern or interest. But Sandra does tend to dress in such a way that showcases and fully optimizes the splendid quality of the featured product. She is also friendly, a bit flirtatious, and her general demeanor can come across as rather provocative sometimes. Chances are she’s been chased around an office or two in her time. How willing she is to get caught is another issue.

Being a married non-philanderer, I see little harm in admiring the fox as long as the hounds are kept at bay.

Paul, on the other hand, is single and definitely fully involved in the hunt. He made Sandra his personal assistant, and generally keeps her either close at hand to monopolize her attention or saddled with enough simple tasks and personal errands to prevent her from mingling overmuch with the other male employees. The office grapevine suggests that while Paul may have initiated a goodly number of quick wind sprints, he has yet to come anywhere near a capture, yet remains doggedly determined and still openly discouraging toward all other competition.

And that’s precisely what makes it so odd for him to suddenly drop this prized morsel in my lap. Granted, he likely does not see me as posing much of a threat, but regardless there’s still something inherently wrong with this picture.

Oh, by the way, Paul says ever so innocently. Reynolds is flying in tomorrow morning. We’ll be upstairs for the most part, but he would like you to join us for lunch.

Oh? And the morsel dropping mystery is thus solved.

Mr. Reynolds is coming here. Clive Reynolds, from the New York home office; a man well known for his conservative, no nonsense, Religious Right attitudes. Paul simply wants to put a little distance between himself and the sexy vixen, and allow someone else, namely me, appear to be the lecherous old goat.

Anything I should know about? I ask.

No, not really. We can talk about it later.

Translation: Yes, really. And we’ll talk about it if and when I decide it best serves my purposes to do so. Yet another of my stumbling blocks on the road to corporate nirvana. I can understand the lingo but I have trouble speaking it.

Sandra interrupts at that moment, opening the door and striking a pose.

Paul, did you want to see me?

Paul sighs. You know I always do.

She rolls her eyes playfully. Oh, you.

Oh, me indeed, Paul says with another exaggerated sigh. Sandie, you’re going to work with Mike for the next couple of days while he’s on those projects I talked to you about earlier. You stick close and give him whatever help he needs, okay?

Sandra makes this particular utterance, one she uses frequently, that I suppose can only be articulated as uh huh. Except that hardly begins to do it proper justice. Because Sandra’s uh huh is unlike any uh huh I’ve ever heard. It is a soft moan of a sound that really needs to be spelled with about five or six m’s and best administered in the presence of flickering candlelight and satin sheets.

Paul pauses on his way out, turning to appraise Sandra’s backside.

Now, you make sure he keeps his nose to the grindstone, he tells her.

A quizzical look passes over Sandra’s face. Uh huh.

I realize this is the first time I have ever been completely alone with Ms. Enihauer. I am surprised that I never noticed before how tall she is. She’s tall. Very tall. Good lord, she must be, oh, at least seven feet tall. And almost all of it legs. Very tall, smooth, shapely tan legs. Long, long legs, highly visible beneath her short tight skirt. A very short tiny little skirt with a provocative slit up one side. A very provocative slit that slices way up there on one side. And I know I should not be staring so obviously at that slit. Or even at the legs in general. I should be looking her in the eye and saying something work related now but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Not that I am at a loss for words, no, it’s just that I have this absolute certainty that no matter what comes out of my mouth right now it’s going to come out sounding lusty.

Sandra is waiting, looking at me expectantly.

Am I supposed to be getting information on grindstones? she asks.

Ah, yes. Did I neglect to mention that Sandra is not perhaps the sharpest tack in the box? She means well, and she tries hard, and I’m sure she’s doing the best she can. But she just doesn’t belong here. I assume Paul was somehow involved in her hiring, and it obviously was not in consideration of her superior office skills or mental acumen.

Sandra’s question on grindstones does prove to be an invaluable aid in the adjustment of my personal perspective. She immediately shrinks to a far less formidable stature, which in turn makes her skirt grow a bit in proportion. Not much, but at least a little. Okay, she is an attractive woman. So what? I assure her that no grindstone research is necessary and it does not come out sounding the least bit lustful. We spend a few minutes going over the details of Paul’s projects and exactly what’s been done so far. I give her a list of additional materials I want, plus throw in a few extra tasks that I figure will keep her busy and out of my hair for the rest of the day. Unlike Maggie, I don’t think Sandra would be of any real help to have around.

And then I’m ready to tackle the job, almost looking forward to it in fact. Sandra however is still lingering, looking sheepish.

Yes, I ask.

I’m sorry, but I was wondering what I should call you. Mr. Allyss, or Mike?

Actually, I’d prefer Michael. Okay?

Uh huh, she says, and then smiles. And thank you. I think you’re the only person here who doesn’t call me Sandie.

Well, you know how our Paulie is, always trying to bolster the self esteem of his underlings and make us all feel comfortable.

That elicits a small a giggle. But still no departure.

Is there something else? I ask.

I heard someone say tomorrow is your birthday.

Uh, well yes, it is.

I know I haven’t been here very long, but there’s usually a little party on birthdays. You know? But Paul said we can’t do that tomorrow.

Yeah. No big deal. There are some other things going on tomorrow.

I know. Mr. Reynolds is coming in from New York. Paul told me not to talk to him.

Ouch, that’s a bit sad. Well, Mr. Reynolds is one of big heads in this company, Sandra. He’s a busy man. And he tends to frown on things like office parties. And frown on just about everything else as far as I can tell. Except maybe a good quarterly earnings report. That would probably warrant at least a grin, right?

I just don’t think it’s very fair, that’s all. Everyone else gets something. A cake. Or maybe balloons. It’s your special day.

And that phrase just reminds me of the loon in the elevator. And I don’t want to be reminded of that. I really don’t mind, Sandra. Honestly. It’s no big deal.

And it truly isn’t. I don’t care. I find the office shindigs a bit awkward actually. I come here to do my job and accept a bit of monetary compensation. That’s all. I mean, I do have some excellent working relationships here, but nothing really much more than that. Maggie and I have worked together closely for a number of years, and I do consider her a friend, but we don’t socialize outside of the office.

Sandra is looking at me like I’m some poor, lost puppy caught out in the rain. I’m sorry I brought it up, she says, apparently unconvinced of my lack of concern.

Now I feel like I need to cheer her up. It’s all right. I’m sure I’ll be having a big birthday bash at home tomorrow night. Now that’s a lie.

Of course, she says with a weak smile. With your wife.

There’s something oddly melancholic about the way she delivers those last words that bothers me. And I don’t want to be bothered anymore.

We should get to work now, Sandra. We have a lot to do.

Uh huh. She moves to the door and pauses. You have a lot to do. I guess I do too. There’re always so many things we should be doing. Except we’re always too busy doing something else. It doesn’t seem right, does it?

Whoa. Was that supposed to be some sort of profound philosophical statement? Oh my, Socrates, what big breasts you have. All the better to make you see my point, dear. And that was certainly uncalled for I suppose. Sorry, but I guess I just don’t care to hear any gems of wisdom issuing forth from this person. I don’t want to consider the idea that Sandra might be deeper or more perceptive than I’ve given her credit for.

Somehow that would be really disturbing.

*

I take a late lunch. I know I’ll be working late so I’m just adjusting lunchtime closer to the middle of my anticipated workday. At least that’s my official rationale. And it is partly true. But the other part, the part where I’m postponing lunch simply because I want to avoid the getting anywhere near the elevators, well, that part I’m pretending not to know about.

I push the elevator call button and my timing must be spot on because a door opens almost immediately. Two people are already inside the car and after a quick glance to verify that the lobby button is lit I step to a back corner and lock my gaze firmly on the floor three feet in front of me.

Forget about it, I tell myself, ignore the urge. Do not be a complete fool and an utter asshole. It doesn’t work. I am a complete fool and utter asshole. My eyes rise slowly and wander to examine the control panel. There is no button number thirteen.

Okay, fine. That’s that. End of story. Now maybe I can forget about it.

*

And it isn’t until I’m chewing my first bite of food that it hits me. I wasn’t in the right elevator. Or more correctly, I was in the right elevator and that was wrong. This morning’s encounter took place in the center elevator. Left side, center car. That's where the loon said the button would be. That elevator. Not whichever one happens to show up first. Shit, I took the wrong elevator. How stupid.

And then I start to feel really angry with myself. Not because I took the wrong elevator. No, I’m angry because I’m still treating this crap as if it were real. Talk about stupid. This elevator, that elevator, what difference does it make? It didn’t happen. Get over it already.

*

So, on the way back to the office after lunch the three of us… me, the fool, and the asshole… we all decide to get over it already by waiting for the right elevator. Well, of course. We ignore the arrival of two other elevators. We wait. And then it comes. Our elevator. Left side, center. Two women disembark and we enter and stand before our control panel.

And the fool and the asshole suddenly bail out on me.

Button number thirteen.

That can’t be right.

A messenger in bike gear slips inside just before the doors close. I hit the 26 quickly and step back out of his way. I close my eyes, massage them firmly with thumb and forefinger, and look again. The button is still there. Shit. The idea was to put a cap on this delusion. Not validate it.

Two women board on five, exit on seven. The bike messenger leaves on nineteen. The button refuses to go away.

Why are you doing this to me? I ask.

No one answers. I suppose I should take that as a positive sign.

Returning to my office it takes only a few minutes and one phone call to confirm what I’m already sure is true. There is no thirteenth floor in this building. Officially speaking of course. That number is simply skipped over for the usual superstitious reasons. Eleven, twelve, fourteen, fifteen.

I feel tired. Bone weary, blood drained, concrete poured in my skull tired. So I gather files and escape to the monotony of work for relief.

*

It’s only a quarter to seven when I leave the office. Paul’s projects are actually coming together a lot faster than anticipated so I see no reason to make a longer night of it. No one is near the elevators when I arrive. I push the call button and wait. The left car arrives first and I ignore it, wait until it is summoned elsewhere, and press the call button again. The center car arrives. One man inside, who looks tired and leans heavily against the handrail near the control panel. The lobby button is already lit. I move to the back of the car and stare at the numbered buttons.

Excuse me, I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. Could you press thirteen for me, please?

His hand rises slightly and then hovers.

There isn’t any thirteen, he announces with a note of irritation.

Oh. Sorry. My mistake.

The man favors me with a short glare. Probably wondering if I also phone shopkeepers and ask if they have Prince Albert in a can. Obviously he doesn’t see the button. I know, the loon told me no one else would see it. But it’s something else to see it in action. Or inaction.

"So what floor do you want?" the man asks.

The lobby is fine, thank you.

Upon arrival, I remain inside and cross to the panel as soon as the man exits. I doubt he even notices. Or cares.

All right. This is it. I touch the button lightly. I feel the cool, smooth plastic against the skin of my finger. Certainly seems real enough. I push and the button depresses slightly and illuminates in pale milky white. The doors close and I retreat to the rear of the car as it begins to rise, and then I remember and reverse the process so I’m in front facing the back wall. The car stops and a diagonal seam forms and splits the wall into a door again.

Up until this very moment I had been maintaining the attitude of an intrigued but detached observer of some bizarre scientific experiment. My actions were primarily governed by the call of curiosity and the quest for understanding. But now, looking into that ominous black void once again, the governing monarchy in my head is suddenly encountering strong resistance from the combined rebel forces of caution, apprehension and pure unmitigated fear. The attempted coup is not successful, however it does result in the formation of a new two party democracy with curiosity momentarily retaining majority rule.

I gently probe the darkness with one finger.

The finger disappears from sight, as though it had been sliced from my hand. I jerk back quickly and examine it, assuring myself that it’s intact and unharmed. Okay.

In fact, I think there was actually a rather pleasant tingling sensation when my finger was in there.

I slide one foot forward and slowly put weight on it. There seems to be solid footing on the other side. And the unseen portion of my leg is definitely tingling. And it feels good. Really good. My leg is thoroughly enjoying this and begins to issue subliminal messages- ‘hey, knee, you need to bend over and get some of this.’ And the knee apparently agrees and passes the message along- ‘hey, thigh, c’mon, give it a try.’

Might as well just give in and go for it. I take a deep breath and step forward. Oh… Big tingle. Great big, all encompassing, inside out, massaging, vibrating, oh sweet mama tingle. Reduced to primeval mentality tingle. Is good. Og like. Everything dissolves. Nothing else exists. Nothing but this incredible, circulating, pulsating, if it don’t stop pretty soon I’m gonna die but enjoy it anyway tingle.

And then it does stop. The whole thing probably only lasted for a matter of seconds but it seemed longer. Shit damn. As far as I’m concerned, there needn’t be anything else. I mean, that was worth the price of admission right there.

I open my eyes, unaware of having closed them. The blackness has been replaced by a thick gray fog that is rapidly dissipating.

I’m in a large, dimly lit room. Well, huge might be a better word. Or maybe immense. It’s hard to say for sure. The ceiling is about twenty-five feet overhead, and there’s a wall right behind me, but the other three walls are so far away I can’t even see them.

What I can see are boxes. Thousands upon thousands of brown cardboard boxes, stacked to a height of about fifteen feet and stretching endlessly to the left and right and also straight ahead down a five-foot wide aisle in front of me. Millions of boxes may be a more accurate count.

On the wall directly behind me is what appears to be a standard elevator door and beside it one unmarked button. I assume the exit.

Now, I hadn’t really given much thought to any expectations here, but if I had I’m pretty sure this wouldn’t have been in the running. Not even close. And I must admit it’s a bit of a letdown. I mean, what is this anyway, the fantasyland warehouse?

Slowly, I begin to walk down the aisle, examining the wall of anonymous brown surfaces around me. The boxes vary in size, but most appear to be cubes ranging from 24 to 36 inches a side. Plain, unmarked cardboard boxes. My footsteps echo slightly as I walk down the aisle. So, this is the wondrous thirteenth floor. Gee, can I stand the excitement? Oh well, I did say the tingle was worth the trip.

I’m about twenty feet down the aisle when something catches my eye. A box to my left, just above eye level, with words stenciled on the side in inch high, black letters:

WHAT DID YOU EXPECT

Ironic, I suppose. What did I expect? Shangri-La? March hares and Cheshire cats to go along with Michael Allyss in Wonderland? I don’t know.

I didn’t really expect anything, I mutter to myself. Just something more than this.

Okay, maybe I’m not altogether just talking to myself, all right? Maybe I’m answering the box. Big deal. I also sometimes talk to animals, insects, infants, people on television, car alarms, radios, computers, and the occasional small household appliance. So what? Don’t we all from time to time?

Turning back to the center of the aisle I notice more printing on a box to my right. How did I not see that before?

BUT THIS IS EVERYTHING

I stare at this for a few seconds while an odd sensation begins to creep over me. I swing back to the left. The first stenciled message is gone. Nothing but blank cardboard. Swing back to the right and stare at the second message a few seconds more.

Is somebody in here?

No one answers. No one giggles mischievously.

Come on. The joke’s over.

Nothing.

Who’s in here? I call out, feeling an uncomfortable mix of anger, embarrassment, and a little fear. I turn slowly, looking for any sign of movement. A new message has appeared.

NOBODY BUT US BOXES

Okay. Let’s reevaluate the subject of expectations.

Obviously there’s more here than meets the eye. A hint of the fantastic, in an absurd sort of way. An incredibly large room filled with an equally incredible number of boxes. Not exactly the stuff dreams are made of, although the talking aspect does add a certain charm. And cardboard or not, these are boxes. Containers. Who says a treasure chest has to be made of precious metal and gemstones? So, what do the boxes contain? Well, they’ve already answered that, haven’t they. Everything.

I tap on the side of a couple of boxes with my knuckle. They sound hollow, but that could be deceiving.

Extracting a box from the stack is not as simple a task as you might think. The boxes are packed together so tightly and so precisely that there’s nothing to get a good grip on. I’m trying to work my fingertips between two boxes, pushing and jiggling to create a space, when a small box from above tumbles down, bounces off the top of my head and falls to the floor. Not exactly the intended plan, but a success of sorts.

I pick up the box. It’s a twelve-inch cube, considerably smaller than any of the other boxes I’ve yet seen. It’s almost weightless and makes no sound when shaken. Either empty or full of feathers. Of course, since it did just smack me on the top of the head, I suppose this is a blessing. I turn the box and examine it thoroughly. No flaps, no lid, no seams, no discernible top or bottom. How the hell are you supposed to open this thing? Obvious answer, you aren’t. So, now I’m back to square one. If I’m not supposed to open the boxes, what am I supposed to do with them? Stand here and chat?

This time I see the dark letters as they materialize and take form on the surface of the box in my hands.

COULDNT HURT

The absurdity quotient just took a sharp upturn. This is ridiculous. I’m probably still in bed, dreaming, and the alarm will go off any second now.

Something compels me to rotate the box to reveal a different side.

CONSIDER YOURSELF PINCHED

Great. And of course I should take… Ah, Christ. What am I doing? I can’t believe I’m actually standing here talking to a box.

HOW DO YOU THINK I FEEL TALKING TO A HUMAN

I have a brief but powerful impulse to toss the box and run like hell. But I don’t do it. I’d like to say sanity prevails but I’m not sure that would be appropriate.

Okay, I say calmly. Tell me, please, why should I talk to a box?

BECAUSE YOU WANT TO

I see. Well, I might tend to disagree, but, just for the sake of argument, let’s say that, unbeknownst to me, I have been harboring a burning desire to converse with cardboard. Right. So, you’ve taken it upon yourself to accommodate me, is that what you’re saying?

YOU BETCHA

How thoughtful of you. And will you also be fulfilling any other desires I might have? For instance, I’d dearly love to see a big old pile of money materialize right here. Let’s say, oh, five million dollars. Small, unmarked bills. Non-consecutive serial numbers. You probably know the drill. I’d really like that a lot.

NO YOU WOULDNT

Well, to be honest, that’s probably true. I don’t really care all that much about money. Still, I’m pretty sure it would rank higher on my wish list than a talking box. Besides, it’s more a matter of principle now.

Sure, I say. That’s always the way it works, isn’t it? Give ‘em a talking box, no problem. But a little cold cash, now that’s another story altogether. Hey, this is my fantasy. Indulge me.

INDULGE YOURSELF

Hey, watch it. I’m not sure I know exactly what it meant by that comment, but it certainly sounded a little nasty.

WHY ARE YOU HERE

I don’t know. Curiosity. I wanted to see what was here. I wanted to see if anything was here. Christ, I wanted to know if I was going insane or not.

NOT

Oh, well, that certainly does ease my mind. When they strap me into the white jacket and throw me in the padded cell I’ll be sure to tell them it’s all a big mistake. I’m not crazy. A box told me so. I don’t know why I…

The box issues a vibratory interruption.

OH SHUT UP AND TELL ME WHAT YOU REALLY WANT

I start to strike back with something sarcastic, but curb myself and attempt to consider the question seriously. What do I want? What is the stuff of fantasy that I seek? I don’t know. I got nothing. Nothing. My mind is blank.

The box begins to move up and down in my hands, as if nodding vigorously.

GOT IT

Got what? What are you, reading my mind? Well, I didn’t even think of anything. What could you possibly get?

WHAT YOU WANT

Okay. The box can talk. And maybe read minds. So why shouldn’t it also have deep, soul searching, subconscious tapping talents as well? What? Were you thinking perhaps this was just your average, ordinary talking box?

So, tell me, what do I want?

THATS ENOUGH FOR TODAY

I stare at these words for a moment. What do you mean, enough? We’re just getting started here.

NO WERE DONE

I don’t think so. We are not done.

WANNA BET

Wait a minute, wait a minute. This isn’t right. It isn’t fair. Look, I’m in a place that supposedly doesn’t really exist. And I’m having a conversation with a box. Now, whether you realize it or not, these are not the typical sort of activities I do every day, so excuse me if I’ve been a little slow on the uptake. Or if I’ve done anything wrong. All in all I think I’m handling it rather well.

NOT BAD

Thank you. So, why are we done now? Seems to me we’re right on the verge of something important, and now suddenly you’re pulling the plug. Come on, talk to me. What do I want?

MAYBE LATER

Later? Maybe later? Why not now?

YOUR HEAD ISNT READY YET

Oh, bull. That’s a cop-out. What makes you think my head isn’t ready?

When I rotate the box, the letters I find are larger and printed in red instead of black.

FRAGILE

Oh, that’s real cute. Regular little comedian, aren’t you? You… you… No, I refuse to start trading insults with a cardboard box. Especially since I have no friggin’ idea what constitutes an insult for a cardboard box. Of course I’m not too keen on the idea of losing a battle of wits with a cardboard box either. You know what? I don’t believe you. You don’t have any idea what it is I want. Any more than I do.

DO SO

Yeah? Well, come on, then, tell me. Give me a hint, okay? Just a hint.

ITS NOT A PINK CADILLAC OR A DATE WITH KATY COURIC

That’s your idea of a hint? Excuse me for being somewhat less than impressed, won’t you? Surely you can come up with something better than that.

HOWS THIS GOODBYE YALL COME BACK AGAIN SOON HEAR

You’ve got to be kidding me. Why should I come here again? For your amusement? Listen, I don’t need this kind of frustration. Okay? And if you think that’s what I want, trust me, you’re way off base.

I turn the box, expecting to find another wisecrack or oblique comment. Nothing. I continue turning, checking every surface. Nothing. Blank. I look at the other boxes trying to plead my case. They too remain silent.

What? Is that it? Time’s up. The boxes are done, class dismissed, be a good boy and run along now. Is that the idea? Forget it. I’m not leaving. I’ll just stay right here until you decide to start talking to me again. I’m in no hurry.

Silence. Staring at the small box, with quick furtive peeks at the others. God, I feel so stupid. I stubbornly maintain this vigil for a good forty seconds.

All right, all right, I’ll go. Just answer, like, two more quick questions first, okay? And then I’ll go. Promise. Come on, two more questions. One question. Nothing. If I come back later are you going to tell me what it is I want then? Still nothing.

Box, I coo sweetly, raising the contrary little cube up to my face. Tell me, please, what is it you want?

I don’t know how a cardboard box can manage to look smug, but this one does.

Talk. Now. Pressing my palms hard against the sides of the box. I’m beginning to lose my patience here. This fragile head may crack and things could get real ugly in here. You understand what I’m saying?

I sense something. Not sure what, but something. Maybe I’m on the right track.

I lay the box on the floor and slowly raise my foot into a prepared for stomp position. I pause, waiting for some signal of surrender. It’s all a big bluff, but I hope the box doesn’t realize that. Yes, I’m frustrated, but for crying out loud, I could never actually go through with this little charade. Christ, it would be like stomping on