Call Your Floor, Please
The Natterby was an old fashioned multistory office building with a high-ceilinged lobby that occupied more than half of the ground floor. Four large planters of palms and regularly replaced flowering chrysanthemums marked the corners of the open space and were the only impediments to your view or your progress across the terrazzo-floored expanse. A bench on each side of each square planter provided the only seating in the lobby. Doors provided access from the street on two adjacent glass-walled sides. The third side was a solid wall of polished marble. A bank of elevators, a group of payphones at each end, the base of a staircase, and two doors and a hall providing access to the offices at the rear of this level made up most of the fourth side.
The Natterby was also old fashioned in having elevator operators and an official Elevator Starter in charge of keeping things moving efficiently. The starter, Sam Smith, had a stand with a phone and space to store papers a few feet from the large office directory board so that he could be the information person as part of his duties.
Smith was in the habit of moving around behind the closest planter when he wanted to be as inconspicuous as his dark red with gold braid trim uniform jacket would allow. Since he was short and had a boyish look despite his thirty plus years he struck many as someone who had become separated from his high school band. Sometimes he was happy enough to go along with the youthful illusion but many times he worked at emphasizing his maturity and authority.
At the moment he was standing by the planter just watching. It was mid-morning and the traffic through the lobby was light He waited until hefty middle-aged Calvin Coolridge waddled over and had a minute to study the office directory before he made himself obvious.
“Yes, sir. Can I help you find something?”
“Oh hi. I’m trying to locate a Mister Simpson, Jonathan B. Simpson. I have an appointment but I’m not clear on whether I’m supposed to meet him here in the lobby or up in his office. In fact I’m not sure where his office is. I can never remember names, especially company names. I only remember his name because I have it written down.” He waved an official looking envelope at Smith and then put it away again.
“Mr. Simpson’s a tricky one. He really gets annoyed if people aren’t prompt for appointments with him but once in a while he plays games and tries to avoid somebody he doesn’t care to meet even when he had agreed to it earlier.”
“Actually that’s part of my problem,” Coolridge explained. “I called the number I have for him and the male secretary or whoever answered said Mr. Simpson would meet me but then he hung up without saying where. I called right back there was no answer.”
“That sounds like him. A nice man, you understand, but peculiar. Actually I’m pretty sure I saw him go out a while ago.”
“So he’s not even here?”
“I don’t think so but if you want to find a seat off to the side there I’ll be glad to point him out to you when he comes through the lobby. I owe him one for skimping on my holiday tip.”
“Fine. I’d really appreciate it. Just give me a wave and point to him and I’ll take it from there. You don’t need to be involved.”
“That’d be perfect,” Smith said.
They moved off in opposite directions.
A ping announced the arrival of Elevator One. Its door opened and Maybelline Marshall, the operator, looked out. Seeing no one nearby she called quietly, “Thirteenth floor. Ladies lingerie, farm implements, and explosive devices. Please step to the rear of the car.” She let out a hearty laugh, then wondered aloud, “Now why can’t I bring myself to do that when the place is crowded?”
“Because I’d fire you if you did,” Smith said stepping to where she could see him.
“Oops! I didn’t see you hiding there, Mr. Smith.”
“But you should know I’m always here, Maybelline. Since they pay me to be traffic director for the elevators I try to keep an eye on the comings and goings.”
Marshall muttered to herself, “And the goings-on as we all well know.”
The call light blinked on and a chime sounded. She said, “I’d really love to stay and chat, Mr. Smith, but someone on twelve wants down. That is of course if I have your permission to go, Mr. Official Elevator Starter. Oh, and here’s a customer that needs a lift right now.”
A man pushing a rack of brightly colored dresses and checking his watch as he hurried along rushed to the elevators.
Smith waved Marshall on her way and then continued the gesture into a hearty wave of greeting for his boss who strode across the lobby trying to looking important.
The boss leaned close and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Sam, this is most urgent.”
“Sure, Mr. Frump.”
“Do you know Jonathan Simpson?”
“Sure, Mr. Frump.”
“He’s the one who’s office manager for Economic Limited.”
“Sure, Boss. I know who you’re talking about.”
“Tallish sort of fellow. Usually wears a hand-painted silk tie.”
“Sure, Boss. I know the guy.”
The door of Elevator Three opened and several attractive young women emerged and walked across the lobby chatting. Frump’s eyes were glued on them and for a moment his brain had no room for any other thoughts.
When the women disappeared out the door onto the street Frump realized with a start that he had become distracted but he wasn’t sure about the details. He said, “Okay, I’ll expect you to take care of that then. We’re both depending on you. We want to keep our tenants happy.”
“Uh, Mr. Frump…”
“But remember this is all mum. Talk could be embarrassing. This might even be illegal for all I know.”
Smith whispered, “Uh, Mr. Frump…”
Frump whispered back, “Don’t whisper, Sam. People will think I must be telling you secrets.”
“But you haven’t, sir?”
“Of course I haven’t. Except of course just between us.”
“No, I mean you didn’t tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
“About what?”
“About Mr. Simpson.”
“Shh! For crying in a bucket, Sam. That’s a secret. It was never said.”
“Exactly, sir. You never said it. You really never said it. So I have no idea what it’s about.”
Frump was confused. “Really?”
“Word of honor,” Smith said crossing his heart.
“I didn’t tell you there will probably be a process server around looking for Jonathan Simpson to give him a subpoena that would wreck his vacation plans so he wants to avoid that fellow and you’re to use whatever clever devices you can come up with to keep them apart? I didn’t tell you that?”
“No, but you don’t need to now since I know what I need to know.”
“Great, Then I really didn’t tell you. Remember, mum’s the word, I knew we could depend on you, Sam,”
“Right you are, Mr. Frump.”
Frump signaled Marshall who has arrived. He entered her elevator with a confident smile and they ascended.
Smith looked over to where Calvin Coolridge waited and said to himself, “I think maybe I blew it. If Frump is involved I’ll take it in the neck if Simpson’s vacation is ruined. If Frump weren’t involved it’d be sweet revenge on that cheap sucker Simpson. I’ll have to see what happens.”
Squirrel Bait and Other Stories Page 7