The Hidden Back Room

by Jason A. Wyckoff

  I think he was done then, but seeing my dark face, he lifted his bottle in toast.

  ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘intent is nine-tenths of the law.’

  My knees knocked against the table and my body pitched in some way that I flew free from the booth and slammed against the wooden rafters. The heat roiled through every fibre; my body felt not my own, not even contiguous—as though it was made up of a million hungry flies swarming over my bones. I saw Roger below me, mouth agape. I saw others react; all were startled, but I heard only one scream—then. Many of the patrons watched as though privy to an impromptu display of ‘street magic’, as though programmed to expect such a thing by video clips they’d watched on the internet. None saw what I saw: distorted versions of themselves twisting from their bodies, pulled by nearly discernible monstrous shadows, protomorphic flying masses that clawed at their screeching souls. Not all were so afflicted; probably less than half present. Some snapped free in an instant, others wailed in torment interminably as their second bodies, twisted like taffy, clung with determined elasticity to their shells—like Roger’s.

  And then everything fell away. The roof above me split as though indulging my release. But I stayed where I was, no longer ascending, stuck fast in mid-air. Everyone else went down with the restaurant and the entire city block into the massive sinkhole that yawned beneath me. A multitude of screams was swallowed in the horrid crash of timber and concrete and the titanic rumble of shifting earth. The debris toppled to the centre, nothing higher than thirty feet below grade. Faint cries drifted in the dissipating columns of dust. I could not move, could not will myself down into the pit where I might help the injured who struggled under the dead.

  My ‘magic act’ was recorded, by several onlookers, and posted online. Most commentators dismissed the footage as a tasteless hoax, or a misidentification of a bundle of balloons, as other ‘flying men’ have been purported to be. I abruptly disappear in the footage, for which I cannot account; some ten minutes after the collapse I suddenly came loose of my ‘mooring’ and drifted as though shunted by the breeze. I descended and touched down without incident, out of view of the sinkhole. Some that do believe accuse me of practicing witchcraft—as flying and turning invisible are apparently ‘commonly’ demonstrated powers—and say that I am the cause of the disaster. Of the first part, I confess I am not sure. To the second part—for my sanity’s sake, I will not believe it.

  One fringe cable program actually managed to identify me, but I refused to talk to them—now, I think I might—and none of the ‘respectable’ media outlets would dignify the possibility of any flying man, much less maintain an interest in his identity. Therefore, I can only guess it was some vague embarrassment about me being at the scene (and surviving) rather than any belief in my flying or having any part in instigating the tragedy that led to my dismissal from my job.

  I cannot say I have been cursed with an unwanted gift. I clambered after my damnation—even if I am yet to understand my purchase. If I can change the course of events, then it is worth any price, but if I am to be only a witness, then I have haggled badly indeed.

  I am in Cody, Wyoming, just east of the Yellowstone caldera. I’ve been burning for three days now.

  COMFORTIDOR

  The very last part of acclimating to his first ‘real’ job, nearly three years from starting, was for Davis to accept that any day could be his last. He had watched as people came and went at what he’d thought was an alarming rate; at the mark when he felt comfortable with his own potential transience, he’d come to realise the frequency of turnover was normal, ‘the speed of business’, innocent of its own amorality, merely a state or measure of being. In its own tragically inevitable way, it was simply something about which he should not concern himself.

  So when the day came he was laid off, another decade on, Davis was not shocked or offended. He felt defeated and thought it a natural reaction; he also felt vaguely relieved at having lost the fight of employment, and he thought that reaction worrisome. He knew he must guard against the feeling taking root and growing as complacency. He must do two things—he must apply immediately for new employment, and/or he must make use of this time away from the rigmarole to analyse his own ambition with honesty and clarity.

  What were his aspirations, anyway?

  He had once thought he could have been a sculptor—or he had considered once he might have liked to have been a sculptor; he couldn’t remember which (and he was never quite sure how one ‘became’ a sculptor). He had taken an elective course in college and discovered he liked to sculpt wood. He enjoyed the process, and, as he generally liked the results, he took it to mean he had some modicum of talent. But it had been years since he’d tried to pull a shape from a log. He’d allow himself to drift in the dream for a few minutes a day (after he’d done the ‘real’ work of looking for a new job), but no more, as he considered it trite to indulge whims of neglected nascent creativity during a crisis—and anyway, he refused to call his situation a crisis.

  He was re-evaluating, that was all.

  Davis designated himself an ‘operational logistics coordinator’, a career he often struggled to describe without watching an expression of dubiousness invariably droop to a look of disinterest or, sometimes, disdain—among ‘civilians’, anyway. Anyone who had ever worked in an office environment seemed to understand intuitively exactly the position he occupied; none had asked him to elucidate. At his first two interviews after being let go, the interviewer had nodded his or her head and (both sexes) grunted acknowledgement. Though each seemed to understand, neither was sure the position was right for Davis, or vice versa. That was an aspect of a larger problem for his vocation—it was nearly impossible to identify from an advertisement whether his experience fit the requirements or expectations of the position for which he applied. Davis tried to not let this dissuade him from responding to some ‘outlying’ listings (cast a wide net, he thought), but his instincts invariably proved true, and responses to follow-up inquiries were unmercifully brief. Still, Davis knew there was a job out there for him somewhere, perhaps one just like the one he’d left (with a starting wage a little lower than what he’d received, but starting wages always were, he reasoned).

  He’d had other dreams, of course—other fancies, he might correct himself—of work that he might have liked (as opposed to fantasies, those things that played more often in his mind, but which explored paths he never considered accessible, like professional athlete or politician or spy) but which he could not seriously consider. Could Davis spend a month at a time alone in a Washington forest watching for fires, like Kerouac’s ‘Ray Smith’ in The Dharma Bums? Happily.

  But that was simply never going to happen.

  He could go back to school, of course, but towards what goal, he didn’t know. He didn’t mind the effort and he now had the time, but because he was unemployed the expense precluded the experiment, and so the pursuit was actually less likely at the juncture he found himself not beholden to other commitments. An entanglement evolving from an ascendency in his personal life—marriage, family—was similarly unreachable, and therefore undesirable. No, he must have a job.

  His dream job, if possible, whatever that was, but Davis was not particular. Above all else, he was still determined not to be moribund.

  But time went on without success. There were few listings worth responding to, few among those that Davis thought he had a good shot at, few applications where an inquiry led to an interview, and, at last, no offers. Davis began to wonder if perhaps he should become morose—as an exercise. Perhaps if he were self-indulgent and indolent for a short period, then he would hit the proverbial ‘rock bottom’, and find there his resolve and his inspiration. It was a short drop, but he didn’t know how to take the leap. His way was frustration, and frustration claws the ledge.

  One day, while walking around his neighbourhood for exercise, Davis chanced upon a freshly cut tree stump. The wood had been hauled away, save for a halo of chi
ps and one forgotten log a foot in diameter and half again as long. Davis recalled his atrophied dream of being a sculptor (which chased from his thoughts the menu of the restaurant he’d begun to plan). Davis looked around to see if anyone was watching, as though he contemplated a criminal act. Having determined there was no one to judge one way or the other, Davis picked up the log and took it back to his hovel.

  He set the log upright on the square, aluminium table in his kitchen and gazed at it reverently. Though newly-cut, the dead bark was already beginning to peel at the edges. Davis picked at one rough flake until it dropped away. He withdrew his hand and stared again at the log, thinking of what it might be. He soon fell fitfully asleep.

  In the morning he had a terrible crick in his neck, which, like the log, he had no time to give a thought to. He received a call for an interview at Anselm Metropolitan Life & Casualty.

  After an interview neither better nor worse than any other which had tallied a disappointment, Davis was shocked to be offered the job right there on the spot, starting Monday. At a slightly lower wage than he’d left, as expected.

  The offices of Anselm Metropolitan Life & Casualty were located in a reinvigorated district of the old city centre. They occupied the whole of a renovated building that once housed a casket factory built across the street from the old state prison (which provided ample custom). The converted factory space was the ‘foot’ of a boot; the ‘leg’ was a tall, new-built addition. Davis’s cubicle was last in a row of five squeezed into a long alcove, across a hallway from a supply room which he managed and a conference room he never had cause to enter. As he had at his previous job, Davis spent much of his time verifying that the reality within the office corresponded in some meaningful way to the abstract of the numbers in front of him, and that various requests were forwarded on to the appropriate personnel. He was contented to be back at work, even if his new co-workers seemed simultaneously tense and listless, as well as slow to converse. He understood; it was to be expected that he should be invigorated in a way they had forgotten to be.

  He soon discovered that the people in the ‘leg’ looked down on the people in the ‘foot’ (in a figurative match to the literal). In face-to-face meetings this was presented as a gentle mocking of the facility, but Davis found the experience to be so pervasive that he was unable to interpret it as anything but institutionalised contempt based solely on geographic location, as positions in the corporate structuring (the thing that should have had greater bearing on such an attitude) seemed evenly spread between the two divisions. Distressingly, it seemed to Davis that people in the ‘foot’ felt punished for being there. Though he found it difficult to engage people in examining their own feelings of inferiority, eventually Davis surmised that the sense of inequality might be attributed to problems with the ventilation. Though the casket factory had been gutted, and every pipe and duct and cable in the place was new, the air was always too warm (it was often claimed that thermostats on the walls were only for show) and the blowers rumbled unaccountably at odd intervals.

  HVAC operations didn’t fall under Davis’s purview, but he often channelled facility-related complaints into maintenance requests, and it was perfectly natural for him to attempt to address the ongoing situation. If he ingratiated himself to half the office at one fell swoop, fine, but he would consider it a professional victory even if a beneficial resolution was accomplished semi-anonymously. It wasn’t managing an observatory on a snow-capped Hawaiian mountain, or conducting land-speed trials on the Alkali Flats, but it was something.

  Unfortunately, inquiries to the technicians proved unhelpful. They politely rattled off numbers and acronyms that he was clearly not meant to understand, meant, he thought, to pointedly belittle his lack of expertise. The upshot was nothing could be done—the conversational equivalent of a disingenuous shrug.

  Even if he didn’t believe them, Davis decided to accept the technicians’ explanation at face value (for he found that entrenchment followed challenge). The option he decided to undertake was to search amongst the numbers and glyphs and document trails for another solution, one that, if found, would not contradict the technician’s view, but instead circumvent their involvement. What it might be, he couldn’t guess—if there was a thrill of the hunt to be had in his position, it proceeded from that exhilarating moment when ignorance mounted determination.

  After a long day of paper-shuffling, Davis contemplated his meeting with the technicians. No, he didn’t know what number of unknown acronym units was necessary for however many square feet—but he did understand the last measure. If the square footage serviced by the existing ventilation were decreased, perhaps the reduced area would benefit. Davis felt certain that non-essential areas could be identified. The supply room, for example, needn’t be as cool as the conference room beside it. Davis thought that too many people dawdled unnecessarily as it was when they went to retrieve supplies. Does one truly need to be comfortable when making such a decision? he wondered.

  As certain of his duties and responsibilities involved aspects of the entire office, Davis had acquainted himself at least passingly with most of the populated areas. Still, there was basement storage left unexplored and there were utility closets whose doors he’d left unopened. His knowledge was incomplete, and besides, even that which he considered familiar he had never examined under the aegis he now assumed. Davis decided it would be best to wait until late afternoon, after regular business hours, for him to inspect the premises, so that his work would disturb few, and few would be present to disturb his work. When St Patrick’s Day arrived on an unseasonably pleasant Friday, Davis seized the opportunity.

  He estimated his exploration shouldn’t run longer than half an hour. There was no point in navigating the ‘leg’—no one there complained about tranquilising warmth. The ‘foot’ was broad, but only six storeys high. Identification and analysis would present little difficulty; weighty decision-making for shaping his proposal would be done at his desk at a later date. He couldn’t imagine the basement held much to interest him.

  Davis’s search was only mildly encouraging. He identified one or two rooms per floor where he thought the ventilation could be shut off or reduced, but the spaces were small and it was hard to say if the change would much benefit the rest of the office. He was piqued to discover that his master key did not open the electrical closets. He knew there was nothing in them to see besides towers of switch boxes choked with multi-colour cabling, but he had wanted to be thorough. On crouching to the floor, he felt cooler air leaking under the closet doors. Yes, he guessed it might be that way, but it was hard not to feel slighted that greater power was apportioned to keep the machines running optimally than was used to comfort his co-workers. He begrudgingly accepted that that was the way it had to be; he certainly had no intention of arguing the requisite temperature for an electrical closet!

  Having finished his above-ground survey, Davis was unsure if it had been worth the effort. Even if his recommendations might affect some small change, the expected result might seem so inconsequential to his superiors as to not merit pursuing. But when he discovered that his ‘master’ key also failed to grant him access to the basement stairs, Davis’s anger—and determination—was stoked. Rather than concede defeat, he remembered that there was an old service elevator that emerged from between metal doors in the sidewalk at the rear of the building. He hurried out the door and around the building to the bland bemusement of the night housekeeping staff. Davis laughed when his master key shot home in the control box lock. He pressed the green button. Nothing happened. He did the common, unreasonable thing to do: he pressed the button again, harder. Something shuddered and groaned beneath him, and the rusted doors began to part. The elevator stopped half a foot below grade, but Davis only laughed again. It doesn’t have to work well, as long as it works, he thought. He stepped into the cage, clanged shut the safety door, and anxiously descended to the waiting dark.

  Even on the way down, Davis thought that t
here were likely no efficiency improvements to be found in the basement. He could feel the change in environment moving up his legs to his chest and chin as if he was sinking into a different stratum. The air was stale and stifling. He began to panic as the metal doors closed over him; there was no light in the basement. He considered re-ascending and abandoning his search. But the glow from his smartphone screen comforted him and rekindled his enthusiasm. Besides, he wasn’t sure if a better opportunity would ever present itself. All thought of turning back vanished when he located a switch just outside the elevator which coaxed to quavering life several fluorescent tracks. What he saw might make no change in his recommendations, as the air in the basement seemed uncirculated, but there remained a section of the building to be explored.

  Unfortunately, his intrepidness revealed nothing of interest. The basement seemed to be used for overflow storage. Davis was surprised at how old the jetsam appeared—as though it was unwanted material left from an older office—unwanted even then—which was subsequently moved after the refurbishment to its new graveyard, and abandoned. There were stacks of bankers’ boxes marked with a coding system that preceded the old one Davis had been told he ‘might still see some of’; there was an army of chairs both broken and whole whose style was not in use in any part of the office; there were rows of filing cabinets of almost beguilingly uneven dimensions whose careless sequencing goaded Davis to sort them despite the futility of the exercise and the exertion required. There was something about the space that seemed almost deliberately drab, as though someone had contrived a display of things it was easier to neglect than to sort through and likely throw out. Davis knew full well that furniture recently in use above him (some not too badly damaged) had been consigned directly to the trash. Everything he saw seemed as though it was part and parcel; the stock did not appear ‘rotated through’—and in no danger of ever being so.