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I leave the pub and I feel like walking. The street is a more quiet now; it's that time just before lunchtime when things slow down and people aren't rushing anywhere. The calm before the storm. That's why I feel like walking, maybe. Some of the most unsavory characters in the office leave really early for lunch. My mission, right now, is to avoid them.
I have failed.
Ahead, I see Tony walking towards me, flapping his arms about, which I interpret as a greeting. Tony is a pain in the ass.
Hey, how you doin', he says. He is not from the inner city. He is not undereducated, on paper at least. He is not poor. He talks like this because this is his Classic Mob Week. Every week, Tony delights us with a new impersonation. His theory is that his performances make him appear versatile and funny, and so give him the favor of managers and co-workers.
Everyone else's theory is that he is a fucking moron.
He is, and he doesn't notice. This is the first of Tony's distinct traits.
About a month ago he was in his Hindu Person Week. He couldn't imitate the accent, so he spent the week eating rice with curry, oblivious to the thump in the cubicles around him as people dropped like flies from atmospheric intoxication. This week, he started his Classic Mob Week by preceding every sentence with Hey Bro. He went on like this for half a day until somebody pointed out that the Italian Mafia is not particularly known for talking like that. The next day he came back saying that he had spent the entire night watching the first two seasons of The Sopranos, and that he was now a fuckin' expert yougoddit? Good for you, Alice said, So you watched all the episodes in the first two seasons. And did you park your time machine out front?
We chuckled, and he lauged, but he didn't get it. After a few minutes he did, and he started explaining how he had fastforwarded most of the episodes. Right.
The second of Tony's distinct traits is, he is a pathological liar, or he doesn't think before opening his mouth, or both.
At least he doesn't do his job well.
Now he's within three feet of me, and ready to start another one of his anecdotes, right here in the sidewalk. I can see it in his eyes. His mouth opens. I take a deep breath.
Hey, I'm going to get some pasta, he starts, but I say, Can't talk now, later, and I walk past him without looking back. I can feel his eyes for a moment as he tries to decide whether to call out or not, and he doesn't. I'm safe.
That was too close. I need cover. I walk back to the office.
oOo
I get to the elevator door and there are five people there, waiting. Five people, and I don't know any of them.
There are four elevators in this building, and only one is working right now. The rumors propagate. The electronic control system broke down, it's a common problem with this model. The motor died. They are trying to save electricity. It's a test of the elevators. It's a test of the employees. It's a test of the emergency system.
Not that the information that people can obtain when standing next to the door can be be very accurate. For some reason, whenever there's a group waiting in a jam, or in front of a locked door, or a machine that doesn't work, theories abound. Somebody knows somebody else that once saw this happen, yeah, and it took hours to fix...
I look to the side, to the entrance to the stairs. Somebody goes in, at least that seems to be working. But do I dare?
Behind me I hear something about an urgent package lost, and I can't recognize the voice. Must be someone from a cubicle far, far away. Or another department, or not related to this company at all yes, sure. But a cubicle far, far away sounds better to me. I can even see the yellow letters in perspective, fading into the distance.
I turn around. There are too many people to count. More than ten, that is. The conversation has stopped. No luck, I can't tell who it was.
I look back to the numbers on top of the door, the ones that usually move. They have been stuck in fifteen for a long time.
Courage floods my veins.
I'll take the stairs.
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