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You know you're right, Jordan says, and I look up to see her face reflecting the fluorescent lights that hang above us.
What?
You are right, Jordan says. This is not enough.
Heh, I say, and then I hum, We always knew it would come to this.
Then I say, I know, it's not the same without a guitar riff.
Jordan chuckles and falls silent.
We are standing outside the boardroom, the pristine glass separating us from the group of executives, standing, nervous, wondering what we're doing. I am kneeling next to the door, fiddling around with a screwdriver in the keyhole, pretending to be doing something. Not that it really needs fixing: The door is unlocked now, but the executives stay away from it as if it was a wounded animal. The what's-his-name-CEO is sitting on his chair, pretending to be calm and failing miserably. There is no escape, for him or anyone else, until we finish Fixing The Door. In the center of the room I see a single piece of paper with signatures on it. The action.
The cop is prowling the kitchen; the last time we saw him he was looking for the ingredients to make a ham and cheese sandwich. So far he had been able to find mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, and some soy sauce, but nothing else. A sandwich made of sauce and spices, and no bread, meat, or cheese. That sounds awfully like culture these days.
We got here after a short detour through the security room, were Pete was waiting for us dressed in a security guard outfit, gotten from who knows where. The cop walking in front of us, Pete moved behind him and I passed him the tape. Pete then asked What did we need, and we mentioned the elevators. Tape in hand, he loaded the tape and then moved quickly to one of the terminals. after about five minutes of humming, the tape delivered its goods. It took Pete another five minutes of plundering through menus before he turned around and said, Done! We thanked him and walked out. As we closed the door, I was left with the image of Pete hunching over the terminal, transfixed by the images on the screen, the power to do anything he wanted at the tip of his fingers.
The trip up was short and, for a change, uneventful. No elevators breaking down. No electric doors. When we arrived the cop decided that he was really hungry and asked where the kitchen was. After a few minutes of watching him sift through drawers and cabinets, we left him and walked up to the boardroom. Passing the cubicle were Eddie had taped my manager to a chair, I wondered if he was still in his fort, defending against his imagined, or maybe all-too-real, enemies.
At the door the executives greeted us with ultra-friendly hellos and glad you are heres, and then they waited impatiently for us to free them from their prison of glass walls.
So here we are, the executives still in their cage, us two on the other side of the looking glass, so to speak, and ... click!... the screwdriver that...
...seems to have jammed into the hole.
Heh.
I look back up at Jordan and I say, Hey.
What? she frowns.
This thing is jammed, I say.
Let me see, Jordan says, kneeling next to me. I let go of the screwdriver and it stays there, horizontal. Jordan grabs it and tries to get it out. What did you do to this thing? she says.
Nothing, I say.
Maybe it was just a need for sex, she says then, and I say, Who? The screwdriver or me?
Jordan laughs. Stop!
Behind the glass, the suits are restless. Most of them have moved to the window and are pointing out something in the distance, nodding thoughtfully. Another dry click and Jordan says, Got it!
She hands me back the screwdriver.
Okay, I say, it's time.
Jordan says, Come on, let them sweat it a bit more.
No, I say, It's enough. This is small stuff.
Small?
Oh, yes, I say.
We both stand up, and the executives, seeing us, stir inside the room. What? Jordan says.
I grab the handle and pull out while I say, I'll tell you later.
The door opens.
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