THE ELEVATOR © 2012, David Alan Dickens It seems the dead can be among the last to know. Indeed, news of my demise did not come suddenly, at least not to me. The realization of my sudden passing introduced itself through a crescendo of frightening increments, a taunting string of events, each of which persisted in informing me of the harshest reality one shall ever face: I had died Friday morning, three-days prior. Indeed, no one had told me, at least not initially, but the plexus of subtle anomalies began their takeover the instant I arrived at work that morning. After stepping off the elevator, and at first glance, everyone in my office seemed just as Id left them, just as Id remembered them the day before, and every other day I’d been graced with their company, which amounted to two-years, four-months and a smattering of days. The usual cast of endearing characters was arrayed as expected, or so it seemed: Janie Lynn, receptionist and telephone relay, stood at her desk, facing the rear of the office where Brad Keeler, Sales Representative 1, was carrying a large cardboard box, while Ginny Monroe, Sales Rep 2, was shuffling several manila folders with a look of complete apathy. Strolling to my desk, however, I noticed the distinct absence of the customary banter and friendly repartee. This lack of chatter was my first clue that something was amiss, something big. I was clueless as to what and, oddly, sought not to investigate. As I went to my desk, no one acknowledged me and I decided it best to seek no acknowledgement. Although it was Monday morning, I found it odd that Brad wasn’t praising the Pittsburgh Steelers or berating their opponent from the day before; after returning to his desk, he began talking somberly into his desktop-telephone, as if placing an obituary. “The Steelers must have lost,” I thought quite unsympathetically. And I noticed that Ginny, another co-worker, had neglected her hair and cosmetic application, a First which left her starkly bereft of her usual color and flair; and Janie Lynn, Ms. Button-Up Conservative, didn’t even look as though she were reporting to work, at least not in a traditional sense. She wore sweatpants and a gray pullover, as if coming to retrieve a workload to take home. This is precisely the opening scene that greeted me that Monday morning, a scene set with an abnormally reticent and, dare I say mournful, stage and characters… As if someone had died.
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 03:30:18 +0000
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