Exploding Office

Shirt, collar up, tie… Cornflower blue or yellow? What shade of yellow, I’m not sure, but it’s nice. Dandelion, that’s what I’ll call it, dandelion yellow. Last time I saw one was in a painting in the kitchenette. It was a painting of wildflowers in a field, no specific focus, just a snapshot of life. Why do I have my coffee black? I like it sweet, I like everything sweet, but I guess, in an odd way it makes me feel more professional, more mature. Am I so unsure of my own maturity I need bitter coffee to reassure myself that yes, my life really is as unsweet as I’d like people to perceive it to be? Or maybe I should just shut-up and put on my damn tie.

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It’s rainy. I’ve always loved the rain, it makes me feel very introspective. Nothing nicer than a menacing overcast sky to dramatise my inner-monologue, nothing nicer than the sound of water flowing in the gutter before me, and the soft crackle of my cigarette’s paper as I take a long draw, blowing out a cloud of smoke into the rain and watching as it shoots holes through its wispy body. Cupping my palm I hold it out to the rain, I rub my fingertips clean, there’s nothing worse than going back inside and seeing that little glance people give you, as if to say: “You stink, you bum.”, Yes Karen, I stink, and that side-eye was very smooth, you–

“Elliott!” God, he always shows up when I’m deep in thought. Not really thought, more like a dream, daydream.

“Hey, Irving.”

“You really should give up smoking, y’know, best thing I ever did.” Is it, you old fart? Is it the best thing you ever did? I’m glad. You've got such willpower, I’m sure you’d love to hear that. But of course I don’t say this. I chuckle.

“Yeah, just helps me clear the mind, y’know?” That “y’know” was rhetorical, Irving, please don’t say you do.

“Oh yes, I know, but I found that once I had quit my mind didn’t need ‘clearing’ quite as much.” Yes, chuckle, chuckle Irving, you’re so clever, and hey, I will too, because I’m only an asshole on the inside, or so I hope.

“You may have a point, Irving. Anyways, I’ve got to call my mother, she’s coming down to visit tomorrow.” Don’t ask about this, Irving, it’s a lie to get you off my ass and it’s probably counterintuitive, why do I ever pique your curiosity.

“Oh, well tell her I said hello. Okay, Elliott, I’m off to get coffee, see you later.”

“See-ya, Irv’.” Phew. Now gum, cologne, wonderful, back inside.

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I write little poems on Word, sometimes I email them to people, using my personal email of course. I feel it’d be a bit weird if Sandra from HR received some haiku about birds from Elliott Blair who she’s never once interacted with other than in some awkward elevator run-in, probably stuck in there with me and the smell of cigarettes, too shy to do even the side-eye. She’d probably spend an hour trying to decode the romantic meaning she assumes it holds, because for what reason would this creepy guy send her a poem other than to expect some strange romantic fairytale to follow? I sent you the poem, Sandra, because I’m bored and it makes me feel mysterious. But it doesn’t matter, this is all bypassed because HungyDoggy9923@gmail.com sent it to her, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know who Hungry Doggy is.

“Elliott?” God. Can you knock or something? I was writing.

“Huh, yes?” You’re kidding. Sandra from HR. My life is one big coincidence.

“Why the fuck did you send me a poem about birds?” Oh my god. I’m red. Kill me now, lord.

“Uh–,” I chuckle, yes, you can do this, play it off. “You received that, Sandra?”

“Yes, I’m SandraBullockHR@gmail.com, Elliott, but tell me it’s a typo.” I was so wrong, Sandra from HR is not shy at all. But hey, fuck you, Sandra, don’t sass me.

“Do you know the contacts tab, Sandra? How you search for someone, Sandra? And how you then click on them, Sandra? It’s possible you were above or below uh, Irving, who was my intended recipient, Sandra.” I overdid it. Lord, why didn’t you kill me just then. Sandra laughs. Not yet, lord, sorry, I’m so indecisive.

“Really, Elliott? Well, thank you then, Elliott, for clearing the air, Elliott, I thought you were crazy, Elliott,” she begins to walk off. “I still do, Elliott.” And she’s gone. Sandra, you don’t have to have an attitude and be attractive at the same time. You could’ve just been attractive, you would get much further that way. Okay, Sandra, bye, I love you too.

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It is now tomorrow. When did that happen? Sometime during the night, I’m guessing. Shirt on, collar up, lipstick red tie, or the good old black tie? Red, I need a splash of colour, that’s what they say, isn’t it? Anyways, now bus, and then off the bus, and then police tape, and then:

“What the fuck?”

“Please step back, Sir.” Gladly. The windows on the exact floor I work on are now, well they’re not there anymore. In fact, they’re in a lot of very small pieces all over the street. Is that? That’s my desk, my desk, or at least one part of it. I know because there’s at least thirty pieces of shrivelled up gum stuck to the underside, which would have never been seen by anyone if my desk hadn’t come sailing from above, shot out into the dark early morning sky along with all my possessions. The gawking crowd around me is a sea of suits and briefcases, held behind the line by the many cops spread out from here to there and everywhere, inspecting the debris littered across the street and conversing with the firemen that sit perched on their trucks, looking out themselves to the crowd that’s gathered. Irving’s bound to be here somewhere, blending in, camouflaged within all the other old businessmen.

“Elliott!” Speak of the devil. “A bomb! Can you believe it? Someone blew up our floor! God, I wonder why…” Y’know what, Irv’, so do I.

“A bomb? Jesus… Who the hell would want to destroy our work? I mean, I didn’t think my spreadsheets would anger anyone enough to, well y’know.” I say, gesturing to the wreck that was our workplace, up there in the sky. There goes Sandra… No, this is good! There goes Sandra!

“Sandra!” She turns around and rolls her eyes, a little too genuinely to be considered endearing, damn it. “They blew it all up, hey, some prayers are answered.” I say, doing an embarrassing little jog to catch up to her.

“That’s funny, Elliott.” Ouch.

“I can tell because you’re laughing so much.” I say, deadpan. I can play this game too, Sandra.

“There goes my Wednesday. They’ll have something sorted for us by tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“Y’reckon? Damn. The real question is who blew it up, and why? I mean, it can’t be terrorism because y’know, the place was empty… Were they trying to take the whole building down or something? Every other floor is in working order.”

“Strange, isn’t it, Elliott? Well, get back to me when you’ve figured it out.” And off she goes. She seems unfazed by this whole thing, although she probably didn’t have it listed on her nice little schedule, it’s just the type of woman she is. I hate you too, Sandra. And I will figure it out. I’m not brave, but I am an idiot, there’s a thin line between these two things. 

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I look down to the street from the opening that was once where the windows were—say that quickly five times—and I see the crowd on the street, the police officers, their cars, the firetrucks… God, I'm in a bit over my head, I’m lucky to have even slipped past, but I’m not sure lucky’s the word for it anymore. The burnt remnants of paperwork crunch under my every step, the cream-white carpet is now charred and curled up in some places, its plastic fibers shrunken and wilted. It’s surreal to recognise things in their destroyed form, to walk from room to room, the walls having been either burnt to the ground or ejected out the side of the building alongside my desk. There’s the printer that never worked, there’s my boss’s office, there’s the shattered, burnt up family photo he had on his desk. The floor of the janitor’s closet has a big gaping hole in it, the roof in the janitor's closet also has a big gaping hole in it. There’s the serveroom. The remnants of the serveroom, and the fried, melted remnants of all those servers. Come to think of it, I had never seen this room, nor stepped foot in it, nor seen a door that led to it. I inspect the floor, following my way along the line in the carpet where the wall once was. There is no door, and the room itself is pushed up right against the back of the elevator columns, with vents going right into the elevator shafts. One of my steps is followed by an echo, a hollow footstep, I stomp the ground and accidentally kick in a trapdoor, a trapdoor?

“Sir! Please, come with me! It’s not worth it!” Huh? I turn around, a fireman. Oh no.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. Coming.” He grabs me with that big gloved hand, dragging me down the stairs and back down to the ground floor. He walks me into the crowd and looks at me pleadingly.

“Sir, please reach out if you feel this way again, is there anything I can do to help you?” Oh my god, he must’ve seen me peering down from all the way up there, did he really think I was gonna jump? Do I pass for suicidal? I’m not suicidal, I’m just– curious.

“Oh, thank you so much, no, I just thought about my wife and kids and I can’t do it… I’m going to go home and tell her how I feel.”

“You’re a brave man, Sir. Go get it.”

“You’re a hero, a real hero.” I jog off in the hopes a nearby cop realises I’m not actually a suicidal whack-job, just a normal one.