The Beginning, Middle, and End

I entered this building this way exactly twice. Once was twenty years ago, boosted by a very unrealistic pep talk, about four espresso, and a high built on exhaust fumes. “You can talk your way in!” She said, “Just look like you are MEANT to be there.”

I nodded, fortified by a mother’s insistence. I pushed into the marbled lobby with impossibly high ceilings, great art, and small, human-sized turnstiles next to a waterfall desk. It would be so easy to jump it. But that would be a bad foot forward. I looked straight in the eyes of a guard (I later learned his name was James). He looked imposing in uniform, then turned at me and said nothing. The fellow behind him assessed the situation and whispered a singsong “Not gonna happen.”

I pretended I didn’t hear, tucked my hands where dress pockets should be, and stated “I am here to see the HR director!”  

He said “Name?”

I didn’t know if he meant mine or hers, but I cleared my throat, “Betsy Thurdenpop. Ms. Thurdenpop.”  

“Appointment?”

Screeching outside. I watched some heeled professionals in suit pants, great posture, likely bankers, slide key cards and slide in out of the noise. He looked over my head. Nodded to them. It was rushing loud with laughter and traffic and I know he didn’t hear me say no. No matter, I was no longer there.

The espresso started to come back up a bit and so I clogged myself backward. I was sweating through polyester. I had lost. 

Mom was outside and she smiled super wide, like she had never heard or considered defeat. As if it wasn’t obvious I had fallen far short. As if I hadn’t communed with the large possibly-Stella sculpture for five minutes and thought over and over on how this part, the much worse part, would go.  

How to break it to her that I didn’t have the stuff to talk myself up to HR. Like she did in Hollywood, had confidently squirted peroxide in her hands with optimism, no fan running, and no shame. I knew I looked flat and wrong. I went in knowing I would be coming right out. 

Her jaw fell when I did and I could see the calculations - how she was going to get it done for me, how she could GET me this job, she took a half step toward the door, and started to go in herself but I guided her away with a loud “Hey!” and some mention of lunch and my plan of attack.  

It all happened after that. The short short haircut. The new me. An apartment. No light. Great location. I didn’t really tell mom, though, that I would hide behind my DSL and try again my way. No shine, silent, winning my spot with words. No voice, no hair, no face. 

Twenty years later, James was not at his desk. There was just one small guard on the other side of the floor, checked out but checking their phone. The turnstiles were now taller, actual glass doors opening and shutting. I held my old keycard in my hand, fingers numb from waiting in line outside. I had found it in the pocket of this old coat which I now only wore in minus degree weather. I wanted to see if it still worked, to thaw myself a minute.  

This time, I knew the exact cadence of the swoops of glass. I remembered this old dance. I had danced it all over town. But a lot had changed. Half this building was vacant and everything echoed. The sculpture was gone.  No one tap tapping by the elevators. No one stepping to the side. On the easel where famous guests used to be announced, now it said: APARTMENTS FOR RENT. And there was another across the lobby, with a QR code, phone number and slick photos to draw you closer.

Now they were begging for people to come in, stay awhile. I figured I could go in for a cocoa, perhaps a seat.  

I smelled a slight scent of plastic burn while I waited. Nothing to be alarmed about, I was sure. I realized it was the jackets of first editions from the 70s. Still there. I hit the old 6th floor.

When those doors opened, I remembered everything.   

The CEO was in the elevator and said hello, like he was waiting for me. He did not get out. I realized I had been carrying so much in my messenger bag. It felt heavy. One item in there was actually his book. Perhaps years ago that adoration would have been that key to get me in.   

We waited in silence, the type where I think I was supposed to say something I had been saving until I finally met him. I didn’t have anything, really. I put my hands in my coat where my pockets were.

It took an unreasonably long time to reach the 6th floor. The elevator smelled of wet boots (why would an elevator be carpeted?) Finally he said “Are you here for the party?”  

 What party? This was not a party atmosphere. I remembered the patter of office workers. Rustling papers. Dropped books. Clacks on the computers and nasal laughs.  Grunts of shifting bags over shoulders and collapsed umbrellas shook out and coats fluffed over arms. Laughing. But you didn’t hear that now.

I nodded, “Yes….. and I am starting to think about these apartments.”

 The CEO bursts with an enthusiasm that both raised my eyebrows a hair and reminded me of his position “Fantastic! Great location! And the commute! Can’t beat that!”

I nodded and smiled wide like that made complete sense. Just like I used to. He didn’t realize I hadn’t worked there in a decade. My fault, not his. I was just happy to be there back then. My badge was still too faded and sweaty in my palm but I grasped it tightly to affirm myself.

“Yes! Right!” I managed.  

“Well you should definitely stop by the sixth.” He nodded, “Lots of exciting things happening today. We have such talent.”

 When the doors opened, I breathed out. I had been afraid it would open onto a brick wall or a half floor and this was a dream.  But it was there, the same. Where the receptionist used to sit - and the room with the green tiger and racecar and bright walls. She had said to me once, so pointedly “You. See. Everyone.” 

“Getting out?” I held the door for a moment in case he was.

He stroked his moustache. “No, no, thank you. I have a meeting on the twelfth.” The executive floor.

A meeting. On a party day. I made a face like, Poor guy.

Poor me.  

Because when the elevator doors closed, I heard an echo of the last thing I wanted to hear. Not the frothing of my old friend, the cocoa machine.  

But Karaoke. Featuring a VP who, at 50 something, now one plus servings over-served, was performing in a conference room for an audience of none. Okay, one. Was this the talent? 

The sagging silver tinsel combed my hair as I stepped inside, the only indication of anything holiday related happening here.  She looked me dead in the eyes, took the mic in one hand and put down her beer with the other. This one was for me. I stiffened with the responsibility.

It was an interior conference room, but I knew if I hung back enough, if I tapped the green tiger on its left ear, I would be grounded. I cozied up, and just them a rerun of the Oprah episode started to play on the screen behind her.

Remember when we made Oprah? We sold so much. The author was the wife of a star, though hare-toothed. The star was on too, obviously drunk. Monosyllabic, he played one tune.

I snorted despite myself when I saw the video flicker. Remember Oprah? Remember the power of TV? Remember books? Remember alcohol? 

The book, I remember, was not good. I had just hoped it would sell.  

It tanked. A total loss, a divorce. My VP had found a new audience of one. She was singing to Oprah now.

More people started to enter, thank God, but they didn’t look at me at all. They clapped politely for her performance. A few went over the top with fist pumps and demanded encores over my head. I hunched and crept out. Hit the hot cocoa machine- the reason I came. 

My old office was stacked with boxes. But yes, the cocoa was intact. I poured myself a double-strength, clicking the cartridges in and clicking out twice. I could finally feel my fingers again. 

 I strolled to the library, passed a few in the hallway nodding with the music - the voice of that VP fading out and in just a bit canned.. At the library door, a very large, handwritten sign. Such excellent cursive.  “DO NOT take books. If there is no room MAKE ROOM.”

I push in with my shoulder so as not to spill the hot cocoa. I could always find solace here. 

The shelves have been pillaged. There was a lot of ROOM. Of what remained, I organized a series on tea cups. Gift editions with locks.  A pretend sword (how is that a book?). And then I see the AI wall. I mean, a screen.

I go up and touch and the screen says “WELCOME TO NEVERLAND, HERE IS YOUR TICKET” nonsense nonsense. It is a portal. I approach and click through to the Q&A..

“What happened to all the books?” I ask.

It thinks.

“Define “books”.”

I think. I write. “A parcel of pages?

A novel? A fright?”

Then I notice that there is a crack slightly open in the wall - the wallpaper has torn apart. And I hear the VP even more tinny now, singing karaoke just behind. Now I am hearing her singing in verse. 

Still trying to think of the right answer: “Is a book a business? Is it a plan?”  

I push my glasses up on my nose. And I type one letter at a time ‘Who decides?”

The screen asks for my handprint and so I put it against the screen and it spins. 

“The audience.” It says as it spins. “YOU.”

I snort and the door opens some more. And I hear traffic sounds, and screeching again, and clicks and clacks on a marble floor. I hear swipes and doors opening and closing. My pocket vibrates and I check it. It is Mom. She’s called me. Twelve calls. 

“Hey portal” I say, and it lights up on its own. Gosh, I never even had to type to begin with. The time I could have saved!  “Hey portal, how did we get here?”

The circle is back and it spins and spins, and finally, unable to reboot - I decide to just go through that door.   

Back down in the lobby, by the possibly-Serra sculpture, I search my coat for pockets but there is no coat. And there are no pockets yet. I do have a messenger bag, full with portfolios, resumes, and also, that book I am working on. My resume is on fine laid paper. I think hey, I should at least give this away. I should give it to someone. At least do that before I go.

I look at the 80s sculpture lines. Inexplicable waves. What are these colors? Is this a metaphor of some kind? The bankers, they are coming and going, so busy. On their flip phones. On their lunches. Mom is outside, and I just need a minute. I lean toward the sculpture and I hear James clearing his throat - don’t touch. Okay.  

The AC is so so strong and my polyester dress is starting to chill with my sweat. I am getting goosebumps. How can I tell her. How can I do this?  I quickly glance out the window and she is taking a picture of Radio City. She starting the narrative, I know, the story she will tell her friends. I gulp.  

All of a sudden the elevators doors open and Betsy and the CEO exit. They are arm in arm and I know them immediately from the Facebook and the press. Her hair is high and his moustache glistens with the end of a good, good joke.  I glance through the window again- Mom’s just looked at her watch. It would be so easy - Apply online. Cross fingers. But I have the resume now and I have a minute. And I know them.

I walk straight up to them both, and say, “Excuse me.” They actually stop and look bemused. They must know my kind. They are not in a hurry, on their way to a long long lunch.  Betsy looks me up and down. Takes in the clogs, the messenger bag, probably my goosebumps.  “Ms. Thurdenpop, and um, Sir - I have admired your business for so long.”

I reach into my bag and flick past the fine paper resume and touch the book manuscript.    

“I feel, Sir” I clear my throat, stand straight, and look him right in the eye like Mom taught me. “You should read this.”