The
elevator slowed. The 68 button lit up.
"Don't come in. Don't come in .
Don't come in."
The elevator stopped at the 68th
floor.
I searched for the close door button
with my elbow, aimed, and leaned my weight into it. For crying out loud, I was only going to the
pharmacy to buy some generic desloratadine. Yes, I should have be shopping for
a month's worth of groceries, but I get them delivered and besides, I was ready
to rip out my eyes and serve them up to my followers on Instagram. Here -- have
my itchy, watery, burning eyes, bitches.
The doors parted with a tinny rumble.
For a moment, stillness, as if someone had snapped a photo. The taupe wall, the
utilitarian mauve carpet, someone's ideas of 2015 functional opulence. I was
suckered, I must admit. I'm no longer a suckee. I got wise.
And that's why I dread seeing him.
I didn't know I was holding my breath,
my hope was that intense. I tucked my head down. Please don't let it be him.
The first thing I saw were his black 10
percent leather Oxfords and his statement socks, socks detailed with intricate
mushrooms. Even through my blurry vision, I could see mushrooms, like hovering
spaceships. I wish.
I kept my head down, but there was no
point. Sometimes you have to look your tormentor in the eye.
He began. "Okay. How about this.
Masks for dogs."
He had his grey blazer on, again, of
inferior make, but business casual passable. I had to, had to respond because
I'm conditioned by god knows what to be accommodating, even to this guy.
"Being made by the thousands in Oklahoma
"Okay." He drummed his
fingers on his smooth shaven cheeks, again, kudos to him. "Cats?"
"Probably. Look, I don't want to
appear--"
"What about a show about a guy, a
sales guy who's been laid off, who ... hustles his neighbours to invest in his
ideas?"
I shot a desperate look at the floor
button panel. Buttons lit up in succession-- 60, 59, 58 -- wasn't anyone in the
building going out for air?
"Or delivering balloons to
construction workers? To cheer them up? They're front line workers, aren't
they? Or what about -- the Real Housewives of Toronto, but they're all drag
queens? That's good! Don't you think that's good?"
The elevator slowed and stopped at the
49th floor. The doors parted to reveal a young woman wearing a rhinestone mask
and clutching an Affenpinscher. She saw us and shook her head.
"No. it's okay!" I said.
"There's enough room in here. We can fit three."
The elevator
doors closed as she took a step back.
"Robots. I mean, come on, it's
about time. A little after the fact, even. Hair cutting robots?"
"Prototypes in Japan
"A vaccine?"
"Of course."
"Yeah, I can't get that
together" He tapped his forehead with his index finger.
I cursed my laptop's camera.
Communication, I have come to understand, is not always an individual's obligation
to society.
"Listen," he spread his
hands wide, by his own side and at a safe distance, "one channel. For
everything. For our televisions, for our dishwashers, our beds, thermostats,
heartbeats, cars --
"Internet of Things. Now please,
I have nothing to --
"But you do, Jessica. You're an
influencer. You have a million followers. And I'm just some guy. You know what I have in my fridge?
A quarter of a burrito and truffle poutine from last week. I don't want to go
to the food bank! How about -- hair extension extensions?"
The elevator dropped, kept dropping, down,
down, and bereft, I saw my eventual death, and his eventual death, as frivolous.
Still, I caught his pleading gaze. There was nothing I could do.
"Let me see what I can do."
He grinned weakly. He was no idiot. Between
us nothing but white noise, then his "thank you."
Small mercies. Desloratadine was on
sale.
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