Surely, I had been waiting for at least ten minutes. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket. Then, I remembered that the battery had died during my elevator ride up to the nineteenth floor, and this sterile lobby. I put my phone back and smoothed out the tailored pocket flap. I hadn’t worn this suit in years. However, when Toroidal Amalgamated Industries called, even dusty old academics like me answered.
They had read my ancient dissertation and had followed my modest career. I taught more classes these days, however, they wanted to see me at my earliest convenience. They said that Mr. R was hiring for new projects, nevermind the daily news cycle of economic chaos. For reasons that were obvious to me, everyone knew him as Mr. R. Television financial analysts wouldn’t let the joke die, but the billionaire Roquefort family refused to engage with the artisanal cheese vertical. There was more profit in shared office spaces and pharmaceuticals. As it turned out, Mr. R also was very interested in renewable energy technology, and needed specialists in plasma physics. Theoretical plasma physics. My models were showing new promise, they said.
That was the elevator pitch, bitterly ironic as I sat in front of reception. I occupied the lobby’s only chair, between two sets of elevator doors, directly in the path of a spotlight shining overhead. I turned to look over my shoulder and admired the painting again. You don’t see many Van Gogh originals anymore.
I turned back and tried, through the spotlight glare, to find the reception desk on the other side of the lobby, flanked by two dimly lit hallways. A shiver of deja vu worked its way through my body, and my pulse raced. The handwritten note – Back in Five – was still folded and placed over the name tag off center on the desk. But, had there always been three potted plants? I could have sworn there were only two, when I first approached, briefly looking for a visitor sign-in sheet.
I leaned over, intending to rummage through my backpack for my phone charger. There was a plug in the wall next to my chair. As if to confirm that a T.A.I. representative, in fact, was late to meet me, a voice from the back right corner of the lobby said, “Oh, it’s you.”
I stood, smiling, and tried to focus on the source of that voice, but they were gone. I was alone again in the lobby. Perhaps I had missed when they turned and walked away? I followed in that direction, expecting to be met by this person, but the hallway was empty. That strange phrase echoed in my head again, not sounding entirely friendly, the first break in the silence here since I stepped off the elevator.
I walked on, and found myself in a larger room with an open floor plan. Rows of identical workstations, with semi-comfortable chairs, standing desks, sizable dual monitors, and a multi-port adaptor. The one in front of me was labeled 1950G1: Bookable Cube. The next cubicle down the line had a similar nameplate on its fabric outer wall. Next to the monitors, a removable sign hung from a wall panel designed to hold family photos or a calendar, otherwise bare. Do Not Disturb.
The outer walls were clearly intended to separate these temporary tenants, themselves arranged in a larger cube, from senior staff offices and conference rooms, the places with panoramic city views through floor to ceiling windows, nineteen stories up. The lack of windows on this side was disconcerting, instead forming a haphazard shell of blue wall panels, lit by recessed LEDs, and dark brown doors with nonsense signs like KR-19-A. There were no potted plants. No artwork. Not even, a poster of a kitten admonishing you to cling harder to your branch. All of the brown doors were locked.
I turned around, intending to leave. Perhaps I missed a fire drill while I was in the elevator? I should go home, charge my phone, and reschedule my interview. No one else was here. I walked a few short paces down the hallway to another bookable farm. The door layout on the outer wall was different. I must have taken a wrong turn, missed the lobby. I turned around, and was able to backtrack to the first cube farm. Good old reliable 1950G1 also had a small coat closet and several desk drawers with prominent locks, but no keys.
I decided to keep going in this direction, hoping to find a bathroom, or an emergency stairwell. At the very least, I should loop around to the lobby again. I began to feel light-headed and thirsty somewhere around 1923A1, across from a small kitchen or break room. The fluorescent lights inside were unbearable, the chair broken, but the refrigerator dry erase board beckoned: Free leftovers from our last conference, signed with a big heart. I opened the door to find the fridge stocked with energy drinks and bottled water, and two large platters of mismatched small deli sandwiches. I was so hungry that I grabbed the first thing in front of me, a lightly colored sliced meat that I hoped was turkey on a handmade bun. I sniffed, and took a bite. It tasted mostly of day-old iceberg lettuce, but my hunger subsided a little. One of those single-use coffee machines sat on the counter, next to the sink and an upside down stack of cups. I opted for one of the pods of french roast, hanging on a multi-tiered spinner rack.
I finished my coffee with a second sandwich and a different hint of flavor, and washed my face with a few paper towels and tepid sink water. I threw my trash into the empty bin.
I continued on, clockwise once more. I picked up the pace in the 1900s, where I must finally be looping around to the elevators, but I met 1899G1 instead. Had I taken any steps down? Impossible. I kept going. I eventually realized that there were no clocks anywhere, somewhere around the time that I noticed that my backpack was missing.
Despite a growing need to get out of here, I napped somewhere in the 1870s. An unknown time later, the hallway leading onward from 1864D4 ended in a big shiny metal door with an important looking keypad on one side. In military stenciling, the door read, PHYSICS LABORATORY: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
I reached towards the door, needing to feel the reality of this sudden barrier, when something slammed very hard from the otherside. Then, the scratching sounds began.
I fled running, slowing to a steady march out of exhaustion, hungry again. I eventually found myself in front of the 1923A1 break room. I was compelled to enter and check the fridge, but then I noticed that the coffee selection on the counter had been refilled. The sandwich platters were stacked full of turkey and, I decided, ham. Half of the energy drinks on the shelves had been replaced with canned coffees and teas. The trash had been emptied.
I decided to keep marching. I approached 1950G1 once more, and lingered in alarmed relief. In the time since I had last been here, someone had left a laptop behind, plugged in with a charger compatible with my phone. It was tempting, but I managed to pull myself away. I stumbled on, needing to find the lobby.
I unexpectedly approached the reception desk. I halted silently where the hallway met the lobby, consumed by such terror that it felt like my mind was splitting in two. Finally, I mustered up the courage to do what I needed to do. I said, “Oh, it’s you.”
From across the lobby, I saw myself look up from under the Van Gogh, shielding my eyes. Then, the other me blurred and disappeared from the chair. I walked over, admired the painting, and sat down. The other me had left a backpack behind, and no phone charger. I squirmed in the chair. The reception desk held four potted plants.
Okay. Hypothetically speaking, if I was still here, and there was still a laptop in 1950G1, did that mean that I was hired? Maybe I should move and camp out in 1923A1? The custodial staff would have to return, eventually? Right?
Bathing the lobby in a murky yellow, two lights turned on. Simultaneously, on either side of me, elevator chimes rang out.
A good prompt for a topic I’ve meant to get lost in, the liminal space. [r/WritingPrompts] The electricity is powered, the WiFi remains intact, the water is running, the food keeps getting restocked, but you haven’t seen a single other human in weeks.