There was a classic reel-to-reel projector unit in the window. The old girl seemed to sparkle despite the matte plastic and vinyl casing. The spinners hooked up to chassis looked good, looked like they might still be able to handle a reel. And what would you know, there were several right next to it. Classics, in fact.

The days when they had used anything solid were long gone, but the remnants littered the windows and shelves of hundreds of different stores such as this dingy respite. This place sold them all, from Essence of Arcadia to The Island in the Swamp. “Hell,”he thought, “they even have that shitty, old horror movie The Lonely Dead. What a shitbox.”

But none stood out like The Patter of Reign, an artsy piece from over two decades ago. It was a wonderful piece and he had to have it. Running fingers over the film strip in his pocket brought bits of it back to him, the flimsy material still at the forefront of his career. He could smell the set, that greasy oil scent that hung over the entire production. He could still smell the way it mixed with lilac.

Chaz Waterston had his nose against the glass, a wan smile creeping over his face as his glasses tapped the window pane and his breath fogged everything over. The projector was a classic piece, and the films were some of the last what he had been looking for. He could not believe the deal either, they only wanted a measly $45 for the unit and $5 apiece for the movies. It was a steep price these days but he could afford it. To top it all off they had his favorite film. Providence shone out of its own ass sometimes, and thank the gods for that.

The little bell rang as he swung the door open and stepped in. Some things never truly change, but others change drastically. The kid in front of him was your typical teen; slit tongue, modified eyes, and one of those awful blueish-black hairdos that involved shaving half your head while the other grew out. His feral, yellow eyes gleamed out from under it. He waggled the ends of his tongue idly up and down as he watched this new, potential customer wander around the store.

Chaz removed his glasses and took in his surroundings. The scene had no art to it. The shelves were dusty, the creases between parts grimy with…well, he did not really know what it was. He was unsure if he wanted to. On the floor, stacked in corners, were piles of old music discs and even tapes, the strips inside on the reels probably ready to jam and unravel at the next spin. Somewhere, softly, he heard a bird singing. It was clearly coming from inside the store, above him. “A hat on a hat,” he thought to himself. “It’s just one thing too many. Too much character, not enough room to breathe.”

The lights above him flickered, their flat and fluorescent glow vanishing momentarily to blacken the room. He looked over at the kid, watching him waggle the two halves of his tongue back and forth. The effect was strobe-like, making the kid seem more like a creep than a character. He was handsome in that skinny, almost endearingly awkward way. Not leading man material, certainly, but he could be the weird artistic friend to his lead character. “Potential third wheel to a love interest to a female lead?” he wondered. The unfortunate lighting was ruining whatever effect he could have but that could be fixed if he could just frame it in a shot and soften the lights, aiming them at the boy to highlight him instead of dampen his potential charisma. Chaz resisted the urge to pull his hands up and make the box, resisted the desire to storyboard in a pawn shop.

“What are you looking at?” the boy grumbled. “I’m not into it, Geezer.”

“Never mind,” Chaz thought. “The lighting is just fine.”

He glanced away, looking at random curios in an effort to force himself not to buy anything at all. The newfangled eye drive was particularly enticing. It came with over five terabytes of video file, all of it twenty minute pieces of larger stories or even just little things unto themselves. You could binge watch, but most people switched around between things. Anymore that was all the span things took. It was fast and easy, and you could tell a good story, but Chaz was nervous about hooking anything up to his eye that he could not detach.

“You gonna try it, Scruffy,” came the obnoxious voice once more, “or are you just gonna fondle the thing?”

Chaz turned to the kid at the counter, annoyed but restrained. “I was just curious about it, son.,” he said calmly. I’ve never actually tried them.” The kid, whose name tag identified him as “Ricky”, rolled his eyes and lifted the hinged board to step out from behind the counter. Taking the drive from the shelf, he held it out to Chaz.

“This is the D-ReemR RX8, last year’s model.”

“Ok…” Chaz urged, curious despite himself.

“This thing can record yours as well as let you see the ones that the pros make.”

“Wait, wait. You can record your own with this thing?”

“Yup. The node hose is inserted directly into the hippocampus where it copies the DMT and translates it to a visual oration. Basically it makes a little video.” Ricky turned the thing over in his hands to point to a small, silvery box on the bottom of the eyepiece. “This thing here is the transmitter that connects you to the ’Net. It gives you the option to show other people your dream and to watch theirs.” He placed the thing in Chaz’s hand, taking him by the wrist to raise the thing up in front of his eye to display the eyepiece. The heads up display showed a trio of people in what looked like a spaceship bridge. In the visual it seemed that two costumed characters, not unlike those you would see at theme park, were double teaming a young woman bent over between them.

“So was the dreamer the woman or one of the furry guys?” Chaz asked.

Ricky turned the headpiece back towards himself to take a look for himself. “Dude, I think the one in the purple is a chick but I might be wrong. Anyway, this thing has been owned by about four people so I don’t know which one recorded it. The Anonymous System keeps it from recording who uploaded the file. There aren’t any saved on these things anymore, they all go to the cloud and if you remove yourself as a user it deletes your history. This is just what popped up when I turned it on.”

Chaz slowly pulled his hand back, wiped it on his pant leg, and put it behind his back. “Don’t think it’s for me, son.”

Ricky grunted and put it back on the shelf. “Mostly,” he said, “the old timers like to use them. Gives them an escape.”

“I think this is more my speed,” Chaz replied, indicating the projector and film reels in the window. “They’re from my era, I think I’d rather take a look at these.”

Ricky laughed a little. “I don’t even know how the thing works, man. We had an older gal trade that in a few weeks ago. She swapped it out for one of the television things and some old disc movies.”

Chaz smiled at the boy. “Maybe she thought it was time to upgrade.” This drew a louder burst of laughter and what looked like a genuine smile from the kid.

“Yeah, guess she decided that instead of farming all that corn with a scythe or whatever she’d rather get with it and catch up on the last decade.” He stuck his hand out. “Rick Vaughan, nice to meet you, mister.”

Chaz took it and gave it a firm shake. “Chaz Waterston, pleasure’s all mine.”

The kid’s eyes bugged and his mouth hung open. “You’re Chaz Waterston?” he muttered. His eyes flicked to the reels in the window display.

“Yeah,” came the reply, “That’s me.” The kid’s grip on his hand tightened and his other hand came up to grasp the wrist.

Rick’s eyes narrowed at him. “Bullshit,” he said.

Around Chaz the lights lowered. He reached back into the recesses of his head, digging around for an old and unused piece of dialogue. Something weighty, something that he wrote for himself. For his ego. At this age why not admit it? In the boxes towards the back of his memory he found a script, an old piece of him. He looked into Ricky’s eyes, the light around them a spotlight on a stage as the audience took in this solidifying moment of clarity as the kid realized who he was talking to.

“Maybe you don’t understand,” Chaz growled. “Maybe you think you’re some perfect shit-sack. You think I wanted this? You think all I ever wanted was to be a drunk? To be worthless? And who the fuck are you, rubberneck? Gawkin’ at me in the street like I’m some kind of sideshow!” Chaz began to slur his words a bit, his hand still gripping Rick’s. He swayed a little on his feet and narrowed his eyes at the young man in front of him.

“I don’t need this from no one!” he cried into the young man’s face. The audience out in the crowd gasped as Chaz pulled his fist back and considered decking the young man. He let go of the hand and grabbed at Rick’s shirt collar. He pulled him close and looked him dead in the eye. “You don’t even give a fuck, do you?” he asked.

Rick was sweating and shaking. Suddenly the lights were gone. His eyes flicked to the audience, his need to gauge their reaction growing with the tension between his character and Rick’s. Instead of a crowd he saw the shelves, the boxes, the uncomfortable bland lights causing his eyes to strain.

“Oh shit,” Chaz thought. “This is bad.” He looked down at the kid, afraid that at the least he would be ejected from the store without being allowed to purchase the projector and at the worst he would spend the night in a police drunk tank with all the other random, violent offenders. Instead he found a wide grin.

“Dude!” Rickexclaimed, “You’re so fucking cool!”

Chaz laughed a small, defeated laugh and released the boy’s collar. “It's been awhile since anyone said that. Going on nine years now.”

“No, no, no, my friends and I have some of your disc movies. We fixed up an old television set from the dump and we watch them sometimes. You’re crazy, man.” The kid ran over and grabbed one of the reel tins, blowing the dust off into a cloud that glistened in the light from the window. He held it up. It was Tank of Mine, an old movie about a man with a drinking problem who desperately tried to find a way to help his estranged wife and daughters. It was the film he had pulled the monologue from.

The character, Austin Kane, jumped through a series of hoops to make money and worked several small jobs. He had decided to try white knuckle sobriety and was struggling with it. After finally convincing his wife and daughters to move back in, one of the more emotional scenes in the film, he lost control when driving by an old dive bar and had wound up going inside for a simple beer. He awoke the next morning to find himself in a random home with two young girls no older than eighteen. It had been a fraternity house, and after the boys who lived there had thanked him for an awesome night he had slipped out and gone home to find his own home once again empty, a note on the table.

“You seen that one?” Chaz asked “It’s really depressing.”

Ricky shook his head fervently. “No, it's not,” he said, “It’s a beautiful film. That last scene where he kills himself so they can collect the insurance policy was beautiful, how did you find that in yourself? Your portrayal of Austin Kane was a revelation, it was what convinced me to avoid alcohol.”

Thank god for small miracles, Chaz thought. He smiled his ‘leading-man’ grin and grasped the kid on the shoulder. “I’m glad I could help kid. I did the alchy thing for awhile, it doesn’t end well.”

The kid was beaming at his good fortune. “Was that part of what helped you? Firsthand experience?”

The kid’s got no tact, Chaz thought fondly. He reached down the front of his shirt and pulled out a small object attached to a chain. He pulled the chain over his head and handed it to the kid, who took it with awestruck shock and held it up in front of his eyes to study it.

“A sobriety chip?” he asked.

“My first one. The one-day chip.”

“Oh wow, this is so cool! You actually had to go to AA?”

“Yeah. Had a bit of a problem. It influenced the way I wrote the movie too. I didn’t stay long, though. The meetings pissed me off.”

“You wrote it too? Holy shit.” Having heard nothing after Chaz stated that he wrote the film, Ricky was caught up in the awe of meeting a screen hero to worry about it anymore. “That’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Chaz said, “I did the whole shebang for it. I co-directed the thing with Owen Collins. He got tossed out of the DGA for it, they don’t like it when you share credits for some reason. Some by-law or another.” The kid held the chip between his fingers, almost caressing it. With visible reluctance he maneuvered it into his palm and held it back out to Chaz. “Nah, you keep it, kid.”

Ricky’s eyes were going to fall out if they bulged any more, he was sure of it. “You sure?”

Chaz smiled and reached up, closing the kid’s fingers around the chip. “It's yours.” Ricky’s face broke out into the biggest grin. He put the chain around his neck and looked at the chip. He continued to touch it and twist it in his fingers as he looked back up at Chaz.

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me,” Ricky gushed. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, no problem at all. Now sell me on this projector.”

The kid looked up at the clock, then rushed over to the door. He threw the latch and twisted the sign around to aim the ‘Closed’ side at the world, a barrier between humanity and his hero. “The shop just hit closing, Mister Waterston…”

“Just Chaz, for the love of gods. Keep calling me ‘Mister Waterston’ and I might just finish that punch I reeled back earlier.”

The kid nodded his head in acknowledgement and moved over to the projector. “I’ll let you take it, fair trade. Just one favor first.” Chaz looked at him, bewildered. “Ok…”

“Will you help me set it up in the back and watch Tank of Mine with me?”

Chaz looked at the kid, considering. The kid had picked up the tin containing the film reel, and was clutching it tight to him with a look of hope on his face. He looked like a kid begging for a toy at Christmas.

All of the sudden Chaz saw him holding the tin in front of a window, the light in the store bright and exciting. There was snow outside, and RIck was ten years old. He was looking up at Chaz, playing his father, begging for this one thing for the holidays. And Chaz pitied him, but his hand reached out and rested on another tin.

“You sure you want to watch that one?” he asked the kid. “You’ve already seen it.”

“Absolutely, it’s my favorite!” the kid cried, a squeak in his voice.

The aged hand felt the tin it rested on. Chaz ran his fingers over the letters on the outside, the pen markings etched into the label. The words The Patter of Reign ran up his arm and into his brain, calling to him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he looked down at it. Only for a moment, and then his eyes returned to Rick’s hopeful expression and he made a decision.

Chaz helped the kid set up the projector. They had two other models in the back and he knew the kid would start hunting down more old film movies and screening them with his friends. He placed the reels gently and slid the film into place. The kid swung the couch around and then turned to a small mini fridge. “I got a few ales left in here if you want a brew.” He pulled them out and extended one to Chaz. “It’s my favorite.”

Chaz took the beer, twisted the cap off (never a good sign, cheap beer always had twist-off caps) and took a long pull. He was nowhere near fond of it, but a lifetime of drinking had taught him not to grimace. He didn’t want to hurt the kid’s feelings. “That’s awesome kid,” he said with a smile. “My first beer in twenty years, and it's perfect.”

Ricky’s eyes went wide in horror. “Shit man, they’re non-alcoholic. I told you I didn’t drink, I should have mentioned that before. It’s not going to cause a relapse or anything is it?”

Chaz spit out a small laugh, a little beer running down his chin.

“Kid, that’s no problem at all,” he said.

They watched the movie. Ricky was quick to point out all of the things he loved about it, and he did indeed know film. They chatted about cinematography and the parts of directing they both loved. Chaz told the kid about the challenge, about being forced to make a creative decision every minute. He told the kid about portraying the character, and damn it all if the kid didn’t cry when Austin Kane swung himself off the chair and the rope pulled tight. He had no idea that the fake rope had not functioned correctly, that the struggle for air in the film had resulted in a trip to the hospital for Chaz. That part of the production was just too dark, and the kid could look it up himself later if he wanted to. “Always leave some mystery,” that was what Owen had told him. It was a motto that had always stuck, and Chaz tried to build his career on that phrase. It had tanked him, of course it had. They had been part of a thriving industry that thrived on bright, fun pictures while mysterious, open-to-interpretation pictures had been left by the wayside. The kid got it though, he felt every bit of it.

As Chaz left that night with his box he set it down and turned back to Ricky. “This was fun kid, I’m glad we did this.” He pulled the kid to him before a reply could be mustered and hugged him.

Ricky threw his arms around Chaz and hugged him. “There’s no way my friends will believe this happened.” He pulled back and looked up at Chaz shyly, a smile on his face.

“Yeah,” Chaz said, “they will.” Moments later he was off down the street towards his car, leaving Ricky standing with the tin containing Tank of Mine. Chaz’s signature was scrawled across the cover.

* * *

He got home late, much later than expected. That was ok, the evening with the kid had been worth it. He smiled as he let himself in the door and moved his new projector into the house. He had spent a lovely evening reliving what he considered a personal triumph and there was an excellent cut of steak thawing in the sink. Things were pretty good.

He grilled out in his backyard. The night was crisp and the coals glowed brightly in the dark. The smoke billowed as he uncovered the thing and turned his steak. He had wrapped it in bacon because fuck it, why not? At his age it would sit anything but well, but it bore no matter on his mind. His greens sizzled on the edge of the grill and his mashed potatoes were covered inside and waiting for him.

He ate his meal alone, as always. The music blasted, a grungy old garage group from out of Michigan. He had always loved that crunchy sound, and sometimes one could have the best time just listening to the music. The album, DeLong’s You Make Me Swoon, had been Darla’s favorite and he liked to put it on when nights like this one came around. The atmosphere was perfect, it made him feel like he was back in his prime. His career beginning, his creative juices flowing, and his leading lady at his side all felt like they were still constants. The crickets could be heard over the music and it completed his mood. He might as well have been having iced tea on the back porch with his girl curled up in his arms.

He left his dishes on the table to get cleaned up later and went to set up his new projector. After tearing the white sheet off of his bed, he took everything down to the basement. He nailed the sheet up against a wall, pulling it as tight as he could. Standing down to admire his handiwork he smiled. The projector went up behind his favorite chair, which he had drug from its usual corner to the center of the room so he could watch his movie. Placing the reels into place, he flicked the switch and watched the sheet light up. He went to his trunk and opened it.

Inside was a bottle of Talakour. It was a twenty-five year old whiskey at the time of purchase, by now it had to be over thirty. Like a smoker who has quit he liked having it around just in case he felt the need to fall off the wagon. He grabbed a tumbler that he had stashed down next to it and took it over to the chair. “Fuck,” he said. He set it in the seat and drug over a small side-table. He poured himself a glass, crushed his tablets and scooped the dust into the whiskey, and plopped down to watch his film.

The film had opening credits. He had almost forgotten about those. They had been uncommon, even in his day. Most people just wanted a title screen, but he had promised Darla that he would use her favorite song in the film and he had made it the opening music. As the names flashed on and off across the screen he saw her name. Darla Hornby. The name of an angel.

He watched as he, in the clever guise of Booker Reign, attempted to woo the affections of young Vic Torneau. His leading man guise fell away and he became a man, years in love, desperately trying to win her back. He had let her slip away once, her career taking her to the East Coast and success as a clothing designer as he whiled away his youth in a humdrum job writing instructional manuals in Northern Iowa. In a desperate attempt to kindle the fire under his ass he moved to Montclair, New Jersey so that he could be near the city and experience more of life. As the desperate writer just trying to make ends meet he took a job writing for a fashion magazine based in the city and (surprise, surprise) wound up writing an article about designer Vic Torneau. It was nowhere near his best plot, but it was beautiful due to the performance of Darla. She had sold the character as the confused woman trying to figure out her feelings for the absolute fuck-up who she had reacquainted with. He crushed more tablets and poured himself a double. Why not?

The film had come at a poignant time. He had written the script to deal with the frustrations of his wife as they both struggled with each other and the industry to stay relevant in a changing business. The film had found an audience that had not been large, but it had been strong. Eventually it became what the kids called a ‘cult classic’ and the home video success had brought enough income for he and his wife to steady themselves and get their feet back underneath them.

This was his favorite part, the moment where Booker stood in the park and poured himself out to Vic. Chaz muttered the lines to himself as he downed his whiskey. “I love you Vic. It’s all I have. I don’t even know who I am anymore, I’ve tossed ideas about that around since you left.” Vic stared at him, mouth agape and left speechless. “I’ve loved you since we were just a couple of fucking kids, stupid puppy love shit. I’ve loved you since you moved away. I could never get you out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t have anything else to give you, but I can give you that.” Vic’s eyes were watering. “What about Darren?” she asked, afraid of what would happen when her sort-of-boyfriend found out what had been happening. “I don’t care about that.” They kissed passionately and fell into bed together, making love.

Chaz drank through the rest. Or was he Booker? He could not remember anymore, he was too drunk on whiskey and tablets. He faded in and out of the rest. There was drama between Vic and Booker, with Darren jealous and angry. He came back into the picture fully when Darren threw himself from the balcony of his high rise apartment that he shared with Vic. That brought tears to Chaz’s eyes. He had loved Darren as a character, the torn man just trying to do the right thing and desperately in love with Vic as well. He watched the man struggle with the way he felt. The actor had been a close friend and one of the craziest success stories in the industry. ‘Ironclad’ Brad Aaronson the papers had called him. He had survived two tours of duty in two separate altercations by the skin on his ass. Most directors who cast him scrambled to make use of the bullet scars in his huge, strong chest. The man had taken three bullets and had never said a word to his commanding officer, continuing to pull the rest of his men out of combat before finally collapsing. The medics had pulled the shrapnel out of him, the army had discharged him, and at his first casting audition he had reduced those with the power of decision to tears and landed his first small role. He broke out a few years after that and had met Chaz. They had bonded quickly and Brad had been cast in every production Chaz was part of if he wanted it, putting his all into every part. Chaz watched as his friend leapt from a balcony onscreen, the character of Darren unable to handle the unrequited love. Brad Aaronson had died in a car wreck not two years after the release of the film. More tablets, more whiskey.

What he had really been waiting for was the final scene. The couple had been at the funeral of Darren (surname Colby) and had wept together over his grave. As they reached the apartment they went out to the balcony. Crying together, staring into each other’s eyes, they kissed and then held each other. Chaz whispered his lines along. “I’ll love you forever, Vic.” She smiled sadly up at him. “I’ll love you too, as long as I live.” Cheesy, yes, but heartfelt and sold by the actors. He had prided himself on being able to show just how in love he was with his wife. He had not been acting. He slipped towards unconsciousness, the tablets finally doing their full job. “I’ll love you forever, Darla.”

Charlie ‘Chaz’ Waterston closed his eyes for the last time.

The typewriters clacked away under nervous fingers as Saul Hopkins, Sage of the forty-ninth floor, strode up and down the aisles. Cracking rang out as the stiff knuckles of five hundred workers typed away, each working to produce new forms for Ifreann, Inc.’s new employee handbooks. Each page was destined for the company orientation meeting held every Tuesday for new recruits. The typists referred to him as Bossman, and they knew he longed to go digital and quiet down some of the infernal clacking. He had a boss of his own, however, and the man at the top preferred hand-typed forms to pressed sheets. Those at the top seemed adoring of the personal touch brought by a typewriter.

The once blonde, thin, and pretty Mary Silvestri had been there for forty-three years last Friday, and again told herself it would be her last day. The two-weeks notice, folded in her slacks-pocket, hung heavy. She hunched over the keyboard of her typewriter, her dimmed eyes squinting. She desperately needed glasses but she could not get them through the company health plans, so she inched closer every week. The hump in her spine had grown worse and she now slept propped up on pillows in her company bedroom, which she shuffled to each night on sore feet and aching knees. Her dresses were woefully out of fashion and frumpy, baggy beiges and browns contrasting with off-white blouses or charcoal pants. She sighed, leaned back, and pinched the bridge of her nose to quell the oncoming headache. It did not help. Wincing through a crinkled frown, she clenched her teeth.

“What is the meaning of this?” came a voice to her left. She flinched, shooting forth to once more clickety-clack away at her form. “I mean it,” came the deep drone once more, “I demand to know what you meant by that?”

“By what, sir?” she replied with a sigh.

“This lollygagging.” Bossman leaned closer, looking at her work. “Breaktime is at two in the afternoon, not a second before.” His breath was hot on her shoulder as he leaned too close over her, looking at her typed work through his stern, half-moon spectacles. “ One does not break here without express permission or at regularly scheduled break times. We do not tolerate slacking of this kind.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbled. “Won’t happen again, sir.”

“Is that sarcasm I hear?” he hissed. “Are you growing snide with me, Miss?”

“No sir, no snark on my end. No snide either.”

He slapped a hand down on the long table next to her station, startling her into a jump. “I demand,” he roared, “to know what you think you are doing?” His vocal ruckus was causing a scene; nearby eyes flicked to her station to see what was going on. No one else stopped typing. They never dared, particularly when the Bossman was in one of his moods. “Do you want to be sent upstairs?”

Mary ceased typing once more. “Upstairs?” she asked.

“Yes, you simpering ninny, upstairs!”

Upstairs, she thought. Mary had never been upstairs, never even been threatened with it. She had, in fact, only seen two rooms in the building - this one and her own quarters. Up in the high-rise sat the director, who handled disciplinary needs personally. She could not hardly deal with her own Bossman, and whoever sat over him would have seemed ten times worse. But here was her opportunity to speak with his boss face to face, to tell her side of the story. The two weeks notice weighed in her pocket even more.

“Yes, I would love to be sent upstairs.” She turned to face him. The man’s forehead had broken into a sweat, the beads dripping between the wrinkles. Graying and wispy hair stood up in a thinning fluff from his head, disheveled and mangy. His jowls quivered in anger and confusion. A tiny tongue slipped forth to wet his lips.

“Why,” he stuttered, “would you want to be sent upstairs?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, “I’ve grown tired of your bullshit.”

He reddened. “Excuse me?” he growled. “What did you just say to me?”

She was bolder now, and the thought of the sniveling man caught off-guard felt empowering. Bossman was never like this, had always kept his cool, but somehow she had pushed him into just the right place by actually requesting disciplinary action. Mary stood, her knees audibly creaking. The chair pushed away from the table, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor. Other workers were frozen in terror at the sight of Bossman, red and fuming with spittle dripping from the corner of his bulldog lips. Shuffling forward, she stood as tall as she could and gazed up into his face.

“I said I’ve grown tired of your bullshit and would like to be sent upstairs. Please, Bossman, could you call the Greys so I can head up now? I cannot stand another minute of your prattle.”

He stood before her, working his mouth up and down in an attempt to keep his jaw from falling to his chest. “You...you do not dare to speak to me this way.”

“I dare plenty, you self-important twat.”

“I am Sage Hopkins, Senior Vice President of Human Resources,” he said, tapping his golden Sage’s badge, “and I have been running this department for nearly seventy-five years!” His voice was panicky now. “You cannot speak to me in this way.”

“Please, then, Sir,” she said, a drop of honey in her voice “Just fire me.”

His jaw snapped shut at this. He narrowed his eyes, burning them directly into hers. At this point the shock had spread through the entire room. Silence rang out louder than the typewriters ever could. The room was never this quiet The drab concrete always sang out with noise, whether it was the staccato rhythm of the typing or the shuffling of weary workers. Mary had always imagined that even the cleaning people made noise. Now, with all eyes on her and the Bossman, she was keenly aware that this may have been the only silence the room ever got. She felt it was appreciated.

“Greys!” he roared, splitting the peace.

A whirring sound started up. Mary looked down the aisle to the silver doors at the end of the room - the entryway of the Greys. She watched as the lights above the door lit one by one to show their slow progress from their basement lair. There was a pleasant ding. The doors whooshed open.

Boots sounded out on the hard floor, pounding out the approach. The Greys, so-called for their sallow and thin skin as well as their drab uniforms, stomped forward in two lines. Their progression was slow, purposeful, as they cut up the aisle and came up behind Bossman.

“Halt!” cried their foreman. The froze. “Right….face!” Steel toes clicked on the ground and the men spun, turning to face Mary and her angry supervisor. The foremen stepped forward to stand next to him. “What can we do for you, sir?” he asked.

“Take this woman upstairs,” Bossman said, attempting to quell the angry shake in his voice. “Please don’t dally.” The foreman stepped forward and took Mary by the arm to lead her to the center of the two lines.

“You will stay in the center of these two columns at all times,” he said. “If you fall behind we will see it as an attempt to run and you will be apprehended. We will not be gentle if you put up a fight.”

Mary smiled up at him. “Go slowly then, dear. I’m old, and don’t move as quick as you lads do. Take pity on an old woman, or you’ll be ‘apprehending’ me the whole way upstairs.” The foreman’s lips twitched, a smile playing at the corners. Two other workers hands shot to their mouths to cover their own, keeping their eyes on the Bossman to make sure he was not paying attention.

“I think we can handle that ma’am. We’ll set a pace that will be amenable to your own gait. We aren’t monsters ma’am, but we don’t play around either. Is this acceptable?”

“Why the hell,” growled the Bossman, “would it need to be acceptable to her?”

“That will be quite alright, Sir,” Mary cooed. “You boys are fine gentlemen, considering an old woman’s troubles this way.” She turned to face the elevator and stood, waiting. The foreman once again took his place in line, standing next to her. Silently, he pushed an elbow to her and she took it, grateful for the support.

“Right…face!” called the foreman. The rest of the company turned to match their direction. “Slow forward...march.” With that the group began to move forward slowly, matching Mary’s speed well and keeping a tight bunch around her. She could hear Bossman breathing behind her, still fuming. She smiled widely, reveling in his rage, and continued marching with the young men.

“Replacement!” she heard from behind her. To her right, a panel slid open from the concrete. A man, no older than thirty, walked quickly from behind it. She could see others lined up in the darkness where he had emerged from, awaiting their turn at a typewriter. He hurried through the aisles and made his way quickly to her former seat. “Well?” she heard Bossman grunt. “Get to it!”

The Greys led her to the elevator and halted, turning about-face at the order from the foreman. He called out for the top floor and the doors slid shut. The last thing she saw of her miserable life was the sight of the Bossman, eyes still locked on her own, his face crimson and panting.

* * *

The upstairs office was quite lovely. Green, sod-like carpet covered the floors and the walls were a deep blue. The entire room looked like a paradise, an oasis on the ocean floor. A small, brown desk stood before large, gold-trimmed oaken doors. At it sat a pretty redhead. Bright-white glasses sat on the bridge of her small, pointed nose. She looked up and smiled again at Mary. “I’m sorry for the delay, the director should be with you shortly. He usually doesn’t keep people waiting like this, I apologize”

“Oh, it’s no trouble sweetie,” Mary said. She had a grin on her face from ear to ear, happy to be in such a beautiful place as opposed to the drab of her workplace and quarters. The suede, magenta couch was cushy and pleasant on her back but the real win so far had been the cup of herbal tea warming her old hands. The citrus and honey had awakened her senses and she felt giddy as she clutched the old mug. It was blue, and had a joyous snowman on it, with a peppermint ribbon attached to the handle. “My dear, is it Christmas season already?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” the young woman replied, turning back to her computer. Her keyboard was covered in a rubber skin that muffled the sound of the typing, which pleased Mary greatly. She was glad to see that not everyone had to suffer the incessant sound of typing. There was a small beep and the redhead touched a hand to her headset, clicking a button. “Yes, sir?” she asked. “I see. Ok. Yes, right away.” She keyed the headset once more and stood, coming around the desk to Mary. “The director is ready for you now.”

Mary stood but looked down at the mug in her hand. “Should I leave this with you?”

“Oh no, ma’am. The director would not be offended or annoyed by you having a mug of tea. He would prefer you to be comfortable and only wishes to hear what you have to say. Take it with you,” she said with a wink. “He may pour you another.” She held out her forearm and Mary took it, allowing herself to be led to the doors. With a loud crack, the large monoliths swung forward to allow entry.

The director’s office was beautiful, stunning in blacks and crimsons with charcoal-grey carpet lining the floor and eerie statues that somehow radiated an innate beauty. Glass display cases held weapons from all over the world - wooden spears and katana mounted on pegs, small knives on displays. On the walls hung portrait-sized prints of famous of famous medieval woodcuts. Lucifer cowering before the power of the Almighty and Virgil leading Dante Alighieri through the gates of hell with their powerful Latin warning. But it was the painting that made the biggest impression.

“Oh my,” Mary whispered to herself.

Behind his desk, huge and striking, stood a large and blown-up rendition of William Blake’s The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in the Sun, the serpent’s tail curled around the shining girl’s legs as she struggled beneath his might. Large windows rose along the walls, letting in the red glow of the city below. It was a harsh contrast to the black clouds in the sky, indicating a rain that seemed fit to burst forth. It took her breath away.

The large, onyx desk sat towards the back of the room with two comfortable-looking chairs facing it. The Secretary led her forward slowly, allowing for Mary’s painful footsteps. The girl led her to one of the chairs and helped ease her into it.

The director sat behind his desk. A small computer monitor was mounted on a silver arm protruding from it and a keyboard sat before it, a mouse at its side. He was wearing a clean, three-piece, tan suit. His red-and-gold-striped tie was crisply formed into a full-windsor knot at his throat to contrast to his dark blue shirt. The man was pale, with strawberry blonde hair and neatly trimmed mustache to match. He was pudgy, and somehow fatherly behind the desk. Mary thought of her own parents, unseen these many years in servitude of the company, and she was comforted by this.

“Mary Silvestri,” he addressed her in a silken voice. “Daughter of Paul and Gretchen Silvestri.”

“That’s me,” she said nervously, taking a sip of her tea, then immediately lowering the cup in a fit of self-conscious awareness. The director smiled at her and a whistling sounded. He removed a mug of his own from his desk drawer, a tea bag already set inside of it, and reached behind the desk.

“I keep a hot plate back here, and a kettle of water, for just such an occasion.” He poured the boiling liquid over the bag and set it aside to steep. “I like a cup just as much as the next person, at least in the afternoons.”

“Oh, that’s such a wonderful thing,” Mary said. “To think, me having tea with the director.”

“Not enough come up to have tea with me,” he said, smiling brightly at her. “We should make a habit of it.”

“Well,” she said, trailing off. A small flush rose in her cheeks.

“Ah yes, now about your request to be brought up here.” He turned to his computer monitor, clicking on something with the mouse and scrolling down. “I see you had a slight tiff with your Sage.”

“He’s a slave-driver, sir,” she said.

“I’ve seen that. We get a lot of wonderful output from his sector, but perhaps his methods are something we need to call into question. He has been with us a long time and many of his management skills are outdated.”

“How long have you been head of the company, Sir? If it’s not overstepping my bounds to ask?”

He laughed softly, a lyrical sound. “You aren’t at all, Mary. It’s a good question.” He picked up his mug of tea and took a large gulp. Mary gazed in wonder at the steam coming off the top, impressed that he was able to take a casual swig of something so hot. “Fact is I founded this company way back. Left a rival to start it so long ago that I can barely remember why I did it in the first place. They still have a corner on the market, but we get a lot of revenue and frankly they send a lot of it our way. Nice to have their patronage, really.”

“They send you employees?”

“Their standards are so ridiculously high that they simply cannot bring in much in the way of employees or clientele so we get much more of it. Ours aren’t as prestigious, but we get by.” Mary was put-off by his openness with a lowly typist. The director’s casual conversation was setting a tingle of unnerving off in her spine.

“Sir,” she asked, “it sounds like you know why I’ve been sent up here. I was rather harshly worded with my Sage.”

“Oh that,” he chuckled. “That’s not why you were brought up here. Not at all.”

“Why, then? Why bring me up here, treat me so sweetly?”

“Mary, may I see the letter in your pocket?”

This caught her completely by surprise.

“The resignation letter. A two-weeks notice, am I correct?”

She glanced around nervously. The letter was extracted and laid on his desk. He reached across, pulled it to him, and opened it. She sipped at her tea nervously as he took another gulp of his, reading her carefully chosen scrawl.

“I see you have had some misunderstandings about not only where you are but what the nature of your employment is.”

“I know it,” she said. “I know what I’m here for. I signed a contract with the company to work off my debt and I did the math. It’s included there, on the second page.” He flipped to read her arithmetic, carefully mapped out on the back. “Took me over a year, sir. I’m not very good with mathematics so I checked it over several times before copying it out.”

“I see that,” he said quietly. “You’ve done quite well. The value of your house and all of the insurance cash you tried to gain has been paid off two-fold.”

“Precisely, sir!” she said, excited that he understood. “I’ve paid my debt to Ifreann and then some. I just want some rest, sir.”

He smiled up at her. “Where do you think you are?”

“Where I am, sir?” she asked. “I’m in your office at Ifreann, Incorporated. I’ve worked as a typist in your pool on the fifty-sixth floor for two thirds of my life, all of it under Sage Hopkins.” Her fingers twitched, the cup of tea shaking in her hand. “I live on the thirty-third floor, in a small room with a sink, bathtub, bed, and closet for my clothes.”

“I see,” he replied. “I assume you also know why you are here.”

She sighed, knowing this had been coming. “I’m here because I burned my house down for the insurance payout. I was caught and, instead of prison, I was offered what seems to be basically indentured servitude in order to pay off my debt. I never knew I had gone so much further until I began trying to add it up.”

“And how did you come to all of these conclusions?”

“They told me at the front desk, sir, when they gave me my welcome packet and told me of the deal.”

He leaned his head back and blew out a hard breath, exasperated.

“I’m sorry, Mister Director, I didn't mean to be a frustration to you.” She was nervous now, scared that she had found herself in a precarious position.

“It isn’t you,” he sighed, leaning forward over his desk and coming to his feet. “We don’t do things like that anymore, no sugar-coating it. It’s been so long since we told people that kind of thing when they got here. Pity was never our strong suit but we thought we would try it, thought perhaps our output would be better if we could get that going. Things didn't go so well when we did that and, frankly, I hated the idea. Much better to be upfront and honest about these kinds of things.”

Mary was confused. “What kinds of things, sir?”

“Luke,” he said. “You may call me Luke. I think, given that you’ve been living under this illusion for so long, we can dispense with the formalities and speak plainly.”

“Ok, Luke. What formalities?”

He came around and leaned against his desk in front of her, pity in his eyes. “Mary,” he said, “you’re dead.”

She felt her heart skip a beat. “What the hell do you mean, I’m dead?”

“Hell,” he chuckled. “You’re dead. You know, as a doornail and all that. ‘Marley was dead, this must be clearly understood or nothing I say is special’ and on and on. You’ve been dead for decades, and it was the lie we perpetrated that got you stuck the way you have been. I’m just sorry I didn’t notice it earlier, you were meant to be moved a long time ago.”

Mary rose and wandered away to the windows, gazing out, and the director followed. Since arriving at Ifreann she had not seen the outside world. Observing the grounds, a small pit fell in her stomach. The other employees outside, slaving away at other tasks, were in their own suffering as she had been in the typing pool. She saw and understood, felt the truth in Luke’s words, and felt a fear rising in her.

“I see,” she said. “How?”

“Well that is more simple,” he said, springing back to his desk and regaining the song in his voice. He crossed back to his chair and began scrolling through the display on his computer monitor. “When you burned the house down you became trapped inside. It was always easiest to keep as much of the truth in the explanation as possible. When you lit the fuse the fire spread through the gasoline more quickly than you had expected and as you tripped up the stairs it engulfed them. You never even made it out of the basement, dear.”

Mary took his words and held them, processing what she had just heard. “Makes sense,” she muttered.

“Does it?” he asked. “We usually get a lot more fight out of people when they learn the truth.”

“Nah, not me,” she said. “I can see what’s going on down there, even from all the way up here. I know where I am now, and frankly it helps me make sense of your age. I figured something was wrong when you said you founded the place. You had to either be a something different or having a laugh, maybe both. It was either that or you were completely gaga up in your head. Or I was.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well then, since you’re processing better than most we can discuss your options.” The smile had returned to his face when she turned around, a crease wrinkling her wizened brow.

“What options?” she asked.

“Well, I did say you were supposed to be moved.”

“Ah,” she said, her face falling. “Down there, you mean.” She was not asking, her future quite clear in what she had gleaned from gazing out of the window.

“Oh no, not there,” he said with another musical laugh. “You were never scheduled for down there. We send too many down there as it is. Do you know how crowded things are getting? We have a waitlist to get out on the grounds, that’s how bad it’s gotten these days. Things are quite out of hand honestly, we never expected the company to experience this kind of growth. All newcomers either work in here or just wait in a kind of limbo.”

“Where, then?” she asked, puzzled but curious.

“Well, we could start with lower management. That’s usually where people start out when we aren’t moving them outside, it wets their feet a bit.”

“Lower management,” she said flatly.

“Well yes, I think you’d be a prime candidate for that. Perhaps we could start you out leading the welcoming committee?”

Mary sighed and turned from the window. She opened her mouth and then snapped it shut, gathering her thoughts.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said at last.

“Oh really?” Luke said, smiling widely. “And may I ask why not?”

“You most certainly can, Sir.” Mary gripped her hands together tightly to keep them from shaking. “I’ve been overlooked, up for a move long before this. I’ve seen what management can be like and I think I have improvements that can be made.”

“Ah, you think being overlooked qualifies you for something more?”

“Maybe not 'qualifies,' but it would be damned good at a higher position.”

“Sadly, Mary, there are others ahead of you.”

“Have they been left to clack away under Sage Hopkins?”

“Uh, no,” Luke said, chuckling. “They have not.”

“Well then,” she said, clapping her hands together, “perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

Luke sat back, looking her over. She kept the smile plastered to her face, frightened that she may have pushed a bit much but it was too late to stop now.

“Sir, I-”

“Did you ever learn any Yiddish?” he asked, cutting her off.

“No, can’t say that I did.”

“There’s a wonderful old proverb in that language, fun thing. I use it in a lot of our upgrade packets these days. If your file hadn’t fallen in that awkward transitional period you would have received one much sooner, but you’ll be getting one momentarily.”

Mary crossed the room, slowly. She was intrigued by this turn of fortune and at the prospect of avoiding being transferred outside of the building. Sitting before him, she lifted her mug to her lips and took another sip, draining the last of the cup. “What’s the quote?” she asked.

Luke smiled at her, broadly. He turned, lifting his own mug from the back of the desk and bringing it forth for another blazing sip. “Hell shared with a sage,” he said, “is better than heaven with a fool.”

* * *

Around Mary rose a symphony. The clickity-clacking of typewriters sounded around her, the music rising to elate her spirits. Between her hands was clasped a cane, it’s base pushed firmly to the floor by her gnarled hands as her bony finger swung as a conductor’s baton, counting a four-time. All around her rose the song, the beautiful sound of her creation. She glanced around, watching the helpless and broken as they spun lyrics and song around her. A young man glanced up at her nervously and she put on her best scowl, a dark storm on her face behind her own half-moon glasses, and the man’s eyes shot back down to his typewriter His hands began moving as fast as he could manage.

Mary smiled to herself and raised her cane, tapping it twice on the ground. “Come now,” she simpered, “we must move faster. Can’t keep the director waiting.”

“Yes ma’am, right away Sage Silvestri,” they called out in unison. Mary’s grin spread over her face, a genuine happiness settling into her. Fire warmed her chest and she stood up straighter, her back popping delightfully and her legs blissfully numb. Her feet were cradled in padded slippers. The bright gleam of her Sage’s badge stood out against her black suit. The typewriters racked away their song in unison, and yet she heard something slightly off.

“Come now, Demitri, we mustn't slow down,” she cooed. “As they say, ‘The way of the sluggard is the way of thorns.’ You don't want the thorns again, do you?”

“No, Sage Silvestri,” he said. Once again the typewriters rang out in unison.

The music sang out, echoing off of the columns and walls and floor as the concrete sent the sounds sailing around the room. She closed her eyes to allow it to wash over her, through her, and it fueled her. There had already been changes, and she was not done. Mary Silvestri would tapped her cane on the floor again, creating a rhythm for her subjects. As the smile spread over her face, she stood in the eb and flow and allowed it to carry her in its submissive melody.