Flicker Flight Part 03
My office building greets me as it does every day. I have always thought the architect could have put some effort into making it look less like a yawning maw, the parking garage entrance swallowing each poor soul like a whirlpool sucking in oblivious sailors. I work for an online party supply store; you would think that would at least liven the place up a bit, but our offices are no different from the rest. Perhaps it is passé to whine about an office job….It almost certainly is, but I cannot help but feel I match the grey walls, grey carpets, and the other grey people the longer I work here.
After gearing up the energy to walk inside, I board the elevator and watch with passive dismay as the room around shrinks with each subsequent passenger. Instead of focusing on the bodies, each with their own noises and smells, I divert my attention to the walls. Recent construction on the top floors brought with it moving blankets that now cover the inside of the elevator, giving it a red, quilted coating. This particular almost purple shade of maroon always reminds me of a heart; I imagine we are all blood cells being pumped against our will to some other branch of the circulatory system. That thought provides little comfort but it does distract long enough for me to reach my floor.
I am not distracted so much by my father’s pictures and the secret hole in my house’s wall, though even remembering it sounds insane. What keeps breaking my attention, what has kept me in a haze all week, is that I never expected to learn anything new about my father. Maybe something small, but this feels monumental. I know next to nothing still, nothing concrete, but as I run those photos over again in my mind, they strike a disjointed chord within me. Connective tissue strings each of his pictured subjects together; that is what I cannot begin to decipher.
I do not even manage my normal feeble greetings this morning; I barely remember walking to my office, but I arrive at my desk, nonetheless. My office is just as dull as every other room in this building. If anything, it is more boring. I have always been told that the more you decorate your space at work, the longer you will stay. That has never actually held true for me, but I seem to subconsciously agree. This is certainly not where I want to be, neither right now, nor in a more extended, existential sort of view, so my walls are bare. If pressed, I just claim to enjoy a neat workspace but we all know that is not the root cause. How damning would it be if I actually cared about this place? I look at the clock and realize an hour has passed and I am still looking at my first spreadsheet. Case in point. A quick headshake gives me enough focus to order new stock of themed plates and cups, and I manage to keep up this pace for about an hour, though eventually, my thoughts are dragged back to that crawl-space.
I am already asleep a couple of minutes later when a combination of a screech and a loud thud terrify me awake. I overreact, flailing around like I am stung by a dozen bees, and bang my elbow against the window. Nursing it, and filling my car with as many swears as I know, I look for a culprit. Nothing stands outside my window, though it is obscured by a splatter-stain of greasy marks. My door groans as I open it… slowly.
A crow lies crumpled on the concrete, a few feathers scattered haphazardly around it, the last twitching evidence of life fading. I twist my leg out of the car and nudge the body to see if there is any chance it will live. It rolls over and stops moving, its beak open and neck bent at an impossible angle. I just stare at it for a minute, my disbelief only growing. I know birds are dumb enough to run into windows, but my car is perpendicular to the gaps between floors and parked next to a tall SUV. The crow would have had to fly along the tops of the other cars, and even then, how would it have been able to dive quickly enough to hit my window? I know nothing about birds… or about nature in general, but this seems exceedingly out-of-the-ordinary.
Hands shaking, I close the door and attempt to calm myself. Maybe it is the rude awakening, but I find myself more shaken than reasonable. I keep glancing over at the window, fascinated by the dramatic pattern the bird’s feathers left. It must have been traveling quickly; even the individual barbs of each feather have left a distinct mark. I pull the gear shift into reverse and pull from my parking spot. It takes me a few minutes to find another open spot and it is at the very bottom of the garage, but it is worth it to be as far away from the bird as possible.
No chance of a nap now. Reaching into my glove compartment, I grab as many napkins as I can hold and attempt to wipe the window clean. The grease is flecked with blood and both seem reluctant to leave the glass. After a couple of minutes, it is as clean as possible, and I make a mental note to stop by the car wash on the way home.
This is the new home for the serial novel formerly titled Remembered.
New parts coming every week.
