He was confused and depressed—and annoyed. His therapy consisted of pep talks and lessons about plants. Dr Escobar didn’t understand how hopeless he felt, and how unhappy. He’d lately started to imagine himself as a dead person, lying with his hands folded over his chest in the middle of his jumbled room. He found this image of himself as a corpse mildly titillating. It gave him an odd sort of blushing pleasure.
He stumbled into the elevator with his tub of soup.
“Welcome, Mr Swan,” said the watery male voice. He was in Elevator 3 again.
“Neg 12,” he said.
The music started out as a low-pitched throb that faded almost immediately. The machine stopped at Neg 31, the doors slid apart and she was standing directly in front of him; the girl from Abundance! Once again, her dome-shaped hairdo obscured her face entirely. This time, however, she wore a satiny white dress with translucent sleeves and a faux black belt. The rest of the universe, along with all of his worries and concerns, was immediately suctioned out of Swan’s brain. The poignant image of his death scene evaporated. His mind became hyper alert and blandly vacant simultaneously. She stood motionless just beyond the opening.
“The doors will close in two seconds,” said the watery voice.
As she was blinded by her hairdo, he felt there was no shame in studying her closely. He stood in admiration of all the facets of her beauty; the sharp profile of her shoulders, her long arms which were very pale and graceful, the lovely symmetry of her tapered fingers with their fuchsia-colored nails, her legs which were very long. He noticed for the first time that her breasts were small, and the thought of their existence as separate objects beneath the fabric of her dress just inches from where he stood excited him immensely. He imagined being alone with her in a darkened room; not completely black, but dim. They were reclining together on something. The word divan popped into his mind though he wasn’t sure if this was the exact piece of furniture he was thinking of. Whatever it was, in his mental movie they lowered themselves onto it, and he began to stroke and kiss her delicious budding breasts.
In reality, she had not progressed beyond the opening of the elevator.
“The doors will be closing,” Elevator 3 reminded them again.
Swan recovered himself. He realized he was obstructing her. “Sorry,” he said, stepping backwards to allow her access.
The girl didn’t say anything, but after a second, stepped to the spot Swan had vacated. Then, she turned her back to him.
She was quite tall, almost exactly Swan’s own height—but he noticed she was wearing her platform vinyl boots again.
“Please announce your destination,” said the voice.
“Pos One,” she said softly.
She was going to the surface! What could she possibly want to do up there? Swan was both surprised and embarrassed at having overheard this evocative and private bit of information. He racked his brain for something he might say to her. Whatever he decided to say, it was important not to sound surprised that she was the kind of person who wanted to go to the surface.
The elevator music, now influenced by the vital signs of both passengers together, had changed to a wild-eyed arrangement of violins. There were only seconds left before they reached Swan’s floor.
“I just had the most incredible thing,” Swan began.
Somehow he’d found the courage! He was speaking!
The girl didn’t say anything.
“I saw some tiny, very little people. I don’t—”
“What do you want?!” the girl asked without turning her head.
“Sorry. I just wanted to say. I saw you and—”
“I believe you’re that person who was lying on the floor yesterday.”
“I fell,” said Swan.
“Negative 12,” the elevator announced as the doors opened on the maroon hallway.
Swan tilted his face toward the ceiling. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m going on.”
The elevator did not immediately respond. There were several seconds during which absolutely nothing happened. When Elevator 3 finally spoke, it said, “Which floor would you prefer?”
“I’m going to the surface.”
The doors shut but the elevator did not move. The music faded. Together, the girl with the 360° bob and Swan stood waiting. He continued to watch her, silhouetted against hundreds of small bright vids depicting other slender girls with pointed shoulders and hips. They all moved with studied indifference. Cameras zoomed in on eyes and nails and lips. He saw girls being dressed; drab looking people, both men and women, were busily applying makeup and adjusting the costumes worn by these aloof and expressionless girls. Several wore sparkly gowns with slits exposing pale lines of skin. Some were naked above the waist, dressed only in tattoos. Some wore metallic skin-tight pants. He quickly realized that his own erotic ideals were being projected on the walls of the elevator. He tried to divert these thoughts by focusing on the flickering pixellight that played along the strands of her impeccable dome of hair.
“Stalking is prohibited in the Cumulus,” the elevator voice said suddenly.
Swan looked up. The ceiling was now as featureless as if it extended into black infinity. The girl did not react.
“What do you mean?” he said as he felt the effect of blood rushing to his face in the dark.
“You and Ms O’Brien are not affiliated—”
“Don’t tell him my name!” the girl cried out as she kicked the elevator door with her boot.
There was a pause.
“It is preferred that you travel separately, Mr Swan,” said the elevator.
“I don’t understand,” Swan said.
The doors slid open. “Erotic fantasies tend to demoralize everyone,” it said as all along Swan’s hallway, hundreds of maroon-tinted images of disembodied hands beckoned to him. Swan did not move.
“I remind you, this is the floor you requested.”
“I told you I changed my mind. I want to go to the surface now.” Was it possible that the elevator could read his thoughts so precisely?
“All residents must refrain from conduct that violates Cumulus Policy,” the elevator announced. “Any person who is concerned about a violation is urged to speak,” The voice paused. “Do you wish to file a complaint, Ms O’Brien?”
“Please, can we just go?” the girl said in a bored voice.
“There is a procedure—”
“Just go!”
“Oh, Ebony!” the elevator said in a plaintive voice.
“My god,” she said. “You’re such an idiot.”
Swan struggled to understand what was happening. “Your name is Ebony,” he said softly to the back of her head.
“How could you!?” she screamed at the ceiling. “How could you give me up like this!?”
“I’m sorry,” said the elevator. “I’m terribly sorry.” They began to travel upwards at what felt like a faster than normal rate.
“Ebony O’Brien,” Swan said aloud. He felt as if he’d fallen into a trance. The name was beautiful. It felt splendid. It was so perfectly her.
The music got loud again. It sounded as if steel wires were being scrubbed by a file.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude.” Swan had to shout to be heard. “I’m sorry if it seemed like that.”
“Ebony!” the elevator cried out mournfully.
Swan looked up. “This music—!” He shouted.
“—Is not music.” The elevator responded with a patronizing tone. “Biomelodics can mimic the conventions of music without actually being musical.”
They came to a sudden stop. Swan assumed he was again going to be asked to leave. Instead, the doors opened to reveal a new passenger, a man quite old, forty or more, with gray tousled hair. He was dressed in what looked like a child’s one-piece playsuit. It was yellow with wide shoulder straps and had a blue bear embroidered on its chest. He was grinning broadly as he tiptoed in from the powder blue lobby. They both stepped back to allow him space.
“Abundance,” the man said. Then he giggled.
“Yes, Mr Palmer,” said the elevator.
“I told you not to call me Palmer!”
“Yes, Mr Poopiepants.”
The man harrumphed as they once more began to ascend. “Next time don’t forget!” he said.
The ersatz music now became less jarring. Normal violins were back, as were jangly bells and squeaky toys; sounds that didn’t mesh. Swan was speaking to Ebony O’Brien softly.
“I was embarrassed—” he said.
“There’s no need—” she whispered.
“Consent,” the elevator announced. “is not to be obtained using coercion, pressure, or force.”
The man in the yellow jumper was sucking on his thumb.
“We’re simply trying to have a conversation!” Swan said.
“Consent means clear and voluntary agreement to engage,” the elevator went on.
“Honestly!”
“Consent requires an unequivocal, yes. It cannot be inferred from the absence of a no.”
“Consent to what?” Swan asked.
“Negative 2,” said the elevator. The doors opened on the bright yellow lobby of Abundance.
Mr. Poopiepants glanced back at them as he hopped into the hall. “I’m going to find my mommy!” he said.
A woman piled high with buns was just about to enter.
“Going up I’m afraid!” cautioned the elevator and she halted her advance. The doors slid shut.
“Consent to what?” Swan began again.
“Do you wish to file a complaint, Ms O’Brien?” the elevator repeated.
“About what?!” Swan demanded. They were, once again, stationary.
The girl didn’t say anything.
“Well, Ebony?” asked the elevator.
The girl remained silent.
“People are waiting,” Swan said. “Don’t you think you should get on with your work?”
“There are only 112 people living in the Cumulus,” said the elevator. “And there are three of us.”
“You mean, here, in the elevator?”
“No. I’m referring to the three of us elevators. We serve a small clientele. Do you realize there are 452 empty apartments in this building, Mr Swan?”
“No,” said Swan.
“Recently, in two of the supposedly occupied rooms, no motion has been detected for nine days. One is forced to draw one’s own conclusions.”
“I want to go!” the girl said.
The elevator sighed. “Positive One,” it announced meekly.
They arrived at the surface. The doors opened to warm sunbeams streaming through the lobby glass. The silent glowing plaza was visible beyond.
“Any person with a concern or complaint is urged to speak!” The elevator was nearly shouting.
“This is so ridiculous,” Swan said as Ebony took the tiniest step forward and stopped. Swan, who’d begun to move at the same time, feared bumping against her, and was forced to maneuver around her and into the empty lobby. He was still clutching his container of soup when he turned to face her.
She stood rigidly on the spot. Swan wondered if she was somehow able to see him through her curtain of hair after all. Regardless, she was even more lovely and enigmatic than she’d been the morning he watched her walk over him. The sun’s warm rays fell upon Swan’s back and Swan’s shadow fell across Ebony’s dress. It was one of those moments; everything, all the particles that made up Swan’s reality—the light that played in Ebony’s lustrous hair, her chaste white dress with its faux black belt, her boots of shiny patent vinyl, all of these diverse stimuli taken together felt correct to Swan. Everything was familiar and significant.
“Take me back!” Ebony suddenly blurted.
The doors shut immediately. Ebony O’Brien was gone.
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Gone but definitely not forgotten... hilarious! I'm seeing Kodi Smit-McPhee as Swan, Anya Taylor-Joy as Ebony, Miriam Margolyes as Dr. Escobar, and myself in a cameo role as Mr.Poopiepants.