The Twenty Third Floor

The twenty-second floor, home to the types and clerks that peer over the tops of dividends like human veal.One particular calm, a brunette typist with green eyes named Edith Neuwirth, needed a change. She slaved for a soul-less life insurance company, a clown-faced cesspool of depression and repressed people, some at the end of their ropes, others just out of college, in for the (Very boring) long haul. Her supervisor was an arrogant jerk, this man made his living terrorizing the typing pool. He gleaned noblement from stalking the silk and Chanel cented fields of typewriters. Edit was very good at not being seen, keeping her affairs firmly to herself, even when Karl the boss man stomped on her schedule by keeping her late and with no overtime. No justice, she’d think to herself. She always did as she was told and never outwardly complained. Karl favorite the highly made-up, shallow, clucking hens of the finance department, but recently he had taken to sniffing out the typist quarter. Edith was very astute and noticed that when a girl stayed late, that means that Karl, with a ‘K’ wanted something. But, she would ponder, why would he make her stay late and never approach her with even the slightest request. Then like every day, as it nearly ever so close to the five, the clock’s ticking grow louder so that no one could block it out, and then when it felt like you were going to lose Your head, the bell would signal the stampede of smartly couture cattle. Well, here I am still working and until he says so, again, She thought, in utter defeat. Once again she would have to put off catching the latest Hitchcock picture. And once again she was the only soul seated at the typing machines, the rest all snug inside their little green plastic cosies, silent and peaceful. The tap tapping droned on, and on, and on. The rhythm sounding more and more like some twisted version of Gene Krupa’s syncopated drum beats. Tap-taptippytap-tap-tipp-pip-pat-tat……………

Satisfiedthat she was in no immediate danger, she began to gingerly unfasten the tight black straps that keep her bound in her inexpensive shiny five-inch heels. Holding the thin heel, she lifted her aching foot out of the shoe and squeezed her small size six foot. “Goodness….oh.” she breathed. Then crossing over her other leg, she went to undo the buckle of the strap and it sprang smartly out from the tension. “There we are….” Edith closed her eyes and firmly gasped her ankles and gently massaged them, scarcely feeling the dark reinforced heel and back-seam. Edith never dressed too clearly always partial to conservative dark suits. Today she had picked her suffocatingly fitted, navy-blue knee-length Dior number. She had a habit of cinching up her snowy blooms right up to the last asphyxiating button. She placed her long legs up onto her desk; she felt a short nap was in order and with a skittish look around finally let her guard down and closed her eyes.

Karl with a ‘K’ was a peculiar monster, coming from years of privilege and grooming that only New York’s bluest of Blue bloods could provide. As he sat sipping a martini in the locke one floor above where Edith was at that moment sleep at her post, her machine silent. He wondered wether or not he could get Edith to make him a meal out of the executive fridgidair, his stomach fluttered at the thought and his mouth salivated. Besides, he reasoned, if he had to stay late, as a subordinate, it was her duty to appear his discomforts. Down went the glass and he stood slowly, adjusting his two thousand dollars Italian suit’s laptops, then scootched up his fifty-dollar silk tie. In the elevator he instructed the freckled bellhop to mind his P’s and Q’s when he returned to go back upstairs. Of course, agreed the boy, and they descended to the twenty-second floor. At that moment, Edith was dreaming that she was swimming in a shallow, clear ocean; her feet melted together like a mermaid’s tail, her skin opalescent red and blue, same as her business attire. She blew red rosy kisses at whales and was about to submit to the whims of a straightened sailor on a small one-palm island. She looked hungrily into his glassy eyes, then he opened his mouth, little brass bells came tumbling out, collecting into a noisy pile at his feet. DING! She opened her eyes slowly and saw Karl, towering over her, his disciplinarian face firmly on, head shaking. “Have we were sleeping soundly?” She stared horrified, with big emerald eyes. Her mermaid tail was gone. Only her five inch black patent leather heels, not expensive, just small and tight. “Get a pen and pad and follow me, we’re going up to the twenty-third floor. She moved quickly and scuffled in the Boundaries of her fitted skirt. The elevator doors slide firm, and like a bad dream. DING!

End of part one.