rinseLacerate

One

My rest is disrupted by the sound of a thousand crystal glasses breaking against a marble floor somewhere. I open one eye, quizzically scanning my vicinity. Remembering the limbs on the landing above, I squint and see an index finger or two tremble nervously. Curiosity piqued, I unfold my frame and rise after disconnecting the argon but leaving the helium. Always conserve as much helium as possible.

From afar, the limbs remind me of algae, merrily swaying with an invisible current, but the closer I get, the sadder the tale. Skin, stained yellow and grey from neglect and disuse, jitter and crack but instead of blood only sand spills to the floor.

How is it that no one has reported this? If I had a head, I'd shake it in disbelief. Limbs this weak are much better off recycled. I call up a funeral march on the intercom, but to my dismay this month's quota has already been met. With a deep sigh, I whistle a sad tune while meticulously injecting limb after limb with exactly 34.2 cc of strychnine.

As the last limb implodes with a discreet poof, a disconnected nozzle complains loudly somewhere behind me.

Two

Fuck. It's just all steel around me, thick, riveted steel. I feel like the last passenger on some long-forgotten vessel from the nineteenth century. Caressing the matte black surface next to my face gives some relief: it's warm to the touch and my fingers find a faint pattern to trace. I might just like it here. A warm, dark, steel womb.

But then I remember why I'm here: the exhaust vent. No limbs means manually maintaining relative pressure, or, in my case: express elevator to hell. No wonder it’s dark, warm and cramped here. I make an effort to regain my composure. Where’s that vent again? And do I actually need to reset it? Perhaps I already did, and if I didn’t – will it actually matter?

I have requested – more than once – that they apply a bit of elasticity to time events related to overall pressure. I could, in theory, just ignore this situation and get on with my life. Reset the vent or not, toil around in this miserable pit or relax on the sundeck with a daiquiri in hand. Either way, the danger of unconstrained time spill would be negligible.

As I turn to leave, I see mortar coming out from between the bricks, dusting the floor with a thin layer of white. Then the world implodes.

Three

I regain consciousness two thousand feet in the air over unknown territory in an unfamiliar body: you'd think I'd be used to it by now, but that just never seems to happen. This time I'm strapped to a paraglider of a familiar Spanish brand (they claim to make it from recycled aluminum, but that’s not even a little bit true).

Time for a physics check-up: carbon-based life form with four limbs in total, all of them apparently in working order. So far so good. There's a row of gauges in front of me – most of them fake, no doubt – and I tap a select few to see what information they might reveal. Airspeed seems to be 3 on a scale of 1 to 5. Barometric pressure stands at 5.672.7 and relative friction is .3364. That last readout bothers me. Was it really that low last time? Ah, to hell with it. Can't do anything about that anyway. Instead, I scan the land below me in an attempt to identify my whereabouts. I squint at the intricate pattern of black lines against reddish-brown soil. Is that the delta of the river Wisla?

I lose altitude alarmingly fast: this I don’t learn from any of the gauges, no sir, not at all. Just common sense and the fact that I suddenly find myself being able to make out individual trees below me. How did this happen? Did an invisible raptor slash my polyester wings when I wasn't looking?

As I brace for impact, one of the gauges starts flashing red – surely the one assessing structural integrity.

Four

As I limp away from the wreck site, someone beckons me to join them at the bar. More than happy to oblige, I adjust my bow-tie, flick away an invisible speck of dirt from my lapel and try to pick up the pace.

This is what I’ve been looking for all day: a dark bar crafted from weathered mahogany, a discreet barman clad in white, stools made of stainless steel and genuine leather. Relieved, I grab the iced daiquiri in front of me and glance back at the wreckage of the paraglider. As fate would have it, the trees turned out to be perfect for an emergency landing: their trunks highly malleable, leaves and branches soft and rubbery. There's damage to this body, no doubt about it, but it could have been a lot worse.

Using olives, pickled onions and brightly colored cocktail umbrellas, the barman tries to reenact a well known tropical depression from -97 in front of me. I snatch a green olive with pimentos and eat while he draws me a diagram, an outline in black and white of the relative benefits of hurricanes over typhoons. But when he asks me to assess the amount of neglectable debris being transferred between zones D5 and C1 each season, all I can do is nod vaguely and point to my empty glass, something that’s clearly not appreciated.

His face is suddenly very close, pupils wide and black, voice too loud. I'm acutely aware of the temperature dropping and dark clouds approaching.

“Time for you to leave, little one. You’re broken, and the doctor will see you now.”

Five

“This does not look good.” The doctor towers over me, frowning. How old is he again? It seems I should know, but the number that comes up in my head does not seem to correspond with what I see before me. Those trembling, liver-spotted hands and that emaciated body look ancient. “Not good at all.”

Brandishing a big, shiny steel instrument that looks disturbingly intrusive, he leans in closer and calls out for a nurse. Almost immediately, a middle aged man in washed-out purple scrubs enters the room, pushing a medication cart in front of him. He stops and unlocks the cart to reveal an impressive array of bottles, glasses, mixers, pills, pipes and assorted mushrooms.

The doctor glances at the cart and seems to weigh his options. With an almost imperceptible shrug, he puts the steel instrument away, gets up and walks over to the cart. The doctor and the man start pouring each other drinks and lighting cigarettes while conferring in hushed voices. The man points questioningly in my direction with his Gauloise, but the doctor shakes his head, instead urging the man to try a concoction of rubbing alcohol, eau-de-vie, aged rose water and a pinch of bergamot.

The man drinks, greedily, and the heady beverage seems to instantly push him over the edge. He staggers sideways, grasping for the cart, but misses and crashes into the wall, unable to break his fall. The doctor dismisses him with a snort and calmly drops his half-smoked cigarette in an almost empty bottle of chartreuse before finally acknowledging me again.

“Look, I'm no surgeon, but I do take on the occasional side gig – a spinal rejuvenation here, a by-pass job there. You know the routine. I could maybe install something new here. Freshly printed, never used.”

I consider his offer and check my balance, as stealthily as I can. The number that comes back is disappointing, to say the least. When I relate my financial situation, the doctor shrinks away from me, disappointed and morose.

Six

I am whisked away to a modified Victorian boarding school to recuperate, but also to settle my debt. The cost of the vat-grown spare parts and repurposed ligaments are steep, but acceptable. The fact that I have to pay 70% market value for the Spanish paraglider is a bitter pill to swallow, though. There’s even a 2% surcharge for “excessive use of strychnine”. How dare they.

Everything is creaky here – I do my best not to break decorum, but with these century-old buildings that's virtually impossible. Wooden floorboards, wooden paneling, intricate and delicate furniture that seems to moan and complain if you so much as look at it. The floors are cold, the halls vast and empty. Not bad, not bad at all, were it not for all that creaking.

My time is carefully divided: a measure of eurythmy in the garden (under the supervision of the head cleric) is followed by five sessions in the dumbwaiter. That slight amount of time between floors is something I treasure: the smell of nineteenth century mahogany, the remaining varnish coming off in tiny, dark flakes. I rub a digit slowly against the blackened brass of a handle, for the sensory information if nothing else.

At night, we harvest fruit in the backyard, black, oddly shaped fruit that is roasted in the boiler room. The skin is tough, but enough heat makes it warp and split in tiny explosions of darkened pulp and barren seeds.

The cleric informs me he can't get warm and moves closer and closer to the fire. The closer he gets, the smaller he becomes until he comfortably can be added to the flames.

At some point not long after, I’m loaded onto a truck and taken to the nearest transit.

Seven

There are statues on either side of the entrance when I arrive, two tall, black, penguin-like figures I don't remember ever seeing before. Their smooth, matte surface looks soft and makes me think of salty licorice. Is it possible to cast a statue from licorice? I approach one, cautiously, but the closer I get, the more it turns away from me.

Unexpectedly, the massive doors, made of crenelated egg shells and polished limestone, swing open to reveal the butler, clad in corduroy and crimson pine clogs. “Please don't fraternize with the staff ''. His voice is boomy and sullen, tinged with exasperation. “You are expected – follow me”.

I try to move lightly on these marble floors, so heavy and polished I feel like an intruder setting foot on them. The butler is behind me, large and unforgiving, not letting me stop or even slow down. After the first flight of stairs, we arrive at the elevator hall. “12 elevators to reach the 36th floor, 3 stopping at odd floors and 3 at even. 3 to take you 18 floors and 3 to take you 18 more. Can you do the math, boy?”

I can’t and the butler knows it. He graces me with one look under raised eyebrows, then leaves, dignity intact. For a while I can hear his steps receding into the distance, then everything goes quiet. I walk up to one of the elevators. Door of anodized aluminum with zircon inlays, call button no doubt made from the tusk of some endangered mammal.

This place makes me nervous. If I am expected, then by who? And why make it difficult for me to reach the person that is expecting me? I summon the elevator, and immediately regret it: my action wakes up heavy machinery somewhere above me, and the noise seems almost offensive in this serene place.

As the elevator announces its arrival with a loud DING, everything again goes silent. The doors open, slowly, slowly, like a maw on an unsuspecting prey.

Eight

I peek into the dimly lit elevator, unwilling to enter. The controls seem easy enough: three rows of ivory buttons on a matte silver panel. No emergency stop, no alarm, not even a couple of friendly open/close door-options. Get stuck in this elevator and you’re in a world of hurt. I squint at the tiny buttons and make out the number 9. What was it again, 3 to take me..? 36 is even, so this elevator must be… I step away from it and the doors close, unexpectedly and with enough force to make me fall over backwards, momentarily deafened by the crash.

I stay low and adjust my limbs for easier travel close to a smooth surface. Say what you will about the doctor, that drunken old bastard – at least he didn’t sell me any second rate replacement parts. My ears still ringing, I head to the end of the hall, as far away from the elevators as possible.

This suits me, the subdued light and sound over where the floor meets the ceiling. I curl up, savoring the few specks of dirt and dust I encounter. I almost doze off, but then suddenly remember – I’m expected somewhere. Can I just ignore that and stay here? If I make myself small and inconspicuous, they might never ever notice me again.

Just as I think these thoughts, a section of the wall opens and a hand, tiny and pale, reaches out and beckons me.

Nine

There is something very comforting about small things. Never have I found this to be more true than here, where everything seems huge, heavy, hard and shiny.

There is a bronze plaque – tiny, of course – next to the opening in the wall and if I squint I can just make out two words: “Service” and “elevator”. Before crawling in, I touch the eroded surface of the plaque, briefly, savoring the cold metal under my fingers.

The service elevator is operated by a slender, golden-haired boy not half my size. He salutes me with that tiny, pale hand I saw from afar before turning his attention to the control panel. After pushing a series of buttons, he cranks a wooden handle clockwise, then counter-clockwise and again clockwise. While holding the handle, he pushes a couple of more buttons, then raps his knuckles against the display of a large, round brass instrument. Silence. He sighs, audibly, then tries a different combination of buttons, cranks the handle a few more times, raps his knuckles. This time, a faint ticking can be heard and we start moving upwards, slowly.

Suddenly, the handle turns violently in the boy's hand and the elevator stops with a screeching sound. Several buttons flash in an ominous way and somewhere in the distance, a bell chimes. The boy mutters to himself, muted oaths in a raspy, high pitched voice.

He repeats the sequence several times – buttons, crank, more buttons, brass instrument. I can see his tiny muscles struggle and for a moment consider helping him, but then remember the butler's warning.

After some time the boy manages to enter what seems to be a valid combination, and the elevator ascends unimpeded. Clearly pleased with this achievement, he takes a step back, wipes the sweat from his brow and turns to me. He smiles with tiny, white teeth too sharp and even to be real and produces a sketchbook and a permanent marker. Eagerly, the boy starts drawing what looks like a flowchart. I lean in to try to understand what’s going on and suddenly pick up a sour, wild stench. He looks up at me with eyes that are almost colorless and points to the diagram: lines and circles drawn in an intricate pattern without leading anywhere.

His voice is the sound of a thousand wasps in a burlap bag: “I know where you’re going.”

Ten

The 36th floor is not what I expected it to be. Instead of polished marble and aged oak, I am greeted by an office landscape – cubicles, stained carpeting, an empty water cooler and a headache-inducing fluorescent lighting. Muted music is playing in an endless loop in the background: something trivial about love and fast cars.

There is a woman in a baggy sweater behind a desk to the right of me: if she’s aware of my presence, she’s good at pretending. Occupied with what looks like a crossword, she chews on a fingernail while lightly rocking her chair.

I take a couple of steps in her direction but suddenly feel dizzy and look for something to hold on to. What is happening to me? The woman is watching me now, reluctantly. While I stagger over to her, she shamelessly leans back in her chair, puts her feet up and starts picking her nose.

“Hmmm, hm. Welcome, I guess. You are…” her voice trails off as she consults a handwritten note. “Number 375.” She gazes quizzically at me, puts her feet down and clears her throat. “Interesting. We had little hope for you. Little hope indeed.” She grimaces, rubs her hands against her thighs and says “You want something to drink? Coffee, perhaps? We’ve been keeping it warm for… well, for you, I guess. It’s been a while.” I am suddenly aware of the smell of sour, day-old, burnt coffee.

Not really waiting for an answer, she opens one of the desk drawers and produces a beaded, black evening dress, a make up-set and what looks like a pearl necklace. With a delighted sigh, she caresses the soft fabric, gets up and walks over to the nearest cubicle, out of my sight.

“You might notice that our cubicles are smaller than average: they made the partitions just a little too narrow, the desks a bit too low, the angles somewhat off. Difficult to get any work done, honestly. Back pain comes quickly, the lumbar discs give out, you see. No one stays for long.”

Her voice comes trailing over the smelly styrofoam wall of the cubicle. Why is she telling me this? Is this a test? Is she mistaking me for someone else?