James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

Worst of all was the smell. The apartment and all its fixtures — the bed, the bath mat, the grotty carpet — reeked relentlessly of cat pee. Mrs. Prettyman notwithstanding, Paul never got used to it. One of the few good things about going to work at TxDoGS every day was that for nine hours at least he was free of the ammoniac reek of Charlotte’s ghostly urine. As it closed in around him now, Paul dropped onto one end of his foldout sofa and tossed the day’s shirt on the other.

“I don’t ask for much, Charlotte,” he said wearily, “not anymore.” He pitched his voice to the middle of the room. Who knew where the cat was? Who knew, indeed, if the concept of “where” even applied to the ghost of a cat? “But I had some good news today, the first good news in a very long time. For the first time since. . well, since I can remember, Charlotte, somebody was nice to me. Somebody did me a kindness, and he didn’t have to do it. Somebody treated me like a human being today.”

He paused to look cautiously about the room, at the crappy dresser, at the TV on the shaky little table by the window, at the broken-down armchair by the door. Nothing moved and only the air conditioner spoke, muttering glumly to itself.

“What do you care, right?” he continued. “You’re an animal, for chrissake. Hell, you’re not even alive.” Paul dropped his face into his hands. “I’m going crazy,” he moaned. “I’m talking to a dead cat.” He glanced up. “Of course, I don’t mean any disrespect by that. After all, it’s my fault.”

Paul flopped back against the cushions and tilted his head back. He felt tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, and he angrily wiped them away. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

“All I’m asking,” he said, steadying his voice, “is for you to lay off me just this once. Cut me a little slack, okay? Let me sleep. Let me spend a night in peace, and I’ll. . I’ll. .” What? What leverage did he have with a ghost?

He pushed himself up from the couch and addressed the room at large. “You know what? Never mind. Forget I mentioned it. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

But strangely enough, Charlotte did not show or manifest herself all night, though he knew she was probably just setting him up for something worse later on. He managed to watch an entire evening of television without a glimpse of her. He rose in the morning almost refreshed, and he showered without any sudden temperature changes and fried his eggs without scorching them. After breakfast he crept towards the door clutching his bag lunch and his shirt for the day, certain that Charlotte was saving up something special for the last moment. But nothing happened as he pulled the door shut and locked it, and he released the doorknob as gingerly as if he were letting go of a hand grenade.

“Thank you,” he whispered, still not quite believing it. He dashed to his car, flung his shirt and lunch onto the passenger seat, and roared backward out of his parking spot, banging over the grate. His luck only improved once he hit the main road. Traffic was lighter than usual, the SUVs less overbearing, and Paul made the Travis Street Bridge in record time. The Bank of Texas told him that the time was only 7:54 and the temperature an improbably mild 77 degrees. A surprisingly sweet breeze blew off the river, and there was not a single creepy homeless guy in sight. No early morning guilt trip; no gnomic utterances. Paul felt like singing something cheerful, “Whistle While You Work,” say, or something brassy like “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” or even defiant, like “My Way.” By God! he thought. This is what comes of taking charge of your life, this is what comes of asking for what you want.

The light went green, and moments later Paul rolled into the TxDoGS parking lot and found an ideal space — close to the building! Under a tree! He rolled up his windows and sprang out of his car, thrusting his arms through his shirtsleeves in one smooth motion. He sauntered into the building and gave Preston a jaunty salute.

“You look like a man who got a raise in pay,” Preston said, an avuncular glitter in his eye. Paul laughed and said, “I’m even thinking of getting me a regular badge, what do you think?”

“Outstanding!” said Preston, offering Paul a visitor’s badge and a big martial thumbs-up.

Paul stashed his lunch in the fridge and took the stairs two steps at a time. Good things come in threes, he thought. A raise in pay, a night’s reprieve from Charlotte — what’s next? He marched through the stairwell door, rounded the corner past the sighing elevator and the recycling box, and walked proudly into cubeland, shoulders squared, back erect. Coming into his aisle, he noted with pleasure that Olivia Haddock had not arrived yet, heard the reassuring wheeze of the dying tech writer, and swung confidently into his cube, two minutes early, on top of his game, ready to take on the day.

Paul pulled up short when he noticed the large Post-it stuck to the middle of his computer screen. He felt a sudden chill, colder than the AC. Even before he read it, he could tell that the Post-it was not from Olivia or Renee; the printing was bolder than either of theirs. And it wasn’t from Rick; the printing was too neat. Paul wheeled his chair between himself and the screen and leaned closer, peering at the note, his skin tightening all over his body. It was a larger Post-it than anybody in the office used, with a smudge in one corner and a little tear along the side, as if someone had plucked it out of the trash. The chill raced up his spine and spread to his extremities. In bold block letters, the Post-it read:

Are we

not men?

“DID YOU WRITE THIS?”

Paul had never spoken directly to the dying tech writer before, but now he stood in the doorway of the man’s cube holding the Post-it between thumb and forefinger. The tech writer, thin and cadaverous and gray, turned slowly in his chair, away from his monitor and a desktop heaped with toppling stacks of paper. Paul instantly regretted having spoken. The tech writer put his hand to the band of gauze around his throat and inhaled through his tube, a long, plastic wheeze.

“No,” said the dying tech writer in his froggy voice.

Leave now, thought Paul. Go back to your own cube. But instead he waggled the Post-it and said, “Did you see who did?”

The tech writer’s eyes were surprisingly wide and liquid. He lifted his left hand and pointed upward. Once again he inhaled. “They’re up there,” he croaked.

Paul resisted the urge to look up at the suspended ceiling; he was afraid he’d hear the creak and slither he’d heard in the men’s room yesterday. “Who’s up there?”

A high-pitched wheeze. “They’re up there.”

Paul watched the tech writer warily; he had an unreasonable fear that the man might leap at him. The chill he’d felt when he’d first seen the Post-it was not going away. “Where? On the roof?”

Inhale . “They’re up there.” Wheeze . “In the ceiling.”

Still Paul could not bring himself to look at the ceiling panels. The Post-it trembled in his fingers. “Who’s in the ceiling?” he whispered. It’s not a cat, is it? he almost said.

“You’re late!” boomed Rick, right behind him. Paul whirled, crumpling the Post-it in his fist. Rick rocked on his heels; his eyebrows bounced up and down. How long had he been standing there? “Maintenance managers gonna be here toot sweet, in about”—Rick widened his eyes at the watch on the underside of his wrist—“twenty minutes. We ready to rumble?”

“You bet,” Paul managed to say, hoarsely. A corner of the crumpled Post-it was pricking his palm.