Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

It was good in one way. He could contact people, maintain his work, make sure people didn’t think he was dead so his life wouldn’t be a total mess if he ever got out of here and back to it. Which would be when? How long could he have purely virtual relationships before his real life started breaking down? He couldn’t even consider the question without freaking.

Had Macy really done this to him?

Okay, he was crazy. Macy couldn’t have done this to him, because it was clearly some psychotic episode going on inside his brain. It couldn’t be real . And if it wasn’t real then Macy couldn’t have done it. Not that he believed she would have even if she could.

But she could have been the reason for his psychotic break. How could he have gotten things so wrong? He’d thought they were . . . falling in love.

What a sap he was for getting choked up. He stood up and bounced on the balls of his feet a few times, then brought his hands up to boxing position and jabbed at the air, once, twice, threefourfive. Get a grip. Be strong. You can get over this—over her. And hopefully that’ll get you back to reality.

He reached for his phone again, then rolled his eyes at how slow he was to break the habit when he knew it wasn’t there. It was like constantly flipping light switches when the power was out.

He decided to leave his cubicle—Mrs. Hartz be damned—and, on a whim, started to jog. He sprinted for ten cubicles and slowed for ten, going back and forth between the two while keeping an eye on what was inside each cube as he passed. Which was still one hypnotized person after another. But the exercise was invigorating, made him feel more like himself, so he continued running.

Jeremy’s heart was just beginning to race again with anxiety when a break in the wall suddenly opened up on his left. He stumbled to a halt in front of it and found himself looking into a marbled alcove that housed a bank of elevators.

“Yes.” He moved swiftly to the call buttons, pressed the down arrow, and looked above the sets of doors for illuminated numbers. Nothing, he thought, figures . Still, elevators went to ground floors and ground floors led outside. If he could get out onto the street, he could figure out where he was.

After several minutes with no change in elevator status, Jeremy pressed the “up” arrow so that both were lit. Immediately he heard movement behind one of the bays, the familiar lurch and roll of an elevator car moving in the shaft. Finally there was a ding and the far left doors opened, the up arrow shining red in the dim alcove.

Squelching a moment of fear that this might not be an improvement over his current situation, he boarded the elevator. After all, any change would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? He wasn’t going to get anywhere trapped in that cube farm with the Queen of Hartz breathing down his neck.

The elevator offered thirteen floors, something he decided to scoff at instead of hyperventilate over, and he pressed 1. So what if the elevator said it was going up? He stood back, waiting for the doors to close. When they did nothing, he moved forward and pressed 2. The elevator indicated that he was on the fifth floor, so anything below him would be a step in the right direction, but it didn’t take long to realize nothing was going to happen if he kept pressing the lower numbers. So he tried 6. Still nothing. Frustrated, he pressed them all—all thirteen of them lit up except for 5, the one he was on—and the door groaned shut.

The trip was short, the doors moaning open again on 7. He stepped into an alcove just like the one on the fifth floor and turned, fully expecting to see a cube farm exactly like the one he’d just left. What met his eyes, however, was more like a giant, humming casino. There were cubes, all right, but each one was brightly lit and pulsing with color and sound. He walked slowly forward, into the din, squinting against the glare of the lights. Apart from being the circus version of his floor, these cubes had aisles between each one so it was easy to walk to whichever blinding set of lights most intrigued you.

For some reason he glanced up, and his mouth dropped open. The ceiling was mirrored, so that the entire room’s cubes were visible at once, and the sight of it was unmistakable. The layout was exactly like the apps on a smartphone, each cubicle representing an app.

Could this be his phone?

As it happened, the Mail app was just in front of him to the left, so he turned toward it. If it wasn’t his, he might be able to find out who was contacting whom from this giant phonelike warehouse, and what they were saying. Maybe this was the brains behind the whole operation.

With a bracing breath, he stepped into the cubicle—and was immediately assailed by visions of folders and envelopes and one half-written message on a large screen right in front of him.

Bud, following up on our conversation earlier today, I’ve done some research and it seems StockSolutions has made virtually no changes to their logo, website, advertising or visibility in the market in the sixteen years they’ve been in business. I believe this could explain their lackluster performance with the public, their approach being the same—

Whoever had been writing the note had left off in the middle of it. Either that or they were still working on it. In any case, the note didn’t seem to have any bearing on this room or this building or the poor beleaguered souls trapped here.

He left the mail app and walked down the line. There was a music app—like a radio stuck between stations, multiple songs played at once—and a clothing app, with hologram models slouching and sauntering about the cubicle. Shoes walked themselves around in another. Hotel rooms drifted across cubicle walls in yet another. And on and on past YouTube and Amazon and real estate sites. One app whispered Spanish phrases as he went by. Another played tinkly music and urged him to relax. The Candy Crush game nearly deafened him, its cartoon characters waving flags at him to play, and the New York Times crossword demanded a three-letter word for a mythical Persian bird. He’d bet Macy knew the answer to that.

Some of the apps he passed weren’t open, but they were all lit up like pinball machines waiting for a quarter. He kept going until he got to one wreathed in a blinding yellow light. Squinting, he peered into the cubicle and saw a pulsing red center. He took a tentative step toward the door and was immediately yanked inside and swept into a chair. A screen opened up in front of him proclaiming itself to be the iLove Profile Page . Someone was typing.

Who I’m looking for . . .

I’m looking for a man who’s paying attention—

The phrase “paying attention” jerked him upright in his seat. Was this what he was supposed to be looking at? Should he have investigated that app on his own screen more closely? He continued reading.

. . . who knows the value of eye contact and asking questions. He has to be sincere, not just going through the motions, and he should be genuinely interested in people. He should be strong and smart, but confident enough to admit when he’s wrong or when the woman he’s with is right. He must be ethical, conscientious, generous and not petty. He should know how to make a girl feel special.

“He should be a boy scout,” Jeremy told the screen. “Don’t forget ‘Be prepared’!”

He should not be afraid of powerful women. The man I’m looking for is comfortable in his own skin and sure of his place in the world. He should also have a very large penis—

Jeremy blinked. Then the cursor rapidly backed up over the last sentence.

* * *

“Delete delete delete!” Macy squealed.