Rain-streaked windows rise thirty stories above the sidewalk. Tim stares at the revolving doors to ten years of his life and doesn't want to go in. Freezing rain slaps his umbrella; damp cold seeps down deep until all he wants is to crawl back under the covers. What about Louie and the others? What are they staring at this morning — alarm clocks that aren't needed? Dry-cleaned business suits hanging unused?
Upturned collars and downturned faces shuffle past. A tan trench coat with black hat walks toward the doors, then a burgundy coat and matching scarf. The burgundy coat turns. The umbrella partially covers Marie's eyes. "You'll catch a chill standing there," she says.
"Going to be just as miserable in there," Tim replies.
Marie shakes her umbrella. "Got to face it sometime," she answers and disappears through one of the doors.
Tim inhales deeply. He closes his umbrella and enters the building. What about Louie?
An extra security guard stands in the lobby, a wallflower in uniform and tie, patches on his sleeve. His arms rest behind his back; his eyes are keen on everyone entering. Tim feels the man's stare as he passes.
Tim swipes his ID card across a reader and pushes through the turnstile. People are waiting for the express elevators just like yesterday. But this isn't just another day. Just ask the eighty people laid off yesterday. Just ask Louie.
Marie stands at the fringe of the group. Her usual sparkle is gone. Everyone is silent, a dark boding silence that conveys thoughts and moods louder than any word.
Bells chime. An elevator door slides open and people ahead of Tim file in. The door closes and Tim waits with Marie for the next. Words stick in his throat as she glances his way. What can he say? Great to see you're still working ...?
Bells chime again and another door opens. Marie enters first, then Tim and others. Marie presses 20, Tim — 28. The brushed metal door starts to close. The lobby windows are still streaked with rain; the wallflower still stands guard.
The elevator car shakes slightly as it rises through the gloom. Tim stares at someone's shoulder as damp winter smells fill the space.
The car slows and bells chime. The door opens. Marie glances at Tim. "See ya," she says.
Others follow, then again on 21. There's a rustling next to Tim. "Didn't know who I'd see today," a man says.
Tim flinches. Others just stare at the floor. "I heard Louie was laid off," Robert from Finance adds.
"Louie had more seniority," Tim says. Bells chime and people exit on 25. "He started four months before me."
"It's not about seniority," Robert replies.
"I just wonder how close I came."
The door opens to 28 and Tim takes a deep breath. "We're all walking on eggshells," Robert says.
Tim nods and exits.
Alone he faces a glass wall and a cavern of cubicles beyond. The placard mounted next to the door says Information Technology. He opens the door and shudders. Phones are silent, keyboards unused. He hangs his coat in an empty closet. But it's 7:00 AM. Isn't it always like this?
He stops next to Louie's cubicle — nametag gone, walls bare, and the phone message light flashing red. He pictures it flashing forever.
The next cubicle is Tim's. He slides into his chair as relief and sadness begin to spar. Pictures and finger paintings dot the walls; mementoes and service awards line a shelf. But it's the silence from Louie's cubicle that holds his attention. How close did I come?
His PC whirls and beeps to life. Emails fill his in-box. One is a status update from Louie, before...
Tim sees Louie behind the email, close-cropped hair, his narrow glasses perched low on his nose. "Sorry, buddy," Tim whispers. He opens the Account Recon folder and reviews today's task list. Eggshell walking will commence shortly.