1. Dante #2
The words hang in the cold air between us. I could respond. I choose not to. Some arguments aren’t worth winning because the opponent isn’t worth engaging. I return my gloved hands to my pockets and continue my march homeward, the seconds ticking away with each precise footfall.
Reaching my building, the doorman bows his head. "Mr. Dante."
A perfunctory nod, and I'm through the door into warmth and silence. The lobby stretches before me—black marble, muted lighting, the distant murmur of a piano. My private elevator alcove waits at the far end.
I swipe my card, press the button.
Nothing.
The elevator doors remain closed. The hush of the room is almost complete. Another flicker echoes through the space, another ignored tremor in the universe around me.
I disregard it as nothing more than my growing headache making my eyesight unreliable.
Too many inconveniences for one day. Why do I pay exorbitant fees for the penthouse if they can't even keep the place maintained?
I turn on my heel and head back out to the main lobby where a man—Arnold?
Amir? Something with an A—wears a crimson tie with a pinned sprig of fir and winter berries for a boutonniere.
"Mr. Dante. A Merry Christmas to you, sir."
"My elevator is out."
His gaze drops, and he fusses with his glasses. "Ah, yes. We had a storm earlier. It seems electricity is out in part of the building, but we do have the main elevator working up to the 40th floor."
I stare at this man who, despite his neat appearance and unwrinkled outfit, is materializing more and more like a shrug in human form.
"My apartment is on the 55th floor."
"Yes, sir. But the staff elevator is open on the far side of the building, and you are welcome to use that until we get yours restored."
I rip a glove off and slap it against my palm. It is unlike me to let emotions grip me, direct me, like some undisciplined child incapable of holding back tears. But this is beyond ridiculous.
The attendant only smiles at me, as if a pleasant expression might somehow solve the problem.
The main elevator dings in the distance, and the doors open. The resident manager strides into the lobby, a wheeled suitcase clicking behind him, reflecting in the obsidian floors.
"Mr. Callahan." I step up beside him.
"Ah, Mr. Dante. Happy holidays to you, sir."
"It's not happy for me, actually. My elevator is out."
Mr. Callahan sighs, his forehead wrinkling beyond its normal furrowed appearance. "Yes, I apologize for any inconvenience, sir."
He heads towards the front doors, and I follow. "Any inconvenience? You can't mean to leave with this significant of an issue unresolved?"
"I'm afraid I have a plane to catch." Mr. Callahan stops walking right before the gold-trimmed doors and looks up at me. "I assure you the general manager has been fully briefed and will resolve this matter promptly when operations resume after Christmas."
"Two days from now?" I am almost too stunned to speak. I do not pay the exorbitant fees here to deal with these kinds of inconveniences. "I need to attend to my workout."
Mr. Callahan chuckles. "Take the stairs, Mr. Dante. That would be a workout."
I step back, my unbuttoned coat flying out behind me. "It's arm day for me, Mr. Callahan."
The man releases another sigh. A sigh that conveys he very much doesn't wish to remain the residential manager for the next year. "It's Christmas Eve. We will compensate you for your inconvenience. And there is the service elevator you are welcome to use."
He turns and walks out the door.
I stand rooted, unable to process the dismissal. Then I quicken my pace and follow out into the slush of the crisp New York December night.
This is unacceptable. My life is architected on discipline. Does this manager think I enjoy spending so much money to live in this building? No. It provides a short commute by foot to work and offers the amenities I need to remain productive—nothing more.
Already, others have consumed nearly an hour of my evening routine.
The man told me to take the stairs as my workout. That is precisely the slippery slope upon which others construct their disordered lives. One missed workout routine, for a holiday I have no intention of celebrating, could lead to another. Then one more.
Then a poor choice of eating would follow.
How easily one domino of comfortable choice could fall after another until it topples everything I've meticulously built for myself. The security that belongs to me alone.
The sleet bites at my cheeks, and the icy wind cuts through my open coat, but I don't halt my pursuit. "Mr. Callahan, this is truly unacceptable. In no reality—"
My foot strikes a patch of forming ice, and in my haste, I lose my footing and slip.
A taxi roars around another, its driver likely frustrated with working on a holiday. Eager to get home. Rushing.
I, who have built my life on schedules and certainties, run headfirst into the one appointment I haven't penciled in.
My body hits the pavement right as glowing headlights shriek into view, time compressing into a final, crystallized moment.