Chapter 3. Micah
MICAH
I find it highly improbable that Mercury reversed course overnight. But it might as well have. The subway stalling between stops this morning. My favorite coffee vendor deported, forcing me to bear the serpentine line at Starbucks. The first couple of elevators at work immobile, refusing to work.
Me climbing fifty-four flights is not happening. Luckily, security has assured me this third one’s working.
I go to tap my floor and spill my coffee in the process.
Instant scalding. My hand jerks back. Colorful words exit my mouth.
I flick my wrist, splattering my Grande Doubleshot Espresso on the confetti tiled floor.
I tug on my shoulder strap. My leather bag knocks against my back. Come on, close already.
The elevator gods fail me.
My thumb tap dances on the lit button. I scan the metal threshold for obstructions.
Why, Mr. Otis Elevator, why?
More expletives fly out. I clench my jaw and lean back on the chrome handrail, crossing my legs, trying to be the relaxed guy I am most certainly not.
At least I have the elevator to myself.
Voices sound.
Come on, doors, close, dammit.
A pair of heels clicks along the black-and-white marble floor, echoing up through the vaulted ceiling of the Empire State Building’s tenant lobby. They grow louder.
Get the next one, I’m begging you.
A bell rings and the doors start to move.
A girl clutching a portfolio and wearing a small backpack purse slips inside, sidestepping my spilled coffee.
The doors bounce back open.
I exhale through my nose like a dragon.
She turns her back to me and stands off to the side.
Behold, another gnat in my day. I take a fast sip of my half-filled cup and scorch the inside of my mouth.
The doors converge again.
The girl karate chops the air between them.
What the hell?
We could have embarked on a full roundtrip to and from the eightieth floor in the time that it takes for a white-haired woman with wrinkled, puckered skin, dressed in a rain jacket and white canvas sneakers, to join the party. With great care, she steps inside the elevator.
Then hovers, doing nothing.
“What floor?” The girl’s cheeriness hurts my ears.
The old woman’s Darth Vader breathing consumes me.
Her highly likely sudden collapse, followed by the onslaught of paramedics, will mean waiting for another elevator.
In that time, the lobby will swell with more sweaty bodies, equating to even less oxygen in this steel box hoisted by mere cables and ropes.
The girl remains chill, her eyes steady on our latecomer, waiting.
My chest constricts. I swig a gulp of air, then seal my lips closed. I check the time on my phone. Let’s go, let’s go. I move into the corner, creating a bigger space between me and the newly formed crowd.
“What floor, ma’am?” The girl’s eyes remain kind.
My mind sets the side of her head aflame.
The elderly woman glances around. Her flowery perfume makes my nose twitch.
I shift my weight, breathing out more fire. I fill my lungs to capacity this time and count the tin ceiling tiles.
The girl points to the elevator panel. One floor is lit.
I cup the back of my neck to suspend my dress shirt from scraping. A conga line of sweat glides down my vertebrae. Enough of this. I open my mouth to speak. What’s about to come out will not be pleasant.
But the girl beats me to it. “Are you okay?” Her forehead crinkles with concern. “Do you need to sit down?”
The lady freezes.
“Here.” The girl switches her portfolio to her other hand. She takes the woman’s elbow, motioning her head toward the doors, and waits for the woman to respond.
Like a bride milking her entrance, they step-together-step out of the elevator.
On her last step, the elderly woman drags her Keds through my spilled coffee. She slips and stumbles forward, pulling her escort with her.
The girl’s portfolio slams to the lobby floor. “Help!”
Their gripped hands pull in a counter-tension, their respective balances dependent on that of the other, both sets of eyes unblinking.
Witnessing this unanticipated match of tug-of-war, my bet is on the girl.
I punch my lit floor with the side of my fist. A rush of air shoots between my gritted teeth as the doors close, sealing me in.
I step onto my floor before the others, passengers only I can see, can follow suit.
In long strides, I start across the cream tiled floor with the broken black line down the middle like a road.
A scrolling Art Deco design in different-colored pastels outlines each of the five sets of facing elevators.
I can almost smell the hospital antiseptic.
No sooner do I exit than I get stuck behind a woman in a silver coatdress, her red hair tied up like a Cinnabon.
She meanders down the narrow hallway, stopping at each office’s placard.
The scent of fresh-brewed coffee hits my face while I chew my tongue, waiting for her to finish.
Her head perks up when she arrives at the double glass doors to my agency.
Must be a client.
Like a doorman working hard for that holiday bonus, I reach around her, pull open one of the doors, and hold it for her. One good act erases another, right?
Her eyes stall on my face, her heavy red lips part. “Are you that singer?”
I shake my head, breaking eye contact. She could be my mother. I imagine letting the door hit her in the back. Of course I wouldn’t. But even thinking it proves I’m an a-hole.
I blow past Ms. Cinnabon in the lobby and head straight for the one friend I have around here—only to realize a blond-ponytailed delivery person with a hand truck stacked with pink boxes is monopolizing Eunice’s tall, horseshoe-shaped reception desk.
Grumbling to myself, I veer down between the two metal screens that comprise the central hallway, through to an open space with exposed ceiling beams and rows of long, rectangular, honey-colored wood tables. I lay my bag on the last one near the exposed brick wall.
I fall into my chair, my humming laptop the only sound in the room. Another drawn-out yawn. I rub my eyes, emptying myself onto the pages of my notebook. My breathing steadies. My shoulders release their grip.
I look up. The streaming sun’s turned the room a golden yellow.
People from other teams shuffle in.
I tuck away my notebook and wander back out to the lobby in search of my nine o’clock.
Eunice’s eyes follow me. I walk over and she hands me my messages.
“No sleep?” She crosses her arms over her crisp white oxford.
“Took the red-eye.”
“Bring lunch?”
I laugh. “Never.”
“I brought something you like,” she says knowingly.
I perk up. “Hope it’s your pho.”
I lean on the raised glass counter above her tan laminate desk, my head in my phone, listening to her work.
Staffers filter in through the glass doors, a few bestow an obligatory wave to me.
All ignore Eunice fussing about the IT guy leaving greasy fingermarks on her screen again.
She fiddles with her oversize pearls, her dark, silken hair tied low with an Hermès scarf. A present from me last Christmas.
Jamie from media stands beside me, her pointed red fingernails drumming Eunice’s desk. “Nielsen leave something for me?”
“Nope.” Eunice raises her metal stapler midair.
Jamie snatches her hand away with less than a second to spare. She sends me a look, her eyes wide, mouth flung open. She storms off with clenched fists.
“Lots of drama, that one.” Eunice returns her stapler to the white masking tape outline on her desk.
Bobby, one of the production managers, steps up. “Hey, did you guys see anyone deliver—”
“Nope.” Eunice wields her shiny letter opener like a samurai.
I shake my head.
She frowns and lowers it.
He waits a couple more seconds before turning on his heel.
“Don’t . . . get me . . . started.” She sticks her tongue out at her screen.
Eunice has known me since I was eight years old, gripping my granddad’s finger and getting paraded around the agency.
She’s endured everything from my misguided prepubescent years to my slutty teens to .
. . well. Now that I’m twenty, she continues to look out for me, and not because of my last name.
People in the industry consider the Kershaw family advertising royalty.
My granddad’s father formed the agency in the early 1940s before Ogilvy met Mather and when the Camel Cigarettes billboard in Times Square featured a man blowing smoke rings using actual steam.
These days, my granddad’s retired. Just Aunt Max and I work here now.
Eunice has put up with the Kershaw family for years, never once treating me like the spoiled kid that I am. She understands this weight I carry. More importantly, she treats me like I’m normal.
I love her for that. I’d do anything for her.
A sudden thud stops my thoughts. My head swings toward the entrance.
The girl from the elevator just ambushed the entrance doors with her face.
Not the first time someone’s tried it. The lobby’s suspended steampunk lighting, Edison lightbulbs strung from plumbing fixtures, casts a deceptive shadow that throws new people off—they’re like baby birds flying into a window.
She steps back, blinking.
I don’t move.
After a few attempts, she finds where to push on the door and then barrels toward the reception desk, where Eunice is busy pulling out drawers and speaking to someone on her headset.
A red mark blooms on the girl’s forehead.
I suck in my lips, suppressing a smile, and slide over to her. “How’s the old lady?”
Her eyes squint as if I’m speaking a foreign tongue.
I tilt my head. “In the elevator . . .” I’m the coward who couldn’t be bothered to lend you a hand. Remember me?
Her eyes zero in on my tie, a throwback to the ’80s skinny tie bands. I detect a small wrinkling of her nose. She brushes up against Eunice’s desk. “I’m here for an interview. I’m late.”
Eunice side-eyes her, rifling through another file drawer.
I bite. “Who are you here to see?”
Her eyes search to either side of me, her shoulders up by her ears.
I’m struck by the girl’s ocean of hair, a brilliant black with ripples of midnight blue, the ends damp.
I extend my hand. “I’m Mic—”
She spins back to Eunice, turning me into wallpaper.
Eunice slams her palm on her desk, killing an invisible mosquito. She juts out her elbow and conjures up her best are you an idiot? face.
The girl exhales and drags her gaze back to me. “Brynn.” She grips my hand like we’re opponents at the US Open.
Ow, you can let go now.
She peers at what looks like one of those lined notecards they used to put inside of library books to record borrower information. “I’m here to meet . . . um . . . Micah Kershaw.”
“It’s pronounced with a long I.” I gesture across the desk. “And this is Eunice, if you were wondering.”
One could write poetry about this girl’s bow lips, clamped together and changing from a rose color to frost. I sniff back another smile. Her crimson cheeks have caught up to her forehead.
Eunice’s eyes bounce between us as we size one another up across the net. My old friend gives me a funny look.
I’ve got this, Eunice. I screen new interns all the time. Come on, don’t act like I’ve lost the match before I get a chance to play.