Seoul Coughing

By Tracey Stark

They said he wouldn’t go far, but he had proven them all wrong. There he sat in that office with his name on the door, four floors above the manicured courtyard and opposite the stacks, marveling at his reflection in the smoke-stained window.
“I have arrived,” he said, then grinned broadly to his window-self, his bleached-white teeth glowing and fighting for prominence behind sagging rubbery lips. He repeated this every morning since his promotion to Assistant Director of Accounting, Payroll and Pension Department of the Allegheny Electric Co-op.
BUZZZ
“Ms. Lintel, come in here please.”
“Yes, Mr. Bottoms,” a tinny voice replied through the antiquated call box.
 

The door opened and a dour woman of about 50 walked in, ruler straight in posture, gray in demeanor. A smile would surely crack the thin coating of skin covering her angular face. (In certain light, towards the end of a winter’s day, she appeared translucent, Mr. Bottoms had noted.)
 

“I need more, um… notepads and paperclips,” he said, then turned back to the window and resumed smiling at his reflection.
 

Ms. Lintel looked at the stack of notepads on the spare chair and the boxes of paperclips scattered about the otherwise-empty bookshelf, shook her head, and left. She would fill the order by lunch and remain idle until 5 p.m. Then at 5 she would rise to leave for the day and receive one more buzz from Mr. Bottoms. When she went into his office he would invariably say to her, “Good job today, Ms. Lintel. See you bright and early tomorrow, I’m sure.” She would thank him tersely, make an abrupt about-face, and march from the office straight to her car at the far end of the lot.
 

This had been going on for the two months since his move from personnel to accounting, a move precipitated by an accident. Not an accident of paperwork, but an accident involving a filing cabinet and a portion of rotten flooring. (It could be argued that paperwork was involved, as the filing cabinet was full when it fell through the ceiling and crushed his right leg.)
 

The out-of-court settlement was favorable for all involved. Mr. Bottoms was not a greedy man and his request for a promotion to the fourth floor, a small raise, and a parking space among the executives (as well as medical costs, of course) was accepted with a smile and a handshake and delivered before the steel rods were removed from his fractured bones.
 

Through the thin walls Ms. Lintel could hear queer mutterings in different voices. She didn’t ask, but suspected the accident had left him a bit shell-shocked.
 

Back in his office, Mr. Bottoms continued to stare out the window thinking about what it had taken to get here. He worked his way up from the ground floor. Five years in the mail room, and then the little incident with the sorting machine and his pinky finger. Cost him the last digit, but earned him a job in customer service on the second floor. Seven years on and then there was the electrical fire that left him with third degree burns on his left arm. Skin grafts and a promotion to personnel (third floor), followed by his longest stint: 13 years. Lucky 13, he thought. The sagging ceiling should have been a dead giveaway, but everyone seemed to regard it as normal. So he didn’t ask any questions and sat at his desk, two inches closer to the ceiling than everyone else, until the distance closed to zero in a matter of seconds on that fateful Tuesday in October.
 

And now he was in an office devoid of computers, sagging ceilings, windows that opened, and furniture that could fall on him. (The bookshelf was bolted to the wall and his chair had no wheels.)
 

Pondering this he realized it was time for him to knuckle down and get to work. But his responsibilities were vague at best. They told him, “We will utilize your expertise in certain areas of accounting from time to time.” But he had no expertise in any areas of accounting, he thought.
 

He also knew there was little he could do about it this day, so he resumed his self-congratulation and continued to stare out the window.
 

At five he buzzed Ms. Lintel once more into his office.
 

“Good job today, Ms. Lintel. See you bright and early tomorrow, I’m sure,” he said and smiled his oversized mouth at her, and gave her a waving salute with his 4 2/3-fingered right hand.
 

Moments later, when he was sure she was halfway down to the lobby, Mr. Bottoms picked up his briefcase (empty but for half of a sandwich and a few notebooks), and walked to the elevator.
 

To his surprise, Ms. Lintel was still waiting for the elevator car to come pick her up. It was a strange sensation, for both of them, be assured, to stand side by side in silence at the end of a day during which they had spent the better part of eight hours one on each side of the wall, like a confessioner and priest.
 

It was Ms. Lintel who spoke first.
 

“I don’t suppose taking the stairs would be good for your leg, would it?” she asked.
 

Mr. Bottoms was pleased by her sudden interest in him.
 

“Well, I guess I won’t know if I don’t try,” he replied and swagger-limped to the fire stairs door. She hesitantly followed and for a moment looked as if she might smile. (She didn’t.)
 

Upon opening the door he was greeted by crumbling and missing stairs, the stench of mildew and a complete lack of lighting. His first step would have been his last had Ms. Lintel not reached out a boney hand and pulled him back with surprising force.
 

“Oh my,” he said grasping his tie and loosening it an inch. “That would have been a doozy of a fall.”
 

“Yes, and you might have made vice president had you survived it,” she said with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
 

But Mr. Bottoms only heard the words “vice president” and lost himself in a reverie about a bigger office on a higher floor.
 

“Vice president?’ he asked the air around him.
 

Ms. Lintel followed his gaze and saw that it ended in thin air only a foot or two in front of his face.
 

“I was only being facetious, sir,” she said.
 

“Vice president,” he repeated.
 

Ms. Lintel stepped away from him and toward the elevator. He turned and followed, still lost in those two magical words.
 

“And you would have been the vice president’s executive secretary,” he said to her, his mouth stretched into a frog-like grin.
 

“Indeed,” she said, pondering the implications, and looked toward their small office suite. She noticed the room was still aglow and she shook her head at Mr. Bottom’s absentmindedness. She was taught not to waste electricity, even if you did work at the power company. “Let me just go turn off the lights. I’ll be right back, in case the elevator gets here.”
 

“Of course,” he said and watched her walk through the tall wooden door.
 

A moment later the elevator chimed and the doors opened.
 

“The elevator’s here, Ms. Lintel. I’ll hold it for you,” he shouted, and stepped backward into a starless void.
 

As he plummeted the five floors to the basement, only one thought went through his mind: “Vice president.”