Photo by Abigail Thompson
“Aubade” by Nick Wecal ’17
The elevator chirped as its doors slid open on the ninety-third floor. Langston stepped out into the hallway. He fingered the wool of his tie as he moved down the hall. Motion-activated lights clicked on in front of him, illuminating the floor in pieces as he walked the carpet. It was funny, he thought, how far away the corner office was from the heart of the building. What was the point of such a status symbol—which he knew his office was—if it lengthened his commute? He’d rather have one that required less of a hike, he joked to himself. Finally: JONATHAN LANGSTON, VICE PRESIDENT, EMERGING MARKETS, the smoked glass door proclaimed. Jon shivered a bit as he eased key into lock, and heard the familiar grating of the deadbolt.
With a nudge, the portal swung open to reveal the New York skyline. Langston had forgotten how beautiful it was when he came in this early; perhaps the walk from the elevators was worth it after all. Bright fall sunlight navigated gaps between tall buildings to shine onto the streets and sparkle on the river, beaming into Jon’s office to reflect off his polished wooden desk onto the ceiling tiles. He took off his jacket, folded it over a chair and pressed his moist hand to the window. Palm pushed against the hot glass, he could barely perceive a tiny vibration in the tower, perhaps the reverberations of some other lucky man mirroring his actions somewhere below him in an identical office. He studied the maze of streets below. Back in Jersey his wife and daughters were probably sitting down for breakfast—it was still early enough—but then the kids would be off to their fourth day of school. Tonight was his turn to deal with dinner, he remembered. Maybe he would get Chinese. Or sushi. Something Asian, either way. Jon peeled away his hand to leave an oily print, and sat down at the computer.
Langston’s thick fingers slapped the keys, logging into email. The phone rang. He raised his sturdy hands slightly above the keyboard, where they quivered for a moment before he picked it up.
“Yeah?”
It was Pam, the floor manager. “Oh, Jon, you’re here. Good, we need to get cracking on that risk assessment at some point today. Monty wants to meet about it in the other tower’s office at 8:50. And your wife’s on the line.”
Peeking at his watch, it was almost 8:30. “Yeah, I’ll probably be finishing up by then. We’ll make that work.”
“And your wife?”
“Oh, yeah. Put her through. Thanks.”
He heard Pam clear her throat and the sound of her long fingernails scraping down the phone keypad to press CONNECT.
“Hey J. Did you put my car keys somewhere?”
“What? Uh. No. I thought they were in the drawer,” he said, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand and leaning backwards in the comfortable chair.
“Yeah, maybe. Hold on, I’ll look.”
Jon’s mind wandered back to the risk assessment and he spun around in his chair to face the window again. A single leaf floated past and he wondered how it had blown up so high. It really was a beautiful day; visibility was high enough that he could see for miles from his perch in the tower. The financial district, the river, and the distant green of New Jersey spread out before him, and even the air inside this concrete colossus was sweet with September.
“Yeah, found them. Sorry.”
“Did you guys eat?” he asked, absentmindedly wrapping the phone’s cord around his index finger. He noticed cars speeding down a highway across the river and wondered where they were going in such a hurry.
“Sadie and Sarah are having eggs, yeah.” She yelled out, “Girls, Dad’s on the phone,” and paused. He couldn’t hear his daughters, but knew they were wishing him a good day. “Got to hurry, we’re going to be late. Love you.”
“See you tonight,” he murmured as the line went dead.
Swinging back to his desk he lobbed the phone onto the wood with such unexpected force it slid off the other side, in free-fall for a moment before the cord caught it inches from the ground. He considered pulling it back up, but decided that it wouldn’t be worth the exertion and went back to his computer.
After fifteen minutes of work Jon glanced at the clock: 8:45. His tapping intensified in volume and speed until he raised his fingers above the keys again, lightly brushing them over the plastic while he skimmed back through the report. Not too bad. He sent it to the printer. His faint groan interrupted the office’s silence. Langston heaved himself out of the chair. He grabbed his jacket, a gift from his wife for their 10th anniversary. It fit fine, even after five more years; he knew she still smiled whenever she saw him wearing it. Pulling his arms through the linen he stepped to face the glass a last time, spotting the large handprint he’d left earlier. If he unfocused his eyes, peering through his own grease like a lens, a portion of the sky became warped and blurry as if he was looking through a mist. Through this handprint kaleidoscope, a grey blur appeared in the distance; he watched it slowly bank left and right, dropping and leveling in a bizarre, beautiful dance with the wind.