FIRST APPEARED IN OFFSHOOTS 15
NOVEMBER 2020
I work two floors under the City of Light. Thirty-seven years in the basement, and the metro rumbles in my sleep. Above ground, a summer storm explodes over the Champs-Elysées while the tourists and pick-pockets scramble for cover. Down here, past the old employee infirmary and utility closet, it’s just the ping of the fluorescent lights and, of course, the rumble.
Sylvie calls to say she will be coming down after lunch for a box of hanging files. I ask if she has a valid job number because this is the prelude to our skit: she walks down the hall, I look up from my book, she repeats the order, I ask about the job number, she promises to send it later, I withhold, she objects, I blame the system and offer to treat her to coffee, she accepts, and I disappear behind the rolling shelves and return with the order, which I end up carrying for her anyway. We always go to the third floor – my idea of getting some air – because the coffee machine accepts the small change that irritates waiters and merchants. Sylvie doesn’t seem to mind the limp, torn envelope I pull from my pocket, or the time it takes me to fish around for coins and shove them through the slot.
Last week, one dropped to the floor. We reached for the coin at the same time, but she prevailed. The tips of her fingers turned red when she squeezed it.
“You’re too quick for me,” I said.
“That depends,” she said back, lifting an eyebrow before meeting my eye.
*
At noon, I climb one flight of stairs to meet Jean-Luc in the cafeteria. The hotshots like to eat later, but we get the better choice of dishes and the rolls are still fresh. Jean-Luc hands me a tray and starts in on the state of affairs, pausing only to nod at the screw-top Bordeaux up near the register. This is our little code: I go on record with the wine, but right before we tuck into our Couscous Royale, I empty the bottle into his unused coffee cup. I figure that if he helped me through the bereavement, I can help him through the day. The sharks that now run the company once put him on probation, but they can’t expect the Head of Human Resources to be their axman without a little lubrication.
Jean-Luc stabs a chunk of lamb with his fork and says, “From what I’ve read, this strike is going to make the last one seem like nothing. The bus drivers and metro conductors are about to walk, and the garbage collectors are digging in. I’m all for it, even if Paris is beginning to smell like Mumbai.”
“What did I tell you?”
We laugh because when Jean-Luc told me the company would not be replacing me, I asked if a mobile phone in India would be doing my job instead. Sylvie tells me that the young guns they’re hiring upstairs don’t need as many office supplies – which, of course, I’ve noticed. She says the real whizzes produce more ideas than paper, but I have to wonder how they prove they’re actually working. I see them dashing around, stuffing English into their conversations, and sometimes even walking and eating at the same time. It’s no wonder the country is going to hell.
“The garbage collectors, now they’re the clever ones,” I say. “A strike during tourist season is one thing, but in tropical weather? Genius.”
“And now the electric company is in on it, threatening to cut service this afternoon…” Jean-Luc takes a swig from his coffee cup. “Too bad I didn’t back up my computer.”
“Now you know why I never plugged mine in.”
Jean-Luc then launches into a tirade, standard at this point in the meal. But amid the cursing and a fiery interlude involving an expense account, I am thinking only of Sylvie.
I wonder how that might play out, a strike-induced blackout. She has been edging closer, maybe emboldened by my retirement, and her headband seems to be holding back more than just her hair.
This is not the first time I’ve thought about putting my isolation to good use. Five years ago, I let Franck from the copy room entertain a tryst in exchange for fancy paper for my nephew. I wedged a metal footstool between the rolling shelves to keep them pried apart – Safety first! – and took my book down the hall. When Franck’s department closed two months later, Jean-Luc and I had to reassure him that new technology, rather than the new code of conduct, was to blame.
Jean-Luc says that these sorts of antics can now lead you straight out the door, and without any compensation from the workers tribunal. After nearly four decades of service, I can’t imagine the company would be that heartless. Then again, after nearly four decades underground, I can’t imagine much.
I wish Jean-Luc a manageable afternoon and take up my post. The soft-spoken Algerian won’t be down for the mop and bucket for another two hours. I don’t know if it’s the storm, the strike or the frayed edge of Jean-Luc’s rant, but I feel drunk myself.
I hear the elevator doors open and the clacking of her heels. The moment Sylvie turns the corner, I stand. As she’s closing in, the metro rumbles in the tunnel and, just like that, it all goes black. There’s a giggle, the groan of a stalling train, and the sound of my voice telling her, as I grope my way around the desk, that I’ll be right there.
D.B. Miller 