“Three,” a melodic voice announced. A soft chime indicated that the elevator door was now open, waiting for my less-than-dramatic entrance.
Mop and bucket in hand, I shuffled into the elevator. Nobody paid any attention to me as I pressed the button for the 77th floor, otherwise known as the Executive Suite. In the past it had been unnumbered, simply labeled “PH” for Penthouse. Shortly after the creation of a magazine with the same name, the letters had mysteriously disappeared, replaced with the generic “77”.
The conversation around me continued without a break. I pulled my baseball cap a little lower and fixed my gaze on the floor.
“…like, won’t believe what he said!” I located the speaker’s shoes. Three-inch high stilettos, heels and toes slightly scuffed. The right toe was tapping impatiently on the elevator floor.
“He, like, accused me of, like, shredding his check. Like that is what I do for fun. Like, I so wouldn’t do it ‘cause, like, that would just make him call me....”
“Five.”
Stiletto kept talking as she left the elevator. The remaining people expanded to fill the space. A pair of department-store loafers slid into Stiletto’s position.
“… something’s going on. I told my boss about the customer calls, about the increase in late and lost payment complaints. He just gave me some line about people who were too lazy to mail their payments on time. But then I heard him crowing about the big bonus check he’ll be getting. I think...”
Loafer’s words were abruptly cut-off as the doors opened on 8 and a pair of highly-polished dress shoes stepped in. Loafer shifted uncomfortably, like a schoolboy in the principal’s office.
“Smith,” Dress Shoes grunted. Loafer mumbled in response. An awkward silence descended as the elevator resumed its ascent.
“Fifteen.” The voice had never sounded sweeter as the doors opened and Loafer scurried off, followed by the arrogant steps of Dress Shoes.
The elevator continued, leaving behind the developing saga. As the occupants changed, I found myself slowly rotated to the back with the rest of the high-floor riders. Most people ignored the man with the mop, relegating me to the class of the Invisible People. The mop was my badge, an indicator of my non-status in their world. Unable to influence their careers or social lives, I was harmless.
“...told Sheila to shred…”
“…strange jump in late fee revenue…”
“…if Management knew…”
So the conversations swirled around me, secrets that would never make their way to the Board room.
“Fifty-five.”
Now we were getting to the Upper Floors, Management. A pair of the latest Prada pumps strode onto the elevator, accompanied by the luxurious leather of Bruno Magli oxfords.
“...has brought in his son, things are changing,” Prada complained. “Baxter always let his management deal with things.”
“As long as the stock price kept going up,” Bruno qualified.
“And we stayed out of the news. But that’s what the ‘discretionary’ expense account’s for, right?” Prada gave a harsh laugh.
“Not anymore.” Bruno said. “Junior seems to be aware of everything that’s going on in the building, including our convenient solutions. I don’t understand how he’s finding out all the dirt.”
“You were supposed to take care of that,” she snapped.
“I’ve tried. I checked with telecom to see if any of the phone lines had been accessed or tapped. Nothing. I had an outside security firm sweep the entire building for hidden microphones and cameras. Nothing.”
“Do you think it’s a management leak? Could he be bribing an employee?”
“Which manager? Baxter knows more about what’s going on in our departments than we do. And there’s no way he could find out all of the things he knows, even if he bribed 500 employees.”
“Did you check the elevators? The restrooms?” I could hear the panic rising in Prada’s voice.
“Everywhere. Even the cafeteria and stairwells. It’s almost like he’s psychic.”
“We need to find the answer. Soon. We’ll all be gone if Baxter finds the source of our sudden revenue growth.”
“Seventy-four.”
A worried Prada scurried out of the elevator. Head bowed, I pulled my hat lower and moved out of the corner, pushing the bucket with my foot.
“Watch it, you idiot!” Bruno jumped out of the way as a drop of water splashed onto the floor. “These shoes cost more than you make in a month – damage them, and I’ll have it deducted from your pay.”
“Seventy-five.”
An angry Bruno stormed through the doors. Nobody guards their character or their conversation around Invisibles.
“Seventy-seven.”
The elevator opened, revealing the luxury of the Executive Suite.
“Good morning, Mr. Baxter,” the receptionist greeted me.
I grabbed my mop and bucket. It was going to be a busy day.