Instructions on Encountering the Liminal

I. Walk past the laundromat.

II. Enter the building.

III. Thank the doorman.

Don’t say too much.

IV. Go to the silver doors.

V. Push the little gold button.

Make sure it lights up.

VI. Let the doors open completely.

VII. Enter the little chamber.

Avoid engaging other passengers.

Avoid eye contact with other passengers.

VIII. Turn around.

IX. No need to tell the liftman to push button number forty-four.

He already knows.

X. Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

XI. Get off at the top floor.

**********************************************************************

Laundromat. Building. Thanks. Silence. Doors. Button. Open. Lights. Enter. Avoid. Turn. Liftman.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Leave.

**********************************************************************

You may see a flock of nervous novices huddled in the corner carrying three or five hot cylinders of drink, their soles worn down from their unremitting journey. Or you may see the lady in a tight-pinched skirt and patterned kitten heels, her silver hair perched in a tight knot upon her head. Or perhaps you may encounter the triage of men in three-piece suits, grouped in the middle of the space. Perhaps they will make space for the woman who is always quietly busy on her phone.

Today of all days, you will follow my directions alongside everyone else. You will witness the novices exit on the fourth floor and the silver-haired woman on the eleventh. The men will get off on the twenty-seventh floor, and the woman will leave you on the thirty-first. You will ride the little silver box alone for the final thirteen floors and, with a nod to the liftman, go. You will follow suit like you always do.

Except today will be different. You will pass the laundromat and enter the building like normal. The little gold button will light up. You’ll get in the box with the usual suspects, and the liftman will know to push the buttons numbered four, eleven, twenty-seven, thirty-one, and, finally, forty-four. But just as the doors begin to close, a hand will poke through the space between the two silver doors. They will reopen, and a shadowy figure will step through.

He doesn’t know the instructions. Or he doesn’t seem to care. He will step through and nothing more. He won’t turn to face the door. His eyes will be fixed forward. Perhaps on you. Or perhaps not on you. You could just be an obstacle in his inward-facing gaze. Nevertheless, he will be looking at you. He will be mere inches from your face.

So what do you do? This is not part of the instructions. You could turn to the left, but then the woman with the silver bun would be in your eye line. You could turn to the right, but there stands the triage of men. You’d be the perpetrator of the same problem. It is better to be a side effect. Better to look at the ground.

The liftman is now looking at the strange man. Highly unusual behavior is spreading. The liftman looks back to the buttons, then to the man.

“Hello, Sir. Where are you heading?”

The man does not move. He obeys the rule on engagement while necessitating it. The liftman is getting antsy. He asks the question once more.

“I’m going up,” whispers the unmoving man. The liftman hesitates.

“Yes, but to what floor?”

“Up.”

The question remains unanswered. Well, I suppose the man did give an answer– an unsatisfactory one. It does not go against the rules, but it does not follow them either. The novices grasp their cups a little tighter. The triage huddles a little closer. The silver-haired and busy women hug the edges of the space. At least this is what you presume is happening. Perhaps nobody else modifies the behavior, but you cannot tell because you keep looking at the ground. You can see the strange man’s shoes. They’re black and shiny. They look new, except for a singular scuff on his right toe. You wonder if he scuffed them between here and the laundromat.

The doors close, and the chamber climbs upward. Two. Three. Four. FOUR. The chamber stops. A path clears for the novices to exit. You instinctively step a few inches to your left to assist with the clearance, but the strange man remains near the door’s edge. One by one, the worn soles step over the gap between the chamber and the floor. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. ELEVEN. Another clearance is made, and you return to your spot on the right. The man is still. The silver-haired woman brushes past him, but her left kitten heel gets caught in the gap. They’re plaid patterned. Pink and yellow. The liftman rushes to her side. The woman curdles at his touch but gently thanks him and leaves.

You have some time before the next stop. The man keeps staring. You consider looking upwards, just for a moment, but a break in the silence dismisses the thought.

“I’m going up.”

Is the strange man trying to make conversation? Is he attempting to give instructions to the liftman? Did he accidentally let an inward thought slip outwards? You can not tell, but you know he is strange. With two fewer bodies, the chamber is emptier. You stealthily shuffle backward. Except you do not. You bump against one of the triage men. You look backward and apologize. He smiles. He has kind eyes. You never noticed his eyes before. You never noticed much of anything. Heat fills your cheeks, and you return to your forward-downward facing position.

Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. TWENTY-SEVEN. The men shuffle out. It's just you and the busy woman. You have the sudden urge to stop the ride, and you think the feeling is mutual. You think if you keep thinking, the woman will hear you. And if she hears you, you'll understand her thoughts, too. Together you could sit in your uneasiness. Perhaps lessen it. Perhaps annihilate it. But it's too late now because you're already on floor twenty- nine.

TWENTY-NINE.

You could devise a plan.

THIRTY.

Push the call button and keep her on.

THIRTY-ONE.

Plummet the box back to floor one.

THIRTY-TWO.

Maybe the heat pouring from your cheeks could travel upwards and cut the cable in two. But that would necessitate you looking up, and you can't peel your eyes away from the ground.

THIRTY-THREE.

THIRTY-THREE.

DING.

She's moving

nearing the door

past the liftman

over the gap

gone.

In retrospect, you could have gone with her. The door was wide open. All you had to do was move. But then, what would you say to her on the other side? Nothing you could say would lessen her discomfort- it would likely direct it towards you. Anyways, it’s too late now. You have thirteen floors to go, and you just have to get through them without any interrupt-

"I'm going up."

Something possesses you. The burning in your face has immigrated to the rest of your body - your feet, your belly, your neck -

your neck.

You forget the rules, just for a moment.

And it only takes that moment to look

up.

The man is looking at you, still. You look back. He looks as strange as he acts.

Then you forget another rule. You speak. Not a brevity. You speak.

"Your shoes are scuffed. "

He answers, "Didn't notice. I'm going up."

"Where is up?"

He answers, "Towards the sky."

"You can't see the sky from here."

"How would you know?"

You forget the rules again. Or perhaps you just don't care. You crane your neck to look at the tin-coated ceiling.

"No sky. Just metal."

"Can you see beyond it?"

"No. It’s not glass." He doesn't respond. "Perhaps if there was a window. " He is still quiet. "But there's no window on the ceiling, so no sky. Just metal." Silence.

Curtains Up.

You: Did I offend you? With my comment about your shoes? I'm sorry.

(The man is silent.)

You know what, I'm not sorry. I don't know why I said that. You come in here, and you just stand there being strange. Not strange enough to call you strange, but strange enough to make me strange. And because your level of strangeness could not warrant a comment, but your constant interjections necessitated some sort of interaction, I mentioned your shoes. I had to. I just had to. And they are scuffed. Not that scuffed shoes make you strange. There's nothing strange about a scuff -I get them all the time. But such a comment about your shoes could've prompted a nice and normal discussion-Where did you get them? When did you scuff them? Did it happen on your way to this building?

(The man is silent. He narrows his eyes.)

You: No! I didn’t ask. I did not want to ask. I wanted a nice and normal quiet ride. But you kept talking about "going up," which was fine when there was a crowd who could collectively ignore you, but you continued to ask when we were alone and-

Scene.

The liftman interrupts, "Pardon, but it's your floor."

You move to exit, but you stop along the gap. You turn.

"Aren't you coming? This is the top floor."

The man looks at his shoes.

"No. I'm going down." You pause.

"Strange."

"Not my intention. Any pointers? "

You think for a moment. Then, as you step across the threshold, still looking at him, an answer comes to you.

"Try not to talk so much next time."

The doors close. The strange man stays turned to you as they do.

You wait in front of the silver doors.

You wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Until a beam of light floats across your gaze, refracted from some unknown metallic source. You go to the window. You look down. You see the ground. You see the tiny people moving along the ground. Then you return.

*****************************************************************************

It may sound unpleasant, but this will happen to you today. Things will be normal until they're not. The man will be strange until he's not. And that's okay. Tomorrow, the rules will be easier.

**********************************************************************

Laundromat. Building. Thanks. Silence. Doors. Button. Open. Lights. Enter. Avoid. Turn. Liftman.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Leave.

**********************************************************************