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The Ladder

by R.L. Keck

By Ricky KeckPublished 2 years ago 24 min read
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Joe Lamb stopped in front of the nondescript, brick building. Pedestrians grumbled as they worked their way around him. He glanced at the address card the Agency gave him that morning, and confirmed he was where he should be. Straightening his jacket and sweeping an errant strand of hair from his face with his fingers, he pushed the door and walked into Resource Marketing, LLC.

A twenty-something woman glanced up as he approached and smiled. “Welcome to Resource Marketing. How may I help you?”

“Uh, oh, hi,” Joe said. She was pretty enough he lost his mental footing for a moment. He cleared his throat and handed her his résumé. “I’m here for the opening.”

“Okay.” She accepted the one-page document.

“So, what’s the position?”

“It’s in the Mail Room.” Her green eyes scanned his information. “We had a sudden opening in the Research Department.”

“In the Research Department? I’d like to work there.”

The receptionist looked up from Joe’s meager résumé. “Sorry, we filled that position from within the company. The only job is in the Mail Room.”

“Oh,” Joe’s shoulders slumped. He needed a job, but the Mail Room—boring.

The receptionist leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t worry.” She cast a furtive glance around the lobby. “If you’re motivated, and if the company likes you, you won’t stay too long in the Mail Room. It’s up to you.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, it’s company policy to …” she began, but a side door opened, disgorging a tall man in a tailored suit who regarded her with a stern look.

Joe observed the man and noticed the immediate change in her tone. “Thank you, sir,” she said, passing him a clipboard and indicating an armchair. “Please complete this application.”

The man strode across the lobby, leaving through a second door.

A few minutes later, the first door opened again. A matronly woman entered, stopping at the receptionist’s desk. Her hair, black as the pantsuit she wore, but gray at the temples, fell straight and long, ending at the middle of her back. She presented a professional appearance, but Joe felt a shiver race up his spine as she spoke with the girl at the desk.

The dark woman turned. “Mister Lamb?” She offered Joe a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Joe walked to the woman and held out his hand.

She returned a firm shake. Her skin was warm and dry, but Joe felt a second shiver course through him.

“My name is Esperanza Perdida. I’m the Human Resources Manager.

Repressing an urge to wipe his hand on his trouser leg, Joe said, “Hello.”

Ms. Perdida’s eyes dropped to the paper in her hands. “Your résumé is brief, but you may have just what we are looking for.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’d do anything to get this job. And I’m very loyal. If you give me a chance, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

She stared at Joe; one eyebrow raised. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Ms. Perdida looked him up and down. “Very well. The job is yours.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” She turned and headed for the side door. “Follow me, please?”

Joe passed close to the receptionist.

“Congratulations,” the girl said.

“Thanks,” he called back. Ms. Perdida passed into the next room, so Joe stopped and turned around. “What’s your name?”

“Gayle.”

“See ya ‘round, Gayle.”

As he crossed the threshold, he noticed a phrase etched into the lintel.

Abandone Toda la Esperanza.

Esperanza? This must be Ms. Perdida’s office. He shut the door.

“Take a seat, Joe,” Ms. Perdida said.

He sat in a plush chair facing an ornate desk. She removed a thick accordion file from a drawer and laid it on the blotter in front of her. She withdrew a bound pamphlet. Joe could see nothing in the file but could have sworn he heard faint cries of pain.

“Joe, may I have…” she held out her hand.

The strange, pleading sounds faded. He blinked. She regarded him with dark eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, passing the application to her.

He listened, straining to hear. Nothing. But they had been there.

“You are single. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” He turned his head, listening.

“Is something wrong?”

He faced her. “I thought I heard something.”

She returned to the application. “No living relatives either.”

“Right. I’ve been on my own since my senior year in college.”

Her eyes shifted left and right as they swept down the form. “You graduated from GWU last year.”

“Uh huh.”

“What brought you to us?

“I got laid off.” It had been a crappy job in sales, and he was glad when they let him go.

“Well, let’s hope you find a home here.” She handed him a thin pamphlet taken from the folder. “Here’s your Employee Handbook. Everything you need is in there.” She sat back, her fingers steepled in front of her. “Any questions?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Excellent.” Ms. Perdida got up and led Joe to another door. She guided him into the next room where a stooped and wrinkled, white-haired man waited. “Alphonse will show you to the Mail Room.” She extended her hand, Joe took it. “I’m sure you will do fine here.”

Joe released her hand—shuddering again, but this time he obeyed the urge and covertly wiped his hand on his pants leg. Alphonse stared at him with expressionless, unblinking eyes. Joe was starting to think there was something not right with him, but when the door closed, Alphonse started talking.

“Skeeter,” he said.

“How’s that?”

“My name. I go by Skeeter, not Al-phonse.” He stretched the name out. “I hate that name.” He stuck out his gnarled hand. Joe was relieved when no shivers followed the handshake.

“I’m Joe. Nice to meet you.”

“C’mon, let me show yeh ‘round.” Skeeter waved for Joe to follow. They entered a stairwell and descended several flights, ending at a heavy steel door. Skeeter pulled the door open and went straight through into the mail room.

“Welcome to Hell.” Skeeter held his arms apart and turned in a slow circle, chuckling. “Whattaya think?”

“Um… it’s a mail room?”

“Well, duh,” he dropped his arms, looking deflated. “I asked what yeh think.”

Joe gave the room a longer look, pausing now and then to nod and point. When he finished scanning the room, he faced Skeeter, “It’s the best damn mail room I’ve ever been in.”

He did not add it was the only mailroom he’d ever been in.

That seemed the answer the old man wanted. He clapped his hands once. “That’s right, my boy. It’s a real doozy. The guy before yeh didn’t have the respect this place deserves. But he’s gone now, so good riddance.”

“How long have you been here, in the mail room, I mean?”

The change in Skeeter was immediate. The man’s countenance grew serious as he screwed his face up in apparent concentration. “Tell you the truth, I don’t know. Been a while though, I was just a kid when I started.”

“You’ve been in the mail room the whole time?”

The man nodded as if that were obvious.

“Why haven’t you been promoted?”

“Promoted, nah. Yeh ever hear that someone’s gotta die before a position opens?”

Joe nodded.

“Well, if that’s what it takes to get ahead, they can keep it. I like my job just fine.”

“But that’s just a figure of speech.”

Skeeter regarded Joe with a knitted brow and keen eyes. “Perhaps. What do I know? I just been here in Hell for …” he stopped and appeared to do his mental calculation again. “Like I said, I ain’t sure.” Skeeter offered a raspy laugh.

At lunchtime, Skeeter showed Joe the employee cafeteria, “Beware of Wednesday’s chicken,” he whispered as the two of them pushed their plastic trays along the rail. “There’s some who swear it ain’t chicken at all, but old pigeons from the roof terrace.”

As this was Thursday, Joe had his pick of two “safe” choices: meatloaf or beef stew. He chose a salad.

They found two vacant seats in a cluster of six occupied tables and sat. Joe noticed his co-workers as they trickled in for the afternoon meal. There was the usual diverse ethnic assortment of people one would expect at any midtown office building: African Americans, Latinos, whites, and Asians sitting in mixed groups. He noticed a small contingent of women sitting in one of the few booths that lined the wall. Their body language—leaning in, heads close together—seemed to Joe as if they were gossiping between bites of their salads. Joe followed their gaze. A lone man, eyes fixed on the news, his sandwich suspended halfway between his mouth and the tray, seemed unaware he was dripping mustard on his silk tie.

Another man approached the stained-tie wearer and sat without asking permission. The first man showed no notice. Until that is, the interloper spoke to him. Joe could not hear the conversation, but once it started it soon escalated into much gesturing and increasing volume. As quickly as it began, it was over.

The newcomer shoved his chair back and shouted, “Fine, then. I guess we’ll just see what happens.” He strode out.

“What do you suppose that was all about?” Joe asked Skeeter.

“Dunno. Probably about a promotion.”

“How’s that?”

“Noel,” Skeeter indicated the departing man, “wants Harry’s job.” He nodded at the stained-tie man. “But I don’t think Harry’s ready to move on yet.”

“So,” Joe urged.

“Their disagreement creates disharmony in his department. They will have to arrive at a solution.”

“What do you mean by ‘solution’?”

“Depends on how imaginative each one can be. You gonna eat that tomato?” Skeeter eyed Joe’s tray.

“No, it’s yours.” Joe wondered what Skeeter meant by ‘imaginative.’

For the rest of the day, Skeeter took Joe on his rounds, delivering and collecting the mail from the various departments. While they were on the fourth floor, they stopped by the Accounting department and spoke to the woman in charge of payroll.

“Now, this is Lori,” Skeeter said. “You want to stay on her good side if you get my meaning.” Skeeter nudged Joe in the ribs and snorted.

“Pleased to meet you, Lori; I’m Joe.”

“Welcome. I hope you enjoy your rung on the ladder.” Lori’s dimples showed. She handed him several forms to fill out “Make sure you fill out your W-4 correctly, or we’ll either take too much or too little taxes out, and that could mean trouble.”

“Thank you, I’ll be careful,” Joe promised as Skeeter guided him away from payroll and back along their route. “She’s nice.”

“Oh, sure. She’s nice as long as you turn in your timecard on time. God help you if you’re ever late.” The old man whistled and shook his head as if recalling something painful.

As they were completing their rounds on the sixth floor, Joe noticed the man with the stained tie sitting in a corner office. The nameplate on the door read “Noel.” The other man, the one who created the disturbance during lunch, sat across the aisle in a cramped cubicle, staring daggers toward Noel. The man, whose name appeared to be Harry, if the nameplate on the cubicle wall was correct, used a letter opener to stab at the blotter on his desk. The slow, methodical movements made Joe uneasy.

“Wow,” Joe observed.

“They’ll work it out,” Skeeter gave a quick shrug. “They always do.”

“You mean those two do this sort of thing often?”

“Them? Nah, this is their first time. No, I mean others. This happens all the time. You’ll see.”

“Must be hard on Human Resources.”

“Why’s that?”

“All the turmoil has got to be bad for morale.”

“Not at all,” Skeeter said. “This is the way it’s done here.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“By tomorrow, everything will be put to rights.”

“If you say so.”

They returned to the lower levels to spend the rest of the day preparing the outgoing mail. At quitting time, Skeeter urged Joe to be back early, as Fridays were always busy.

As he made his way to the train platform, Joe considered his new employer. They appeared to be successful. Everyone dressed well and seemed to get along. That is, except for … “the angry man in the cubicle,” Joe blurted out. For there, in the crowd was that very man. What was his name? Harry. He was not hard to miss; his face still contorted with pent-up rage.

Why is he still so mad? Joe wondered. As the train slowed, Joe noticed the man with the stained tie—Noel—standing at the edge of the platform. He did not appear to be waiting for this train, for as Joe hustled aboard with the throng of people, he noticed Noel still standing there.

Joe found a space near a window as the train pulled away. Before the train entered the tunnel, Joe noticed a look of calm, resignation of Noel’s face, and Harry moving to intercept Noel on the platform.

The next day, Joe arrived early. The first order of business, after coffee and returning the tax forms to Lori, was morning mail delivery. Joe handled the task alone, and before long Joe was moving along the aisle between the sixth-floor cubicles.

When he reached the corner, he stopped and stared. There, in Noel’s corner office, his feet up on the desk, was Harry, the angry man from yesterday.

A young woman entered the office, greeted Harry, passed him some papers, and left. The entire exchange seemed completely normal.

Joe shook his head and turned toward Harry’s cubicle. Sitting at the cramped desk in the tiny cubicle, was an altogether new person. All the items that had cluttered Harry’s cubicle; the photos on the walls, the damaged blotter, had vanished, replaced with clean, new items. In fact, Harry’s nameplate had been changed and now read, “Bart.” This made no sense. Why was Harry sitting in Noel’s office? And, for that matter, where was Noel? Joe passed the office where Harry sat drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper, the name now emblazoned on the door read, “Harry.”

By the time Joe returned to the mail room, his head was ready to burst from all the questions he had. Skeeter was sorting the first batch of outgoing mail. The old man was deep in concentration, segregating parcels, and packages from the business envelopes into three large mail sacks suspended in metal cages.

Joe called out, “Skeeter.”

“Ahhh!” He started, dropping a handful of envelopes. “Don’t do that when I’m sorting. You wanna give me the big one?”

“Sorry.”

Skeeter removed his spectacles, took a stained handkerchief from his pocket to wipe them with, and regarded Joe. “What’s so darned important that you should startle me so?”

Joe sat at the sorting desk and told Skeeter about the new occupants on the sixth floor. “So, what do you think?” he asked.

Skeeter finished wiping his glasses, placed them back onto their perch and sniffed. “Pshaw. I told you things would settle themselves out. Looks like I was right.” He turned to sort more mail.

Joe pressed. “What happened to Noel?”

Skeeter paused and glanced at Joe. “I expect he’s dead.”

“Dead?” Joe asked. “What do you mean ‘dead’ …” but, Joe stopped. The scene at the subway platform ran through his mind, and he knew what had happened.

“Are you saying Harry killed Noel?” Joe asked, aghast. Skeeter must have gone crazy after working in the mail room so long, he thought. Surely no one would kill a co-worker to get a corner office.

Skeeter exhaled loudly. “You haven’t read your employee handbook, have you? If you had, you wouldn’t need to ask me a question like that.”

“It’s at home. I didn’t get around to reading it last night. But …”

“Just read it. Old Esperanza told you all the answers are there. Trust her, they are. Now you need to get back to work.”

Joe sat for a moment, unwilling to accept what his mind seemed to know: Harry had killed Noel yesterday. And today, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, Harry had stepped in and assumed his new position. Just like that, everything had changed. He recalled the scene on the sixth floor. It appeared normal. Then, it hit him, what Skeeter had said the previous day when Joe mentioned the trouble between Harry and Noel.

“Well, I guess Harry was the more ‘imaginative,’ huh,” Joe said as he slipped off the stool to get back to work. He was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that there had been an apparent murder of one worker by another. Someone should do something about it, he thought.

“I gotta go for a bit,” Joe told Skeeter. “I’ll be right back.”

The old man raised a hand in acknowledgment but continued his sorting without looking up. Joe turned and left.

As he climbed the stairs, Joe thought about the look for peaceful resignation etched on Noel’s face when he’d looked through the window of the subway car yesterday. Joe stopped with his foot raised, about to take the next step.

Joe slumped onto the step, his back against the wall. “He knew he was going to die.” Now that he said it aloud, Joe was sure it was true. He stood and continued up the stairs until he reached the lobby-level. Someone needed to know what happened. Should he go to the police? Well, of course he should. But he wanted to tell someone here first; someone besides the crazy old man in the Mail Room. Joe thought for a moment. Then it hit him: Gayle; he would tell Gayle.

Joe peered into the lobby. Instead of Gayle, one of the blondes from the day before sat at her desk. Then, he glanced at his watch; it was twelve-fifteen—lunchtime. He hurried to the cafeteria.

She sat alone at a table.

“Hi. Do you mind if I join you?”

She took another forkful of salad. “Hi, Joe,” she said. “Sure, sit down. How’s the job going?”

He covertly glanced around to see if anyone was close enough to hear. “Gayle, I think something awful has happened upstairs.”

Gayle lowered her fork and gave Joe her attention. “What happened?”

So, he told her. And he left nothing out. By the time he finished, Gayle had begun to eat once again and nod. When she spoke, she used the tone of one who is trying to explain something to a child, or a mentally challenged mailroom clerk.

“Have you read your employee handbook?”

“That’s exactly what Skeeter asked me.”

“You haven’t read it then?”

“Not yet. I intended to read it this weekend.”

“All the answers are there in the handbook.”

“But …”

Gayle kept her eyes steady. “You need to read it for yourself. It won’t work otherwise.”

“What won’t work?”

She rose from the table. “Look, I’ve got to get back to work.” She turned to walk away, but Joe grabbed her hand.

“I’ve got to tell the authorities.”

Gayle stopped and stared hard at Joe. “I like you. But that’s not the right thing to do here. Trust me. Now, please let me go. I’ve got to get back to work.”

He released her hand and watched her walk away. Joe sat there a few moments longer. This was ridiculous. Was everyone here on drugs or something? Didn’t anyone care that a murderer was working on the sixth floor? Well, he cared. And he would do something about it. He would confront Harry and demand the truth before he went to the police.

As he climbed the stairs, a woman passed on her way down. Joe stared at her, his heart rate increasing. Anger welled up from deep inside. He tried to go up the stairs, but with each step, the anger made his breathing heavier. He stopped and turned. The woman left the stairwell on the third floor. Joe turned and followed. He had to know what had caused him to feel these strong emotions.

Joe took the stairs two and three at a time. He pulled the door open, and a familiar feeling swept over him; he knew this office layout, even though he’d never been to the third floor. With absolute certainty, he knew this was where he belonged. Everything about this place—the coffee stain on the carpet, the floor manager’s drinking problem, even the trick to get the copier to work, everything called out to him. He understood what each position handled and how well the employees did their jobs. Joe didn’t know how; he just knew. As he walked between rows of cubicles, the woman turned the corner. He quickened his pace.

He turned the corner and stopped. The woman sat at his desk. Who was she to be sitting at his desk in his comfortable worn leather chair? The anger flared again, and Joe pushed his office door open and walked in.

“You are in my office.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Was there a glint of sadness in her eyes? Joe didn’t care.

“This is my office. This is my job, and I want you out of here.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Again, Joe thought he detected sadness and defeat in her eyes.

“I am supposed to have this job, not you.”

“I’ve been here for years, though,” she said. “This is my job. You cannot come in here and demand it.”

“Is that so?” Joe spat. He could feel the anger growing, threatening to boil over into violence. He couldn’t help himself. He was the one being done wrong by this … this, woman.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. The only way for me to leave this job is if I die.”

Her words hit him like a slap in the face. “What did you say?”

“I said the only way you will get this position is for you to kill me.”

Then he felt certainty surge deep inside. He knew what he must do. “Fine then.” He turned to go. “I guess we’ll just see what happens.”

He left his office and returned to the Mail Room, slamming the heavy door.

“What’s all this?” Skeeter demanded.

“Do you realize that some … some woman is sitting in my office doing the job I’m supposed to be doing?”

“Your office?” Skeeter regarded Joe through squinted eyes. “Are you sure it’s your office?”

“You’re damn right, I’m sure.”

Skeeter shook his head. “This just might be a record.” He shuffled over to the phone, lifted the receiver, and punched 6-6-6. He waited for a moment and then spoke softly. “We’ve got a promotion.” He listened. “I know, but …” After a brief silence during which the old man seemed to receive instructions, he said, “All right, I’ll tell him. Goodbye.”

When he had returned the phone receiver to its cradle, Skeeter turned to face Joe. “Go home.”

“Why?”

“Go home and read your handbook. You can’t get promoted until you read it. No, no arguments. Go home and read, then you will know what to do next.”

Joe, confused and angry, turned and started for the door.

“Goodbye, Joe.”

Once home he located his copy of the employee handbook Ms. Perdida had handed him. Was it only a day ago? It seemed much longer.

Joe tossed the slim, leather-bound manual on his kitchen table and went to grab a beer. After twisting off the top, he sat and lifted the handbook. The book’s metal clasp sliced his finger as he unlatched it. He stuck the injured digit into his mouth as he opened the book. Joe took his cut finger out of his mouth, turned the page, and left a bloody print of his index finger A faint wisp of smoke rose as the print dried. That should have disturbed him, but after today’s events, Joe only cared about figuring out what was happening. Strange events weren’t so odd. Joe turned to the page on promotions and read.

Promotions: as Resource Marketing, LLC is a living entity, any position to which you are entitled will only be offered when it contacts you through the existing holder of that position. There are no other methods of announcing job openings or available positions above the second floor. Once the position to which you are entitled contacts you, it is your responsibility to acquire the position within seventy-two hours. There are no limits to the methods you may utilize to make the acquisition.

Only two rules apply to promotions: first, you must notify the present position holder of your intent to gain the position face-to-face; and second, further contact between the two competitors must occur away from company property. If after seventy-two hours, you fail to acquire the position, you will be terminated.

Once you are in a position of employment above the second floor, the only way you may be released from the position is to be challenged by another employee vying for the position. Employment with the company is at the will of the company. There are no guarantees as to the duration of any position to which you may be entitled as the position is free to choose a successor at any time.

We hope you enjoy your time with Resource Marketing, LLC. We are here to assist you in any way possible, provided it does not conflict with guidelines published herein.

“So, I was right; that is my position.” Joe took a long pull on the beer and considered the implications.

“I’ve got seventy-two hours to ‘acquire’ the position. And,” he continued, “there are no limits to the methods I may use.” He finished his beer and checked the time: 4:05; there was time.

Joe changed into a set of black jeans, a dark-colored hoodie, and sneakers before leaving his apartment for the subway.

He knew he would see her when she emerged from the building. At 5:40 she stepped out and hailed a cab. Joe did the same, telling his driver to “follow that cab.” He groaned at the cliché. When at last the woman’s taxi deposited her at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, Joe paid the cabbie and got out to follow.

He knew how and when he would make his move and felt calmed by the knowledge. Joe climbed the ladder to the upper deck of the ferry and waited. He could still see his quarry, standing where he knew she would be—at the stern railing looking back at the city.

When the ferry was midway to the island, Joe made his move. Throngs of people, most of them tourists, crowded the aft rail. No one registered his approach. Perfect.

As he stepped in close behind the woman, he felt his anger rise again. She was responsible for holding him back. It was her fault he had to start in the mailroom instead of an office. She was probably to blame for the death of his parents two years ago, too.

The ferry’s horn blew, causing the passengers to turn and look up at the bridge. While they were distracted, Joe stepped up and in one smooth motion, lifted the woman over the railing and dropped her into the churning water below. She made no protest; she was there one moment and gone the next. As the woman tumbled, Joe saw her face. As he expected, she wore the same peaceful expression he had seen on Noel that day on the subway platform. He paused, only a moment, to be sure she was taken in by the propeller wash. Nothing more than a brief red froth appeared. Satisfied, he turned and made his way forward to disembark.

He didn’t remember when, or how, he made it back to his apartment. He only knew when he woke up, it was Monday morning. Doubting nothing, he dressed and headed to work. Joe walked straight to the third floor. As he expected, his name was on the office door. He walked in and set his newspaper down on his desk, sat in his chair and leaned back, allowing his feet to rest on the desktop. In a moment, his secretary entered and passed him the documents for the day’s meetings.

“Good morning, Mister Lamb,” “Good morning, Rachael. How are the kids?”

Two months later, Joe was deeply entrenched in his position. Each day his secretary would deliver his workload, and each day he would fulfill the requirements demanded of him by the position. It was bliss. He was exactly where he belonged.

Joe stood and stretched, then walked to his doorway to intercept his mail. A gnarled old man pushed a cart loaded with letters and packages. Joe liked the mail room clerk. The man was always polite.

“Not much mail today, sir.”

“Thank you, Alphonse,” To himself, he added, “Alphonse; a strange name.”

The mail clerk continued his rounds without another comment and Joe was about to go back to his desk when he saw Gayle coming his way.

He smiled, recalling their date last night. As he opened his mouth to say hello, she jabbed a well-manicured finger in his chest.

“What are you doing in my office? And why are you in my position?”

Joe allowed himself only a flicker of sadness. He sat in his chair and accepted the finality of his position and her pending promotion.

Horror
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About the Creator

Ricky Keck

Keck has been writing adventure and fantasy fiction for 30+ years. He has seven titles published and is working on more. A retired Navy bomb disposal technician, he infuses his adventure series with real world situations.

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