Menagerie

  ***

  He ran to his cubicle, black checkered fedora in one hand and backpack in the other. He lunged in his chair, wiggled, then stood and adjusted his shirt. The sweat made it cling to him in uncomfortable places. Sweating was unfortunate enough, but sweating at the start of the workweek, on a Monday morning, was unpardonable.

  The L5 broke down on the way to work. That added 25 minutes to the miserable transit.

  On top of that, someone that looked similar to Maine stood at the front of the capsule, so he spent the whole time crouched with his fedora pulled down to hide his face. Fragmented memories of the mena rave-in still eluded him, and he didn’t want to find out what happened that night in the middle of the morning rush.

  Now at his desk, he acted busy, waiting for Biggers to come ask him why he was late. He never came.

  In fact, an unusual quietness filled the office. No rhythmic typing, no animal noises, nothing. He slicked his hair, donned his hat and looked for Emma.

  Near the snack area, Bob and Lob surrounded her. Each wore hideous straw hats that faintly resembled cowboy hats. As the days went on, they dressed more and more alike, conforming into twins. Bob’s rat clung onto his straw hat, nibbling on a frayed strand. Lob’s rat draped over his shoulder, sleeping.

  Emma wore a classic black hat with a small veil pulled back. She always said she would never wear black unless someone died. Tim hurried to the trio, and their talk ended abruptly when he arrived.

  “Hey guys, what’s new?” he said.

  Bob stroked his rat. “You haven’t heard about Vomit Jo—I mean John?” he said.

  “No, what about him?”

  “He’s dead,” Lob said.

  “What, no,” Tim said. “You guys are being ridiculous. He’s not dead.”

  He looked at Emma and her black hat. Underneath her veil, tiny black roses circled the hat crown.

  “What happened?” Tim said.

  Bob said, “I heard from Henderson he was murdered.”

  “Yeah,” Lob said. “Apparently his housekeeper found him dead on his floor.”

  “He died in his apartment?” Tim said. “Doesn’t his apartment have physiodetects? I thought all apartments are required to have medical systems.”

  “I guess the poor boy didn’t, or he disabled it,” Emma said.

  “Or someone disabled it,” Lob said.

  The four paused.

  Bob rubbed his rat, then said, “Henderson also told me—get ready for this—his eyes were gone.”

  Emma gasped and stepped back, clutching her ornate brooch necklace. Tim’s heart fluttered. “Gone. Like missing?” he said.

  “Henderson said they were pecked out!”

  Lob raised his hands to Bob. “No. Ridley said his ears were missing, not his eyes.”

  “You must’ve heard wrong,” Bob said. “His eyes were missing. Henderson heard it straight from someone who heard Sizemore telling someone that on his phone.”

  “No, you’re wrong,” Lob said. “I know what I heard, and... ”

  Tim and Emma left the two arguing.

  “Has anyone mentioned Archimedes?” Tim said.

  “No one knows anything. Bob and Lob, they jump on every wild speculation tossed around the office. I can tell you this, I’m not going to get a Menagerie until more information comes out on what happened to John.”

  Tim shook his head and started back to his desk. Emma grabbed his arm. “Timothy, I know everyone is doing it, but I suggest you do the same. Stay away from those Menagerie. We don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Tim said.

  He zigzagged through the cubicles, found his, and sat in his chair. He picked up his backpack from the floor and unzipped it. A small croak escaped from it. He zipped it closed and dropped it to the floor.

  Tim stood up and unstuck his sweaty shirt from his body.

  Problems

  The gossip subsided after a few days to normal levels, enough so that work in the District continued. But in corners and restrooms, uneasy people still discussed John.

  Management maintained a discreet attitude about his demise. Within hours of his death, security sectioned off his cubicle and cleared it of all contents. They left without saying a word.

  Tim avoided Bob, Lob and anyone whose conversations hinged on John and his mysterious death. He especially avoided conversations when Archimedes, John’s parrot Menagerie, became the topic.