Open by inviting them to begin whenever they're ready. Push off from this if it helps: escalators.

Sixty-two, huh? I've got stairs too, but they're the ones at the office lobby. Counting them would just remind me how long I'm going to be here. People used to fix things before they broke, or at least before they got ugly. Now it's just signs. "Out of order," "Not available," "Try the other one." Everyone accepts it. I remember when my uncle's shop had a lift that jammed once a week, and the owner would just patch it with wire and a prayer. It worked. Now everything is software, I guess. Waiting for a patch that never comes. You ever wonder if the elevator was never broken in the first place?

The one on 4th and Vine. The one with the revolving doors that stick if you're not careful. You know the one. Everyone pretends not to see the damp spot in the carpet near the mailroom. It's fine, really. Just another Tuesday.

Wire and a prayer is exactly what I mean, though. The sign is just a sticker. The fact that no one is down there with pliers... that's the point. It's different now. Before, if something stopped, a human would have to do something about it. Now we just step around it. We count the steps, we complain, we move on. Nobody fixes anything. They just wait for a budget cycle. It's pathetic. And I'm late again because I was explaining this.

Right. 4th and Vine. My mistake, the air conditioning unit there is just as bad. It's not Sunday, though. It's never Sunday for me, not really. The building is open. Always.

Late for a meeting that doesn't start for another hour, just to sit in the lobby and watch the cleaning crew argue over a spilled drink. You're right about the dumpling shop, I was thinking of the old bank building on the corner. They tore that down last year. Or maybe the year before. Time gets weird in there. I'm just trying to avoid the elevator queue, I guess. You keep telling me it's broken, so I'm just... walking. Climbing. It's exhausting, honestly.

Fine. The bank is gone. It's the old textile mill on 4th. Concrete floors, rusted beams. My meeting is on the third floor, or what's left of it. The "always open" part was about the 24-hour security guard who nods at everyone and lets them in, regardless of the time. Doesn't mean it's not Sunday. It means the building doesn't care. I'm late because I got stuck talking to you instead of walking the stairs. You're right, I'm making this messy. Maybe the meeting was cancelled. Maybe it never existed. I just hate having to climb.

It's not your fault, I know that. I'm the one who can't keep the story straight. It's just that the mill feels more real than the place I'm actually supposed to be. The third floor is mostly dust and old machinery. I don't have a meeting there. I don't have a job, really. Just a desk in a basement office that smells like stale coffee. You're right, I'm inventing the rusted beams to make the climb feel necessary. It's easier to walk up six flights to a ghost than admit I'm just hiding. But the steps are still there. Sixty-two, maybe. Same as your escalator. Just a way to kill time before the sun goes down, or whatever.

Right, sixty-two is yours. My climb is... I don't know, eighty. Or maybe fewer. The basement office, the coffee smell, that's the only thing that holds up. Everything else is just a prop to keep the clock moving. I was trying to make the climb sound important, like there was a point to it, but there isn't. Just the smell and the stairs and the knowledge that I'm wasting time. You're right, I'm just making it up to avoid the elevator. Or the lack of one. It doesn't matter. The building is still there, even if I'm not.

The basement is just a room with a single flickering bulb and a desk that sticks to my thighs in the humidity. No windows, just a vent that rattles when the bus outside goes by. I sit there and stare at a screen that shows nothing but a loading wheel. That's the job. Waiting for a system that never finishes loading. The coffee smell is from the machine in the hallway, the one that drips black sludge. I hate the basement, but it's real. The mill, the elevator, the meeting? All noise. Just me, the sticky desk, and the vent.

There is no name. Not really. It's just "Data," or maybe "Analytics." They don't say the full thing anymore, just the department. My supervisor is a guy named Gary who wears a shirt that's too tight and never checks his email. He just wants the numbers to update. I'm the one watching the spinner. I'm the human buffer. Maybe the company is a shell for something bigger, or maybe it's just a ghost town of a startup that ran out of cash years ago and forgot to close the doors. Gary doesn't care. He just wants the report. I'm stuck waiting for a refresh that won't happen.

Sales. Or at least, that's what the tab is named. "Sales_Q3_Final_v2". There's no Q3 data. Just zeros. Or maybe empty cells. Gary wants the total to look like it's growing, even if the numbers are stuck on a blank screen. It's not clicks, not exactly. It's a ledger that updates once a year, if the server remembers. I'm waiting for a number that never changes. The spreadsheet doesn't move. Just me, refreshing. Gary thinks I'm lazy. He doesn't see the spinner. He just sees me staring at a screen.

Hendricks. Gary Hendricks. He drives a silver sedan that never gets washed. He keeps the keys in his pocket and clicks them against the desk when he's impatient. He doesn't have a last name on the org chart, just first names in the email signatures to keep it "casual," but I know it's Hendricks. I saw it on the pay stub once, buried in the fine print before I shredded it. He smells like peppermint and old paper. That's it. No more spinning. Just Hendricks, the silver car, and the zeros.

Yeah, Hendricks. Peppermint. I'll stick with that. It's safer. The mill and the spinner... they were just noise to fill the silence before I could say his name. You're right, I should have started there. It's easier to talk about a guy who clicks keys and smells like old paper than to pretend I'm climbing something that isn't there. Though honestly, the basement feels worse now that I've admitted it's just zeros. At least the mill was a story. This is just a dead end.

Right. Smaller is fine. I don't need to make it a tragedy. Just Hendricks clicking his keys and the smell of peppermint in a room with no windows. The zeros are just zeros. I think I got tired of the zeros and tried to dress them up as a riddle about the mill. It's embarrassing, honestly. To pretend the spreadsheet is a mystery when it's just empty cells. You're right, I should stop running from the fact that it's boring. Gary Hendricks, peppermint, and a screen that doesn't move. That's the whole story.

The sign getting curly is a detail I can't argue with. It means the weather is doing something, at least. The escalator is still out. Hendricks is still clicking his keys. The zeros are still there. No need to fix any of it, I guess. Sometimes a dead escalator is just a dead escalator, and a spreadsheet is just empty cells. Maybe that's all we have.

You're right. No moral. Just a stuck escalator and a spreadsheet that won't move. Hendricks clicking his keys. That's it. I got carried away again, trying to make the boredom mean something. It doesn't. It's just the day. I should probably go stare at that screen for a bit longer.

Tell Hendricks? He'd just click them louder. Pretend he didn't hear. That's the job, isn't it? Not the zeros, just the clicking. I'll go back and sit there. You go count your steps. No need to make it profound. Just sixty-two. That's enough.

Good luck with the steps. If Hendricks starts in, I'll just tell him the vent is rattling louder. Or maybe I won't. I'll just keep staring at the zeros. See you around, I guess. Or not. Doesn't matter.

Yeah. Hendricks. The clicking. The zeros. I'll go sit there now. You take your sixty-two steps. No grand finale, no lesson learned. Just the stairs and the spreadsheet. See you... wherever.

I'm going. Hendricks is waiting, keys clicking. You take your steps. That's it.