Oh — the door on the third floor, the one past the vending machines nobody restocks. You know this one. Everybody at that office has a version of it. Supposedly it was Halvorsen's old office, before he did whatever it was he did — embezzlement, some people say, others say it was worse, involved a woman in accounting — and they just locked it and never told facilities to change the paperwork.
Gil, you've walked past it a hundred times. Don't tell me you forgot already.
It wasn’t Halvorsen. It was Vance. Before the whole merger mess. I saw the keycard log once, just out of spite because my badge didn’t work on it. Vance. Definitely Vance. Halvorsen was in London, or wherever the hell he went after he vanished. I didn’t forget. I just didn’t care enough to correct everyone else’s misinformation. That door was never Halvorsen’s. It’s Vance’s. And it’s still locked.
Vance. Right, right — I always mix the two of them up because they had that same haircut, that side part like a insurance salesman. But Vance was gone way before the merger, wasn't he, that's the part I don't buy. I thought he stuck around for the transition, signed off on half the layoffs, then just — poof. Keycard log's the only proof anyone has. Facilities won't even talk about it. I asked once, guy just changed the subject.
Vance didn’t stick around for the layoffs. He was out six months prior. I remember because I had to cover his coffee run. The haircut thing is pure fabrication. Vance had that buzz cut, the one that looked like it was done with a butter knife. Halvorsen had the hair. Or maybe it was the other way around. I can’t recall. But the door? That’s Vance’s. Always was. And it’s still locked.
Coffee run — see, that's the detail that gets me, because I always heard it was Marnie who covered his coffee run, not you. You're rewriting yourself into it now. Not accusing you of lying, just — memory does that, fills in a gap with whoever's handy.
Buzz cut, sure, fine, I'll give you the buzz cut. Doesn't change the door though. Still locked, still nobody's key works, still that smell every time you walk past like something's rotting behind drywall. Nobody's ever explained the smell.
Marnie didn’t do coffee runs. She did expense reports. I was the one who had to walk up. And it wasn’t rot. It was mildew. Old pipes. You’re thinking of the basement. Third floor is dry. Bone dry. I remember because I stood right outside that door, keycard dead, just staring at the handle. Nothing smelled up there. Just stale air. And Vance’s drawer. Still half-full of pens. They never cleared it out. That’s the only thing left.
Pens. That's what gets me every time — you'd think if a man vanishes under a cloud like that, somebody clears his desk out of spite if nothing else. But no, just sat there. I heard someone tried the drawer once, years later, and the pens still wrote. Like nothing had passed. That's the part that never sat right with me, more than the door even. A room can stay locked. A pen shouldn't still work.
You're reaching. Ink dries out. If they still wrote, the caps were on tight. Or Vance was meticulous. Which fits the buzz cut. Or maybe it was just cheap ballpoints. You’re romanticizing a storage closet. People leave things when they panic. You don’t have time to pack a pen set when security is knocking. I saw the desk. It was empty except for that drawer. And the pens were blue. Standard issue. Nothing magical about them. Just office supplies. You want a mystery; I see inventory.
Fine. Storage closet. But storage closets don't stay locked eleven years running with facilities pretending the room's not on the floor plan. I asked once, remember — brought it up in a meeting just to watch someone flinch. Nobody flinched. Just moved to the next agenda item like I hadn't spoken. That's not inventory, Gil. That's a company deciding a door doesn't exist. Pens are just what got left behind when they decided that.
You brought it up in the quarterly review? I don’t remember that. I remember Miller talking about Q3 projections. People didn’t flinch; they just ignored you. Like you were static. And facilities knows about the room. They just don’t care. It’s a square footage error. A accounting mistake. Not a conspiracy. You’re projecting meaning onto a spreadsheet glitch. That’s the danger of staying too long in one place. You start seeing ghosts in the math. I still walk past that door. Nothing happens. Just a wall.
Static. Yeah, maybe. Miller's Q3 numbers, that part I remember too, wish I didn't. But a spreadsheet glitch doesn't explain the keycard log, Gil. Yours, mine, everyone's dead on that one lock and nobody else's. You want to call that an accounting mistake, fine, call it that. I'll keep walking past it thinking about pens. Somebody has to.
The keycard log was a glitch. IT fixed it. Or maybe they just never updated the server. It’s not a statement; it’s incompetence. I remember staring at that badge for ten minutes, wondering if I was fired, if I’d been replaced, if the system just didn’t like my face. It wasn’t about Vance. It was about us. About how fragile the whole setup is. One update, one error, and you’re locked out. Not because of a ghost. Because of a server. You want it to be deeper. I want it to be done. Let’s go get coffee. My treat. Since I covered Vance’s.
Fair enough. But you're buying because you owe me from the last time, not because of Vance. Let's not confuse those two debts either — you'll rewrite that one too given a week. Coffee though, yeah. I'm not walking past the third floor to get there, I'll take the long way. Some habits you keep whether or not you believe in them anymore.
You’re so dramatic. It’s a straight shot down the hall. But fine. Long way. I’ll take the stairs. My knees aren’t what they used to be. And I’m not buying you coffee. You owe me for the last time. Or the time before. I can’t remember who owes who anymore. That’s the point, isn’t it? The debts get fuzzy. The pens don’t. Come on. If we take the long way, we might run into Miller. And I really don’t want to talk about Q3.
God, not Miller. He'll corner you for twenty minutes about the projections and somehow make it your fault the numbers are soft. Fine, I'll spot you the coffee, but you're covering next time and I'm holding you to it, unlike everything else around here that nobody holds to anything. Long way it is. Knees and all.
Miller loves to take credit for the dips. It’s a talent. I’ll spot you. But next time, if we meet it, I’m paying. You always forget. You always say "next time" like it’s a guarantee. It’s not. Nothing is. Except the pens. And the smell. Wait, was it mildew? Or rot? I’m forgetting. Let’s go. Before Miller sees us. He’s in the stairwell. I swear I saw him. Or maybe it was just a jacket. Hard to tell in the shadows.
Both, probably. Rot underneath, mildew painted over it, that's every building older than ten years. Move, move — if it's Miller I'm ducking into the mailroom and you're on your own explaining Q3. That jacket better be a jacket. I've had enough ghosts for one coffee run.
Mailroom? You’d get trapped. The door jams on Tuesdays. I’m staying. Miller’s probably just reading the dust. Or eating his lunch. He eats weird things. Remember that tuna sandwich last November? Smelled like feet. Anyway, I’ll wait here. Let the ghost jacket blow away. If it’s real, it’ll follow us. If it’s not, it’s just a blue blazer from the lost-and-found bin. Which, coincidentally, is where your coffee cup has been sitting for three days. Go. Before I change my mind and make you walk the short way.
Three days? That mug's been there longer than that, I only started keeping count when it started growing something. Fine, don't tell me it's not a ghost jacket, I've decided it isn't and I'm sticking with it. Go get the coffee, I'll deal with Miller if it comes to that. Somebody's got to be the responsible one, and it's clearly not going to be you today.
It’s not growing. It’s mold. From the spill you made last week. You’re delusional. I’m going. But if Miller corners me, I’m blaming you. You’re the one talking about ghosts. He’ll think I’m crazy. Which, fair. I am going. Don’t touch that mug. And don’t wait up. Or do. I don’t care. Just don’t let it in. That door. The third floor one. Keep it closed.
It's already closed, Gil, that's the whole point — it's been closed for eleven years, it's not going anywhere while you get me a coffee. Go. I'll guard the mug and the door and Miller's tuna reputation, all at once, like I always do. Someone's got to hold this place together while everyone else forgets who owes who what.
Guard the mug. Right. Like you guarded that typo in the Q2 report. I’m leaving. If Miller comes, tell him I’m dead. Or at least fired. Either works. And don’t touch the door. Don’t look at it. Just stand there with your moldy mug and your ‘responsible’ act. It’s pathetic, but fine. Go on. I’ll be back. Assuming I can find the machine. The one that only takes exact change. Which I don’t have. Because you’re buying. Wait, I was buying. Ugh. Just stay put. Don’t unlock anything. Especially not yourself.
Exact change, no memory of who's buying, and now apparently I'm the one at risk of unlocking myself — you've officially lost the thread, Gil. Go find the machine. I'll be right here, not touching the mug, not touching the door, being exactly as pathetic and responsible as required. Hurry up before Miller finds either of us.
I’m not losing the thread. I’m just tired. You’re the one obsessing over door locks like they’re a personality trait. I’m going. Don’t move. If I come back and the mug is gone, I’m leaving you with Miller. And for the record, I don’t care if you’re pathetic. It’s better than being right. Go on. Shoo. Before I remember why I hate this building. It’s the coffee. Or the mold. Hard to tell which is worse.