about level 2. Nobody claims to have been there
personally,
but everyone knows somebody who has. If Jones believes the stories, when the elevator doors open on level 2 he will be confronted with rolling meadows, frolicking deer, and naked virgins feeding grapes to Zephyr executives reclining on cushions. As for level 1, the sprawling penthouse office where Daniel Klausman composes all-staff voice mails and receives strategic visions—that's different. Nobody claims to have been there.
The button for level 2 lights up, then goes dark. Jones tries again. He reswipes his ID. But the elevator does not want to take him to level 2. Across the lobby, he sees the front doors slide open and Gretel Monadnock walk in. Jones calls, “Hey, Gretel, how come the elevator won't go?”
“Um . . .” She puts her purse on the giant orange reception desk, eyes the enormous flower arrangement, and runs a hand through her hair. Jones feels a twinge of sympathy for Gretel, who would probably be considered beautiful if she didn't sit next to Eve Jantiss. “I guess you don't have the proper security clearance.”
“How do I get that?”
“Where are you trying to get to?”
“Level 2.”
She looks startled. “Why do you want to do that?”
“I want to talk to Senior Management.” The lobby doors part again: this time it's Freddy, finished with his cigarette. “How do I make an appointment with someone from Senior Management?”
Gretel looks at Freddy, uncertain. Freddy says, “No, he's serious.”
“Um . . . can I get back to you on that? Nobody's asked me that before.”
“You're kidding.”
“No, she's not,” Freddy says. “You're meant to send requests like this up through your manager, Jones. You don't barge in on Senior Management.”
“This is ridiculous.” Jones puts his hands on his hips. “I just want to know what the company does.” Then he spots the coffee table for visitors, littered with marketing brochures and annual reports.
“A-ha.”
“He's happy, now,” Freddy says to Gretel. “Hey, is Eve due in this morning or what?”
“Eve doesn't keep me up-to-date on her movements.”
“Oh.”
“Um . . . Jones?” Gretel puts out her hand to touch Jones, who is passing by with a handful of annual reports.
“I'll bring these right back, I promise.”
She shakes her head. “No, I mean . . . I've wondered what Zephyr does, too. I've . . . well, we're not supposed to maintain contact with people who have left, but . . . I've been writing down their names.” She looks embarrassed. “It's just nobody ever talks about them, and I think . . . someone should remember them. So I write down their names. I've got the name of everybody who's worked here in the last three years.”
“Oh,” Jones says. He's not sure what to do with this information. “That's . . . really nice.”
“It's really
morbid,
” Freddy says in the elevator. “It's
wrong.
What sort of person writes down the names of people as they get fired? It's like a
death list.
”
Jones flips through the annual report. “‘Diversified product offering.' ‘Vertically integrated distribution chain.' ‘Chosen markets.' This tells me nothing!”
“It's Zephyr
Holdings.
I don't think we manufacture anything directly. We just control other companies.”
“Mmm,” Jones says, unconvinced. He flips the page and is confronted with a glossy photo of smiling employees underneath the words: NOT A JOB. A WAY OF LIFE. “Why are there no pictures of Daniel Klausman in this thing?”
“He's camera shy. There are no photos of him anywhere.”
“None?”
Freddy shrugs. “He doesn't like to meet people face-to-face. Doesn't mean he can't do his job.”
“Do you even know what he looks like?”
“Me? No. But some people say they've met him. Hey, check it out.” He points at the button panel. “No more Information Technology.”
Jones realizes that instead of the number 19, there is a small round hole. “They actually remove the
personally,
but everyone knows somebody who has. If Jones believes the stories, when the elevator doors open on level 2 he will be confronted with rolling meadows, frolicking deer, and naked virgins feeding grapes to Zephyr executives reclining on cushions. As for level 1, the sprawling penthouse office where Daniel Klausman composes all-staff voice mails and receives strategic visions—that's different. Nobody claims to have been there.
The button for level 2 lights up, then goes dark. Jones tries again. He reswipes his ID. But the elevator does not want to take him to level 2. Across the lobby, he sees the front doors slide open and Gretel Monadnock walk in. Jones calls, “Hey, Gretel, how come the elevator won't go?”
“Um . . .” She puts her purse on the giant orange reception desk, eyes the enormous flower arrangement, and runs a hand through her hair. Jones feels a twinge of sympathy for Gretel, who would probably be considered beautiful if she didn't sit next to Eve Jantiss. “I guess you don't have the proper security clearance.”
“How do I get that?”
“Where are you trying to get to?”
“Level 2.”
She looks startled. “Why do you want to do that?”
“I want to talk to Senior Management.” The lobby doors part again: this time it's Freddy, finished with his cigarette. “How do I make an appointment with someone from Senior Management?”
Gretel looks at Freddy, uncertain. Freddy says, “No, he's serious.”
“Um . . . can I get back to you on that? Nobody's asked me that before.”
“You're kidding.”
“No, she's not,” Freddy says. “You're meant to send requests like this up through your manager, Jones. You don't barge in on Senior Management.”
“This is ridiculous.” Jones puts his hands on his hips. “I just want to know what the company does.” Then he spots the coffee table for visitors, littered with marketing brochures and annual reports.
“A-ha.”
“He's happy, now,” Freddy says to Gretel. “Hey, is Eve due in this morning or what?”
“Eve doesn't keep me up-to-date on her movements.”
“Oh.”
“Um . . . Jones?” Gretel puts out her hand to touch Jones, who is passing by with a handful of annual reports.
“I'll bring these right back, I promise.”
She shakes her head. “No, I mean . . . I've wondered what Zephyr does, too. I've . . . well, we're not supposed to maintain contact with people who have left, but . . . I've been writing down their names.” She looks embarrassed. “It's just nobody ever talks about them, and I think . . . someone should remember them. So I write down their names. I've got the name of everybody who's worked here in the last three years.”
“Oh,” Jones says. He's not sure what to do with this information. “That's . . . really nice.”
“It's really
morbid,
” Freddy says in the elevator. “It's
wrong.
What sort of person writes down the names of people as they get fired? It's like a
death list.
”
Jones flips through the annual report. “‘Diversified product offering.' ‘Vertically integrated distribution chain.' ‘Chosen markets.' This tells me nothing!”
“It's Zephyr
Holdings.
I don't think we manufacture anything directly. We just control other companies.”
“Mmm,” Jones says, unconvinced. He flips the page and is confronted with a glossy photo of smiling employees underneath the words: NOT A JOB. A WAY OF LIFE. “Why are there no pictures of Daniel Klausman in this thing?”
“He's camera shy. There are no photos of him anywhere.”
“None?”
Freddy shrugs. “He doesn't like to meet people face-to-face. Doesn't mean he can't do his job.”
“Do you even know what he looks like?”
“Me? No. But some people say they've met him. Hey, check it out.” He points at the button panel. “No more Information Technology.”
Jones realizes that instead of the number 19, there is a small round hole. “They actually remove the
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