This led Charleston to the realization that the air on this floor was incredibly humid, and that the humidity was perhaps seventy percent of the discomfort in the room’s climate. The humidity also made Timothy Spall’s lack of perspiration all the more remarkable to Charleston. Almost as remarkable was the fact that Charleston was thinking about climate and humidity at a moment such as this.

  Timothy Spall then said, “Okay.”

  He reached up and touched Charleston on the shoulder. Timothy Spall, aside from a handshake, had never touched Charleston before. Timothy Spall looked Charleston directly in the eyes, one of which, of course, was nearly swollen shut.

  “Wait here, Charlie,” said Timothy Spall.

  He turned and walked off, around a corner and out of sight. His footsteps echoed and trailed off until they were no longer audible.

  It was very quiet now but for a sort of hiss of steam (although no steam was perceptibly present) and the slow, occasional clank and grind of the almost imperceptibly slow turning of the cogs, if they were even turning at all.

  Only now did Charleston realize how he was sort of awkwardly standing three steps from the elevator. He presumed, though, that he was not to move any further onto the eighty-seventh floor. So he just stood. And as he stood, although his fate at Thundercom was very likely being decided at that very moment, Charleston was thinking but two arbitrary thoughts. (Plus that any other man might not stand and think but two arbitrary thoughts while his fate was being decided. Another man might do something tangible, something pronounced, something bold, something violent—if necessary—to swing the scales in his favor. But Charleston was not this man. Charleston was unsure as to what he thought his future should hold. After all, he was just a man. He did not control people’s fates. He did not know what was his own justice. Surely that was the domain of someone else who knew far more than he.) The two random thoughts knocking around in his mind were these:

  One: Why didn’t Timothy Spall say anything about my eye?

  And two: No one has ever called me “Charlie” before.

  Upon their second meeting, Charleston could see that the little, strange man-like thing was indeed more like a man than he remembered it being, more like a man than like anything else Charleston could really name. Nevertheless, it was far from plainly being a man.

  Upon their second meeting, the naked, little man-like thing sat behind a large, sparsely adorned desk in a large, sparsely adorned room with gray concrete walls and a darker gray concrete floor. He had small tufts of wiry black hair behind and above each ear. Charleston had not noticed these tufts the day before. He also had not noticed that the naked little man-like thing had sad, tired brown eyes that seemed somehow lonely, if eyes could be such a thing.

  Before Charleston could even take a seat in the chair in front of the desk, the naked little man-like thing, in a thin near-screech of a voice, began quite aggressively explaining…

  “I’m sorry that I’m nude, but I have incredibly sensitive skin that is irritated immensely by clothing. It’s torture, really.”

  “Oh,” replied Charleston, unsure what to say to this and only now really becoming aware of the social awkwardness of the man-like thing’s nudity. Prior to this moment, Charleston was too fixated upon all the other oddities of the man-like thing’s physical nature to offer even the slightest attention to its nakedness.

  “And I require humidity in the air,” said the man-like thing bitterly, in a tone that somewhat embarrassed Charleston, that caused Charleston to divert his eyes. His eyes, in searching for the next most intriguing sight upon which to affix, landed upon a nameplate, one of the only accoutrements upon the little naked man-like thing’s desk. The nameplate was old, made out of a pastel orange-coated plastic the color and engraving style of which, coupled with the yellowing of the once-white letters, indicated that the item had been made at least two decades prior to today’s meeting to discuss Charleston’s future at Thundercom. Nevertheless, for those at least twenty years, and for today as well, those yellowing letters read the same thing: Mr. Twytharp.

  Charleston only now realized that he had always imagined that Mr. Twytharp would be certain ways (tall and solid and, at the very least, strong-jawed). Charleston looked immediately back up at the mythological man whom no one Charleston had ever met had ever met; whom no one Charleston had ever spoken to had spoken about, because no one Charleston had ever spoken to had ever acquired any knowledge of the man about which to speak.

  “I was born,” declared Mr. Twytharp unprovoked, “with certain afflictions, as any man might be, even though most are not. And so my lifestyle,” he went on, “is different from that of most men’s.”

  Charleston again knew not what to say in response. So, this time, instead of, “Oh,” he said nothing.

  “It is no different from having a black eye, really,” Mr. Twytharp said, gesturing towards Charleston, “much like yours.”

  With this, Charleston recognized that his presence was making Mr. Twytharp feel extremely uncomfortable. Charleston also recognized that, even though a person might not directly mention a black eye, that same person probably still noticed that black eye. That person was probably merely acting politely.

  His discomfort with others is likely why, thought Charleston, Mr. Twytharp does not make himself known to all the people that work for him. This must be very hard for him, to sit here with me now.

  “It was an accident, my getting on the elevator yesterday,” Charleston explained.

  “I know that. Don’t you think I know that?” Replied Mr. Twytharp. “My mind works just fine, thank you. My affliction is merely physical. I do own and operate the biggest business in the world.”

  Mr. Twytharp was already making the, apparently rather large, gesture of having Charleston in his presence, and in a strange way, Charleston found this very touching. So Charleston let slide Mr. Twytharp’s gruff retort. Mr. Twytharp obviously had enough weighing on him already, what with his condition and all.

  “I have you here, Mr. Sutterfeld, because we have a bit of a problem,” explained Mr. Twytharp unsentimentally and in his hollowed, cracked falsetto.

  “Do we?” replied Charleston, in a sympathetic tone.

  “Yes, you see, no one has seen me. In the thirty-two years that this company has existed, no one has ever seen me, aside from Mr. Timothy Spall, of course.”

  “Well, I certainly have no need to discuss this event with anyone,” explained Charleston, warmly.

  “Oh, no,” replied Mr. Twytharp, now downright cold. “I don’t trust you. I only trust Mr. Timothy Spall. And you are not Mr. Timothy Spall.”

  “Oh,” said Charleston, having no way to counter Mr. Twytharp’s perfectly logical point. “But I am a very trustworthy man,” he added, almost as a suggestion.

  “That’s what all untrustworthy men say,” explained Mr. Twytharp, unimpressed. “Otherwise there would be no advantage to being untrustworthy.”

  “But all trustworthy men say it, too,” added Charleston.

  “Exactly. And that’s precisely why I do not know what to think of you and your trustworthiness. Thusly, I don’t trust you. So, Mr. Sutterfeld, I am left with only one option…”

  At this very instant, Timothy Spall entered the room (calling Charleston’s attention to the fact that Timothy Spall had not been in the room heretofore). Timothy Spall carried in his hands a heavy stack of bound papers. Once he had made it across the rather sizeable room, Timothy Spall handed the heavy stack of bound papers to Charleston, who placed the papers in his lap and politely thanked Timothy Spall. Before looking down at what he presumed to be his termination papers, Charleston looked back to Mr. Twytharp. And just as Charleston began quietly conjuring to mind forays into new careers, Mr. Twytharp sat up in his chair and dryly and reluctantly stated, “I have decided to make you the new chief executive officer of Thundercom Corporation.”

  The high-pitched words bounced off the barren walls of Mr. Twytharp’s office.

  Charleston was silent and utterly confused.

  He lifted the robust contract out of his lap.

  The massive stack of papers had been prepared with a cover sheet that read:

  Contract and Stipulations for Charleston Sutterfeld’s

  Employ as the new CEO of Thundercom Corporation

  It was humid and for some reason all Charleston kept thinking was this:

  Did Thundercom have an old chief executive officer?

  3.

  The deal was to work as follows…

  Charleston’s salary was to go from 32,500 dollars per year to 250,000 dollars per year. Charleston was to report to work at 8:30 a.m. every morning (a half-hour earlier than he used to) and stay until 6:30 p.m. each night (an hour-and-a-half later than he used to). He was to report to work on the eighty-seventh floor, which to the rest of the world was not to exist. He was to cue the red light any time that he took the elevator by pressing a button on a remote device that would be provided for him. For the device, Charleston would have to put down a 200-dollar deposit, which he was embarrassed to have to pay from his meager savings since his new salary had yet to take effect. Charleston was to share the existence of this device with no one. Charleston would have his own desk and his own office, both of which would be located on the eighty-seventh floor, which, as already stated, to the rest of the world was not to exist. His work would be “largely unsupervised but heavily, and frequently, evaluated. Perhaps as often as every day (if necessary),” explained page thirty-seven of the contract. Charleston would be entitled CEO of Thundercom Corporation. The extent and matter of his duties would be detailed by Timothy Spall in person and at a “later” date, in addition to being discussed in total in the “Duties” chapter of the contract, which Charleston was welcome to peruse in advance of his training. Charleston was always to wear a suit to work. He was to answer no questions posed by “any of his coworkers or any other inquirers” about the specifics regarding his employer or his employment. He was permitted to share with the public only his title and the hours of his workday. His responsibilities, which Timothy Spall would “later” detail, were wholly confidential.

  Furthermore…

  Charleston was to speak with no one, not even Timothy Spall, and most certainly not Mr. Twytharp, about his being at all aware of ever having had or presently having any knowledge at all of anyone or anything called by the name of or referred to as “Mr. Twytharp.” Nor could Charleston “in any context, pertinent or otherwise, discuss, as real or imaginary, those human and physical traits possessed by Mr. Twytharp.” While this was, ultimately, all that Charleston took the contract to be saying, the contract nevertheless said so in 212 in-depth, intricate pages, most of which he was unable to get through before drifting off to sleep that night. When he awoke the following morning, he was surprised to discover that, in his intense reading efforts, he had actually read only to page twelve. He had not time to read any more, either, before he hurried off to his very first day of work as CEO.

  As the elevator doors opened onto the eighty-seventh floor, which—to any person’s query—did not exist, he was greeted by an, as always, impeccably dressed Timothy Spall who, as promised in what Charleston read of the contract, stood (in this “later” moment) ready to explain the nature of Charleston’s new position.

  “But in order to explain your new position,” explained Timothy Spall, pointing to the cogs on the far wall of the humid floor, “I must first explain those.”

  Timothy Spall, then, stepped directly and economically across the large, empty concrete space that was the eighty-seventh floor, which in its nonexistence looked like a massive version of Mr. Twytharp’s office (but for the huge metal contraptions that hung on the far wall toward which Timothy presently stepped.)

  “These,” explained Timothy Spall, “are giant cogs.”

  “I see,” said Charleston, after a silence and so as not to offend.

  “And your job as CEO,” Timothy Spall went on, “is to watch them and to report any potential or actual damage as it might or does occur, respectively.”

  Then Timothy fell silent.

  Charleston stared at the cogs, superficially delighted but subdermally confused. Even from this distance, Charleston still could not tell whether these cogs did indeed and absolutely turn. After a substantial stint of silence, Charleston noticed that it was silent. So he looked to Timothy Spall for clarification of this silence but noticed only that Timothy Spall was gazing upon him as though it was Charleston’s turn to speak.

  So Charleston spoke…

  “Might I ask a question?”

  “Certainly,” replied Timothy Spall, “this is your training.”

  Timothy was in a suit identical to that suit which he had worn on the previous day. He was, again, absent any sign of perspiration or even momentary discomfort.

  “Who performed this task prior to myself?” asked Charleston in the most nonconfrontational manner he could devise.

  “You are the first,” explained Timothy Spall eagerly.

  And then it went silent again.

  So Charleston, again, spoke…

  “What do these cogs do?”

  “That’s unimportant to your duties,” replied Timothy Spall. “But, if you must know, they turn.”

  Silence…

  “Shouldn’t I know how they work? In case they break and need to be fixed?”

  “That’s unimportant to your duties,” reiterated Timothy Spall. “As I said, you report any damage. That does not include fixing damage.”

  “But how will I know if there has been damage if I do not know how these giant cogs should work?”

  “A good question indeed,” countered Timothy Spall. “These cogs, though, as a result of routine and quality maintenance, have not malfunctioned once, ever, in the thirty-two years that Thundercom Corporation has been in existence. So we don’t foresee any malfunctions occurring in the future.”

  Now Charleston stared at Timothy Spall in silence and for a long moment until, finally, out of the six hundred questions firing throughout his being, one question seemed to present itself for communication. And though this question was perhaps arbitrary, Charleston nevertheless asked it.

  “Who does the maintenance?”

  “The maintenance men,” Timothy Spall replied frankly. “Every Friday at three o’clock p.m. But they won’t bother you, they’re very professional.”

  Although, and perhaps because, he was so thoroughly confounded, Charleston could conjure no more questions at the current moment. Timothy Spall read this upon Charleston’s face. So Timothy Spall wrapped things up.

  “That is your desk,” he said, pointing to a nearby bare desk that sat near a wall and faced the giant cogs. The desk was accoutered only by a heavy, obsoletish, deep red phone. “If you have any questions, please write them down and I will answer them for you when I see you next.”

  Timothy Spall then turned to leave but stopped five footsteps from Charleston and turned back.

  “Oh, and please, as your contract clearly states, do not instigate any communications whatsoever with Mr. Twytharp. If he wants to talk to you, then he will talk to you. In which case, you should respond.”

  In his abundant confusion, Charleston conjured another question. It was a question he had originally had yesterday, but he was having it again today and the question was nevertheless unanswered. So he decided to ask it.

  “Are these cogs even turning?” Charleston thought to ask, although he knew not what he hoped to gain by asking it.

  “Absolutely,” replied Timothy Spall.

  Charleston could not tell, though, whether Timothy Spall was joking. Charleston had never before, however, witnessed Timothy Spall joke. Which could mean that he was not joking now. But it could also mean that he was joking now and Charleston was just unfamiliar with Timothy Spall’s jokes.

  “Your paycheck will be available one week from Friday and then every other Friday thereafter,” explained Timothy Spall.

  Timothy Spall then left. He exited into Mr. Twytharp’s office. And it was quiet but for the almost imperceptible sound of the gradually turning cogs and the low, hot hiss that filled the whole eighty-seventh floor, which, if asked about, did not exist. Charleston placed his briefcase, in which he had decided to carry his contract at all times, on the floor next to his desk and was seated.

  The room was unimaginably gray, maybe even more shades of gray than Charleston knew to exist. The walls were bare. The concrete of the walls was textured, so as to create shadows in the depressions of the surface. There was but one light source in the room’s center. It was a fluorescent light. And it was large.

  Perhaps, thought Charleston to himself, I should start wearing suits with some color.

  But he soon decided against this idea inasmuch as he would look so oddly colorful everywhere else in the world. And it would be just plain impractical to keep a separate suit or two here at the office. There wasn’t even any place to change, really. There did not seem to be a bathroom, even.

  After only forty-seven minutes of watching the cogs, Charleston could see that this was going to be a most difficult job. His chair was uncomfortable and his eyes were already tired. His mind was anxious and rattled and full of mundane thoughts. And this is not even to mention the discipline required to endure the emotional tedium of watching cogs turn slowly. The room needed a plant, or at least someone with whom to talk. The room needed more light. All of these things were suddenly making Charleston irascible. Charleston had never before known himself to be such a petulant man. (On a more positive note, however, Charleston now had visual, verifiable proof that the cogs were turning. He had noticed a blemish on one of the cogs, a blemish which had started pointing towards the floor and was now positioned a good five degrees to the right.)

  At minute forty-nine, Charleston conjured the first question that he wanted to ask of Timothy Spall, but, much to Charleston’s annoyance and chagrin, there was nothing present upon which to record the conjured question.