The Waiting Room
Maneuvering around the miniature cesspools that dotted the pavement, perennial indicators of man's failure to transform his environment into an entity conducive to the avaricious demands of progress, the young professional stashed her keys into her purse. She dodged the rancid drizzle that splashed down unpredictably from a neglected gutter, and reached for the doorknob, which had once been thoroughly coated in a sparkling brass fa�ade. Now all that remained were flecks of a transitory gildedness.
She turned the knob, but it just spun in place, denying her access to the building. Indignation erupted within, coursing through her veins, as if the mechanical failure of the doorknob was intended as a personal affront to her. With the characteristic fervor in which she obliterated all obstacles, from minor impediments to intangible glass ceilings, she grasped the handle resolutely, and wrenched it sideways, throwing her weight into the scratched panes of the door. It jarred open with a shudder, and she crossed the threshold, the smug confidence in her ability to overcome anything once again enforced.
With brisk purpose, she approached the receptionist, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim, insufficient lighting that filtered through the stagnant air. Upon reaching the window, which was coated with a thin layer of dust (Was he not aware of this breach of professionalism? Or just not concerned? Surely, the dust didn't accumulate from lack of use?), she cleared her throat in a manner used to attract the immediate and appropriate attention that her situation always demanded. She had to annoy herself with compiling a list of complaints about the obvious neglect of the office, which she would undoubtedly bring to his attention. She was detained only a few minutes, before a young woman emerged from a back room, seemingly illuminated amidst the dark interior of the filing cabinets.
The brilliant beauty of the secretary did not faze her at all. Most likely his current adulterous indulgence. Because the girl was clearly nowhere near her level, she aptly assumed a condescending manner. The secretary extended a delicate, bronzed arm to her, placing an elaborate fountain pen on the desk. "Sign in there," she said, pointing toward a notebook, which contained sheets of fake parchment. Probably thinks it's cute to accessorize and play secretary. She began signing her name, in the distinctively controlled script that was accustomed to finalizing much more potent and influential documents. Halfway through, however, the red ink (at least it's not pink) smeared, and the careful craftsmanship of her seal was smudged. "Oh, don't worry about it," the secretary chirped, seeing the obvious disgust in her face. She turned to look at the perky office paramour. And then in a tone completely unfitting such a hollow shell of pulchritude, the secretary, whose nametag (Did she think her name even mattered? She'll be discarded as soon as her novelty depreciates?) read 'Galina,' deadpanned, "Have a seat. The wait won't be long, compared to eternity."
The professional tried to reproach this impertinence with a cutting glare, but the secretary had already disappeared, and the front of the window once again sank into quasi-darkness. Heaving a carefully calculated sigh of exasperation but not defeat, she turned, and surveyed the waiting room. Fortunately, only two other women were seated, and she was able to sit alone against the far wall, with a full command of the room, which was all the better to appraise the situation.
The woman nearest to her was attempting to be engrossed in a generic, inoffensive magazine typical of such a place. Her appearance suggested that she would have much preferred the latest fashion-beauty-sleaze journal. For although she did not approach the unnatural beauty of Galina, she had obviously tried hard - and succeeded - in molding herself (more like surgically-altering, brain-washing?) into society's paradigm of beauty. Well-dressed and accessorized in the anonymity of stylish labels, toned and dieted according to the current rage's guru, laboriously and artificially painted to look effortless, she incurred the disdain of the professional. What folly?
She had long ago foresworn such superficial pursuits. What was the purpose of a life lived in obsequious servitude to the latest trends? You sign your soul over to the gods of consumerism and after they rape and pillage what you have entrusted to them, you are nothing more than a burned-out heap of ashes - of no use to anybody, incapable of ever holding power? She surmised that this pathetic nobody's mind (if you could call it that) was occupied with thoughts of the opposite sex - snaring, pleasing, and any of the other sorts of things that the trashy literature of the check-out lines instructed one to do. Scoffing at the unfathomable shallowness that faced her, she allowed herself an absolutely polite snicker.
In her esteemed opinion, the one that had presided over countless critical decisions and always on the side of the right, the whole notion of needing another to make oneself 'complete' was ludicrous. She had nothing but contempt for those pandering imbeciles who spoke of 'love,' 'support,' or 'teamwork' - all euphemisms for weakness? Anyone who depended on anything but themselves was a craven fool who somehow had managed to be looked over by evolution. The only reason to engage the services of the opposite sex - or anyone - for that matter was for your own advantage. And if you didn't realize this, then you deserved to have your wretched existence utilized for the betterment of humanity.
Another low, derisive - but completely valid - laugh escaped her as she recalled her dealings with Dusan, a colleague she had met at a conference. How deluded he had been! At first, the relationship (Such a misnomer? the pusillanimity it conveyed!) had simply been a symbiotic business arrangement. She wanted the international perspective he offered; he was intrigued by her strategies. Even after their conversations and company had spread beyond the office, she had been agreeable to the situation. After all, Dusan provided the chance to rejuvenate herself, which translated into increased accomplishment. As to what advantage was to be gained from herself, she knew only that whatever positives he gleamed from their time together was not interfering with her plans, and as such, was completely permissible. In fact, she had begun to think that she had possibly met another individual just like herself. Man is made to strive, to struggle, and in order to attain what is greatest, he must abstain from the lower 'pleasures' of friendship and love. Yet how he failed to realize this!
The night at the restaurant still nagged at her, refusing to be filed away in the vaults of her memory, disrupting her thoughts like a picture askance on the otherwise-perfectly ordered wall of her life. She recalled that the evening had begun in its usual manner with dinner at their favorite place. Well, not favorite place (as that suggests something less than platonic) more like the place most conducive to their purposes... Nothing had been suspicious. Dusan and she had debated the merits of various dishes before making their final selection, and then, having completed one item on the agenda, moved on to less immediate concerns. What a great discussion we were having! In the middle of their debate surrounding the latest theory behind the revolutionary approach to important matters, the lights abruptly ceased without even so much as a flicker, blanketing the room in utter darkness. Before she had the chance to demand an explanation, apology, and correction with a dose of reasonable annoyance, the room had begun to lighten gradually. The soft fusing of light, the slow infiltration of music, Dusan on bended knee, trying to lure her away from her goals with nothing more than a chunk of gems - the scene still repulsed her. He had proposed, spewing fallacies and drivel, like a drunk unable to control his tongue. And she had wretched a scathing condemnation on his revolting naivety.
A cough stirred her from this painful reverie, as the second woman attracted her attention. The woman was slumped listlessly in the chair, face taunt and tired eyes trying to find something which would inspire the beholder to maintain the will to live. She shifted often, in obvious pain. Her body ached from years of abuse, having served as a constant sacrifice at the altar of glory. Yet it had failed in the very moment that it had been trained to triumph in, and now refused to rise up and try again, leaving its owner destitute in the realm of her dreams.
She did not have long to issue her valued judgment on this sorry specimen because the door to the inner office swung open, and Galina stepped into the waiting room, announcing, "Meta, the Devil will see you now."
At once, the three women simultaneously arose, and as they approached Galina, melted into the tormented figure of one Meta Fiaska. She followed Galina with anticipation, seemingly unburdened by the heavy weight that the three personas imposed upon her. Galina stopped at a stark steel door, opened it, and stood aside for Meta.
Meta rushed in and was immediately sure she had stumbled onto the Artic tundra. The bitter coldness sapped her nerve, and she blinked uncontrollably in the blinding light. She remained huddled at the entrance way, at the same time both unsure and impatient over these very feelings of hesitancy.
"Well, hello there, Meta," a voice cracked, almost like the snapping of sticks. "I'm so glad you could find the time to pay me a visit. You'll have to excuse the atmosphere, but you mortals keep it so damn hot up here, I just can't take it. And even an old devil like me has to have some light."
Meta stared hard at this thin gray, figure, who, despite the obvious chill of the room, was sweating profusely through his seersucker suit. His eyes were narrow and his jaw clenched, as he ran a cracked hand through some thinning red locks. This is it? He's the one who's going to help me? Meta, warmed by her own resolve, drew herself up and returned his even gaze with one that was more unwavering, challenging him to break the silence.
The Devil sighed, and stood up, leaning against the opposite wall. "I suppose you've come for something. After all," he continued, "it's not everyday people visit the Devil." And then, to no one in particular, he added "or maybe it is."
Meta, composed herself quickly, and then began, "Well, as you know, I'm quite successful on my own. I am just about to realize what I set out to accomplish, and I think that the best way to finish is with a little help from you. Mind you," she cautioned "I'm not looking for a pact or anything. Just a brief partnership in order to close the deal." And then, with the arrogant audacity of one who has never known limits, Meta concluded, "It will benefit us both, if you think about it."
She was completely unprepared for the scornful laughter that followed her proposition. No one has ever spoken to me like this, nor have they been entitled to. Furious at the impudence of the Devil, she seethed, "Maybe you can explain what you find so humorous about this!"
The Devil gathered himself together, but neglected to remove the wry smile crowning his countenance. "Ah, Meta," he sighed, "you seem to think that you could cheat the Devil himself. You want my assistance but you're not willing to sign for it. And even if you were, I couldn't accept your soul. It's, how do I put this," he paused, "well, washed-up and entirely too corrupted for me, to be honest. I couldn't extract anything from it, and as I said before, I don't make one-sided deals." He settled back to await her reaction.
The despicable liar! What deceit, what hypocrisy! Who was he to refuse such an offer? "Very well," Meta fumed, "if you won't, no, if you can't help me, then I'll just do it on my own!" She turned abruptly, and exited the office, slamming the door behind her in a very unprofessional departure.
"You already have," the Devil observed into the silence that followed.
by Emili Evans