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THE ELEVATOR DOORS by Edward M. Baldwin Copyright © 2006
THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened. Two-year-old Lawson darted behind his mother’s skirt, startled by the sudden life of the huge fridge that wasn’t really a fridge—he could see that now, no food inside. His mother removed Lawson’s talon-like grip from her left calf. “Let go, sweetie,” she said. “Mommy has to fill out this job application.” Then she returned her attention to the gruff woman behind the counter. “He’s never been in a big fancy building before,” she explained. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve been in one as nice as this. Not that I can remember.” Gruff Woman only blinked at her and said, “Ma’am, this isn’t a job application; it’s a questionnaire.” Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t bring a resume?” Lawson’s mother shook her head. Gruff Woman sighed, dropped behind the counter, and popped back up, slapping an application on the countertop. “Here,” she said bitterly. “Application.” Lawson’s mother avoided Gruff Woman’s eyes. “Thank you.” Then she pried Lawson’s hands from her calf again. “It’s okay, sweetie. Mommy’s right here.” Lawson looked up at his mother. “Fridge, Mommy! No . . . fridge . . . food. . . .” “Sweetie, you just ate before we left home,” his mother said, writing now. She glanced at Gruff Woman. “He did just eat.” Gruff Woman folded her arms and said, “The sooner you finish this, the sooner you can go up to be interviewed.” Lawson looked back at the fridge thingy that wasn’t a fridge, frustrated. He didn’t like not knowing how to put words together right. Ideas and messages were always so clear in his mind, but he didn’t know enough of the tiny words that went with the bigger words. Recently, he learned the word “that,” which meant “I can’t reach it, but I want it.” The word worked best when pointing, but “that” wasn’t useful now. It couldn’t help him explain his fear of the fridge thingy that wasn’t a fridge. Besides, “fear” wasn’t in his vocabulary either, only the sensation of fear. When the fridge thingy suddenly closed, startling him again, he looked up at his mother. She was hunched over the tall table—writing, reading, or whispering to the lady behind the tall table; he didn’t know which for sure, but she was in a posture that told him not to bother her at the moment. So Lawson looked back at the fridge thingy and swallowed. Before Lawson and his mother had left home, she explained that she had to bring him along with her downtown because Grandma and Grandpa had to work, and she couldn’t find anyone else to sit on him. She also explained that he had to be on his best behavior. She had a “job in the view,” a job where she was going to be “made.” Made to clean, he suspected because she also said words like “dust” and “vacuums” and “mops” and “tidy.” Things Lawson knew his mother had lots of practice with. Lawson had been both excited and apprehensive when she explained they were going inside one of the great big tall “build ins” downtown—the tallest houses in the world, he figured—called “cloud scrapers,” “sky touchers,” or something like that. At home, he could see them whether he stood in their front yard, their back yard, or their neighbor’s yard. He didn’t know who lived in such houses, but he always felt sorry for those who had to live where you get rained on first. But, he figured, at least they didn’t get crooks in their necks from looking at the moon and stars too long. Suddenly, a woman wearing a man’s suit walked over to the fridge thingy. She pressed a button Lawson didn’t notice before, and then she waited. For what, he didn’t know. She must be hungry, Lawson figured, but she obviously didn’t know that the fridge thingy was both empty and not a fridge. So she waited, and Lawson couldn’t take his eyes from her. What will she do when the fridge thingy opens, he wondered, and she sees that it’s empty? Will she think he ate all of the food? Will she rush over to him and yell, “Where’s cookies, Lawson! Where’s cookies?” If she did, he knew how to say “no” quite well, with his mouth and his head. The elevator doors opened again. Lawson rushed to his mother’s leg, still not used to the fridge thingy coming to life, but he was careful not to hold his mother’s leg too tightly this time. The woman dressed as a man stepped into the fridge thingy. Lawson figured she wanted a closer look to make sure all the food was gone. She even brushed her hand along the side of the wall, looking for crumbs or something. That’s when the fridge thingy swallowed the woman whole, and that’s when Lawson screamed, realizing where all the food must’ve gone. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” his mother asked, prying him from her leg again. “Mommy! Eat! Home, Mommy! Go bye-bye! Home, Mommy!” His mother glanced at Gruff Woman. “He’s not usually like this,” she assured Gruff Woman. “And he did just eat.” She squatted down to look at Lawson in the eyes and whispered, “Oh, sweetie, please don’t mess this up for me, okay? I really need this job. I’m almost finished with the application, and then we have to go up to the twelfth floor really quick for my interview, and then we’ll go eat, okay?” What mess? Lawson wondered. He didn’t make a mess, did he? His mother talked too fast sometimes. Did she say that he put an “apple cake” on the “tough floor,” and they were both going to eat it? His mother returned to what she was doing, leaving Lawson confused, frustrated, and scared for his life. So he returned to his mother’s leg, holding it gently, and he watched the hungry fridge monster carefully, refusing to blink as it made an Mmm-mmm sound in the back of its throat. Woman dressed as a man, Mmm-mmm good. After a moment, his mother said something to the lady behind the tall table, and then she reached for Lawson’s hand. We’re going home, he thought, but he still kept his eyes on the fridge monster. Lawson’s mother spun around and started toward the elevator, but she stopped when she realized she was dragging her son. “Stand up, Lawson,” she demanded. “No! No! Eat, Mommy! Eat! Eat!” She yanked him to his feet, but he sagged back to the floor—twice, actually. “Stop it, Lawson! Right now,” she said, using the mad voice. Lawson didn’t care. The mad voice was about as scary as the voice of Barney or Elmo compared to the hungry fridge monster’s Mmm-mmm good. “Uh, ma’am,” Gruff Woman called from behind the desk counter. Lawson’s mother looked back at her. “He doesn’t usually act—” “It’s not that,” Gruff Woman said. “It’s your questionnaire form. You forgot to put your date of birth.” His mother walked back over to the tall table, leaving Lawson sprawled on the floor, but he was at her heels in a flash, still eyeing the fridge monster. “I’ll write it down for you,” Gruff Woman said. “What is it?” Lawson’s mother leaned over the counter and whispered something to Gruff Woman. “Ma’am,” Gruff Woman said suddenly, just as loud as before, “they won’t care much that you don’t have a high school diploma, though it would certainly help. And they could probably overlook the fact that you have no job experience whatsoever, though I doubt it. However, they don’t hire anyone under eighteen—never have, never will.” “But I really need this job,” Lawson’s mother said. “I’ll work hard, and I’ll—” “Those are the guidelines, ma’am. Sorry. Come back in two years.” There was a long moment of nothing happening and no sound. His mother looking at Gruff Woman, Lawson looking at the fridge monster. Then his mother gently and quietly took his hand and led him toward the direction they had entered the building, away from the elevator. Lawson glanced over his shoulder a final time and gasped as the elevator doors opened. The fridge monster was still hungry.
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Copyright © 2008 Edward M. Baldwin |
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Short stories |
