10.29.30 - the worst-run operation you've ever seen
There wasn't a line or anything, but I still had to clear my throat a couple of times before the guy at the desk even looked away from his holopod and up at me.
"Yeah?" he said, annoyed, as if I were inconveniencing him.
"Hey," I said. "Uh...my name's Ben, and--"
"Oh, we know your name, pal," the guy at the desk interrupted, propping his feet up on the desk and twirling a pen between his fingers. "We all know your name."
I squinted with irritation and he stared back defiantly, chewing on the inside of his mouth and tugging on his dark ponytail. He had a familiar face, one that struck me as kind of ugly: deep-set eyes and lips that pouted and freckles and moles that peppered his cheeks.
"Okay...whatever," I said. "I was wondering if I could get some help with something."
"That much was obvious," he drawled. "Spit it out."
"Fine. I, um...I need some help remembering stuff."
"Oh, so you want to see the Archivist," the guy said, spinning the earrings around in his lobes. His big ears and his even bigger attitude reminded me of someone. Someone I kind of hated. "Floor 4."
I found my eyes wandering over his desk. He had a bunch of stuff on it that he probably worked on when he didn't have anything to do...or maybe even when he did. A half-finished puzzle. A half-filled composition book. A half-drunk Sehrveissa Q'ristal. He had some pictures on the wall, too. He saw me looking.
"That's my wife," he said, jerking his thumb back. "Ain't she a beauty?"
It was a picture of himself.
"And that's my kid," he said, pointing to another. "Best little peltball pitcher this side of the galaxy."
It was also a picture of himself.
"I love my family," he told me, absentmindedly scratching himself between the legs. "They're my everything."
"And...what's that?" I asked, pointing to a golden placard behind him.
"Oh, that?" he echoed proudly. "That's my greatest achievement. My pride and joy. I'm gonna have them bolt it to my tombstone when I kick the can."
I squinted at it.
Damn Good Secretary, 30 ABY.
--
The elevator was funky. The only song it played was a five-second melody I'd heard in the grocery store but couldn't quite place. The jingle haunted me all the way to the Archivist's office, where I found the door wide open to what looked like a library.
I stepped tentatively inside. There was a high-backed red velvet armchair in the center, and a young man draped over it. He was already looking right at me as I walked in.
“Are you the Archivist?” I asked.
“Oh, no. I killed the Archivist,” the man explained. “Me, I’m the Truncator.”
He stood about six feet tall, or he would have, had he been standing. His arms and legs dangled over his comically-opulent throne, and he was swathed in a robe of similar color and gaudiness. He periodically touched a wood-carved pipe to his lips. His fingers twitched every so often, and his dark hair fell across his face with greasy abandon.
I observed his pipe had nothing in it.
“The...Truncator?” I repeated, twiddling my thumbs in the pouch of my hoodie. "I'm looking for the Archivist."
"What did I just tell you? I killed him," the Truncator said impatiently, gesturing to a coffin in the corner. Against my better judgment I crossed the room and peered inside.
The Archivist was dead, all right. He was so dead, he had X's for eyes.
“Okay...um...so can you tell me about the past?” I asked, turning back around. My gaze swept over the shelves that surrounded him on either side of the crackling fireplace. They were filled with labeled bins: Life Day 22 ABY. Obscure Darth Vader Trivia. Top Ten Most Embarrassing Moments of All Time.
The Complete Chronology of Ben and Fannie.
I spotted the bin and took a step forward.
“Oh, absolutely," the Truncator interrupted, kicking his legs and swinging himself up. "In fact, it’s best if I do exactly that—tell you about it.” He inserted himself between me and the shelf and plucked a file from the very front of the Ben and Fannie bin. “Here you go," he said, placing it in my hands.
I squinted. It had just one thing written on it.
“'She hates you,'” I read aloud. “Um…what the hell?”
“Yyyep. That’s all you need to know about that,” the Truncator shrugged, flopping back down in the armchair and taking a few puffs of his empty pipe. “That’s my job, see. I sum things up.”
“Yeah...I don't think so," I snapped, lunging forward. "I want to see more of that bin."
“Ah ah ah,” the Truncator warned as my fingers hooked over the side of it. “You don’t want to get into those.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“‘Cause it’ll hurt, dummy. That’s why I’m here. I’ve gone through all of it for you, and just like I told you, that file you’re holding in your hand is all you need to know.”
“But I know what’s written on this file isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Well...I can’t support my claim without evidence," I said, "the likes of which are in this box you won’t let me into. But I’m pretty sure it can’t be true.” I reached for one of the files.
“I’ll kill you if you go in there,” the Truncator hissed suddenly, his dark eyes flashing.
I stopped short.
“I can’t let you in there," he repeated, more softly. "It’s too painful for you.”
“So you’ll kill me instead?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes,” he replied darkly. “It would be a mercy to you. You don’t understand, Ben. How much it would hurt.”
I hesitated, staring at him in disbelief.
One by one, my fingers slipped off the side of the box. I let my hand fall to my side.
“Good boy,” the Truncator said cheerfully.
“But...I can’t just have amnesia,” I said at last. “I need to at least remember the facts of what happened. Otherwise I’ll have a chunk of my life missing.”
Wait… A chunk of my life missing. I already had plenty of those.
I looked at him suspiciously, and then at the shelves and shelves of bins he was guarding from me.
“Fair enough, you can have the facts,” the Truncator said. He twirled an idle finger. “Turn the file over.”
I did.
“'You became friends with Fannie in your teens,'" I read. "'She helped you a lot. You didn’t talk for a while. Last year you dated. It didn’t work out. You haven’t talked to her in weeks.'"
I looked up. “Is…is that all I get? But what if I want to know what I thought of her? What if I want to remember how she made me feel?”
“I don’t see why you’d want that,” the Truncator replied. “She’s gone.”
“Well—why does she hate me?”
“Didn’t you just read the summary? Because you haven’t talked to her in weeks.”
“How does that mean she hates me?”
“Just does,” he said. “If she didn’t, she’d talk to you. She hasn’t talked to you, so she hates you.”
“You know, I don’t think you’re very good at your job,” I snarled.
“Say what you want," he shrugged. "I’m just trying to keep you from hurting, experiencing discomfort, or sensing the slightest bit of anything difficult, ever.”
“I’m gonna text her right now,” I said. “I don’t care what you say.”
“I highly advise against that," he warned. "As a general principle, I recommend never exerting any effort or doing anything that feels hard. But, hey. Suit yourself."
So I did.
Hey Fan, I wrote. Sorry it’s been so long! I’d love to plan a time to visit again. I miss you. It’ll be a little harder to plan since I’m working now, but maybe we could organize around a weekend and I could spend like four-ish days with you so we can hang and catch up? You must be pretty preoccupied since your sister’s due date is close, huh? I’d be happy to listen. Again, sorry.
I looked up again at the Truncator. “I get that you’re trying to do what you think will help me," I told him seriously, "but you don’t need to lie to me and scare me away from her. She and I are grownups. We’re fine.”
“Are you sure?” the Truncator asked, then gestured to my holopod.
Fannie had replied almost immediately.
Hi Ben. :) Yes, it would be a pleasure to see you again and chat. I appreciate your willingness to take the time to visit me, but I think I would prefer if we just met on Ossus for an hour or two instead. Hope you’re well.
I frowned. "...Wait. What does that mean? Why'd she shut me down like that?"
“Turn over the file again,” the Truncator sighed.
I did.
She hates you.
"What do I do?" I asked, my heart sinking.
"Oh, I don't give guidance," said the Truncator flippantly. "I just tell you what was and what is. You want advice? Go see the Counselor. Floor 7."
--
Thankfully, the Counselor had not been murdered and replaced with a performative-pipe-smoking successor.
Unfortunately, I almost wished he had.
The Counselor was pale and jittery and he kept chewing on his lower lip. His dark eyes darted back and forth, and he sat as if his legs were too long and he didn't know what to do with them.
"Uh...are you okay?" I asked.
"I hate that question," mumbled the Counselor, bouncing his knees. "Mostly because the answer is never really yes."
"Why are you in charge of giving advice?" I couldn't help but ask. "You look like you're about to throw up."
The Counselor burst into tears. "I knew it!" he moaned. "Everyone can sense my unbelievable incompetence. I don't deserve to live!" He started hyperventilating and rocking back and forth in his seat.
"Uh...maybe I should go," I said slowly.
"Don't go!" he screamed, so I didn't.
I did, however, back away.
"I can do my job, Ben, I swear," he begged. "I can tell you what to do. I can give you the advice you're looking for. I promise. Just...please don't go. Please don't give up on me!"
"Look, man, you seem to be taking your occupation kind of personally, don't you think?" I asked uneasily.
"No, no, no! I didn't think it was so obvious!" he shrieked, slamming his fists into his forehead. "Dang it! Darn it! Dagnabbit! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"
"You need help, dude," I said. He was starting to freak me out.
"I don't need help!" he shouted, trembling like there was a current running through him. "I'm fine! Just tell me what you need help with so I can help you. So I can prove that I deserve to live and I'm not just a huge disappointment and a failure that should have been wiped from the galaxy!"
"I...I need help with my ex," I uttered, completely terrified of him. "Er...my friend. My best friend? Maybe just my friend. Or...I don't know if she's even that anymore."
The Counselor quit tearing out his hair and turned to look at me.
"Fannie Pentarra?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"Oh," he said, calming down and lowering himself back into his seat. He folded his hands on the desk. "She hates you. It's over. You're screwed."
I blinked.
"That's it," I snapped. "I want to talk to the manager. Or...whoever the hell's in charge here."
"That would be the Executive Director," the Counselor said, wiping tears and snot off his face with the palms of his hands. "Floor 10."
--
“Yes. Oh, yes. Oh, kriff, yes, ugh! That’s it. That’s it, baby. Keep going…”
I froze before knocking, repulsed and afraid. Finally I braced myself and pushed through the door. The Executive Director was sitting on a loveseat with his back to me, watching a giant holoscreen.
I risked a look at the video title.
Watching Paint Dry Compilation, 12 Hours
Well. I cocked my head and wrinkled my nose.
I cleared my throat, and the guy whipped his head around, shocked.
“Oh—frick!” the Executive Director shouted, jumping up and trying to block the holoscreen with his body. He was wearing white boxers with red hearts beneath a business blazer and tie. He had an angular face and knobby knees and looked like he couldn’t be any older than twenty-five. “You didn’t see that, I hope. If word gets out about my perverse tendencies…”
“What? That you get off on watching paint dry?”
“No, no,” he said. “That I periodically zone out in my underwear and shout really loud in my office to make people think I’m having sex. It’s getting rather embarrassing for me. All the other CEOs are on their fifth, sixth sex scandal, and I’ve never even had an orgasm, you know.”
“Uh…I didn’t know that. I don’t want to know that.”
“Never even had an erection.”
“That...doesn't sound normal. Maybe you should check out a doctor.”
“Oh, I’ve checked out plenty of doctors, but I never found any of them more sexually attractive than I find the rest of the population," the Executive Director sighed. "Geez, what kind of ED am I? Y'know, that reminds me of something funny. ED also stands for..."
“Listen, I came to you to complain," I interrupted him. "This place is insane, and weird, and freaky, and not a single person is serious around here." I tried not to look down at his red-heart boxers.
“Ah,” said the Executive Director sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Ben.” He bowed his head once, and looked at me.
I paused. We stared at each other.
“Is…is that all?” I asked.
“Yep. Pretty much,” said the Executive Director, straightening his tie. I watched as he stepped over to his desk, bent over a line of white powder, and snorted it right in front of me.
He caught my stunned gaze.
"Oh, don't look at me like that. It's just pyraxilone," he explained. He took a clear orange bottle from a drawer, emptied the pills onto the desk, and started hammering away at them with a golden mallet. "I have anxiety."
"You're supposed to take that orally."
"This isn't even the weirdest way I've taken it," he boasted.
I decided to immediately drop the subject.
“What about my complaint?" I asked. "You’re not gonna try to change anything? Or make it up to me somehow, or…at least lie to me and pretend you will to get me to leave?”
“Nope,” he said. “This place is a sinking ship, y’know.”
That pissed me off.
“No, it’s not,” I snapped. “Things could be better around here if you only tried. You're the one in charge, for crying out loud! So why don't you do something?"
The Executive Director bristled, his eyes flashing. It would seem I had struck a nerve.
"Listen, kid, I am under a lot of pressure," he growled, striding towards me and coming so close our noses almost touched. "And you have the audacity to come in here and tell me I'm just not trying hard enough?"
"Well, it sure doesn't look like you are," I told him angrily.
"You have no idea how much I do for you," he hissed. "How much I do for everyone."
"What, when you're not serenading wet paint or shoving prescription meds up the back door?"
“Fine,” he sniffed. "You're the Executive Director now. "He took off his blazer and draped it around my shoulders.
I gasped. It weighed about fifty pounds.
“So what's your first move, huh?" he jeered. "What's your big gameplan to turn this place around? Tell me what your first executive order's gonna be."
The suit began to weigh more and more as I wore it. My bones threatened to collapse and my heart started to race. And the noise--my head was filled with noise. I covered my ears and began to writhe in agony. I couldn't take it anymore. I stumbled over to the open window and threw myself out, screaming at the top of my lungs.
"Yeah, that's what I thought, you high-and-mighty loser!" the ex-Executive Director called after me as I plummeted.
I fell down past Floor 7 and the Counselor's office.
Down past Floor 4 and the late Archivist's library.
I caught the bemused eye of the secretary through the window right before I hit the ground.
And then I went ka-splat and turned into jelly--right as I woke up in my bed, gasping and coughing and sweating icy bullets.
Geez Louise! Was it possible that pickled lava peppers maybe did contain psychoactive compounds, after all?
I picked up my holopod from my nightstand and started jotting down the dream as fast as I could. At least the one upside to having the galaxy's most bizarre REM stages was free inspiration for my writing.
Unfortunately...there was still one thing that hadn't been just a dream.
I opened my messages again, already knowing what I'd see...then groaned and threw my holopod across the room and buried my head under my pillow.