Level Zero by Dan McDowell (debian ebook reader .txt) 📗

“An independent entrepreneur or a colorblind, old lady,” Herbert replied.

“Let’s stay parked here. I’d like to approach this one incognito if we can. I have a strange feeling about it.”

“Good call.”

“You have your vest on?”

“Always.”

The two men entered the lobby and approached the unstaffed receptionist’s desk. Papers, cobwebs, and Reese’s candy wrappers lay strewn about. The surrounding walls featured posters of forgotten slasher films and b-movies to mask the dated wall paneling.

“You ever seen any of these, Penske?”

“Na. Not my scene. You?”

“Yeah. I had a few rebellious years back in the day. Not memorable in a good way.”

“Those films always attract a certain crowd, don’t they?”

“Yeah. I know, I know,” Herbert said. “The people that look like they have it together on the outside, but deep down, have something much more devastating within them they’re trying to unravel, demented and disturbed.”

Penske cocked his head sideways as he looked at Herbert. “Well, shoot. That got dark awfully quick. I was going to say something more along the lines of ‘alternative, creative types.’ You know, the folks that paint pictures of their mother and put a sheep’s head and a cigarette on top of her curvy body… You know the type, right?”

“That sure is descriptive, Penske. You sure you’re not one of those creative types? Ha!”

“Back to business,” Penske said. “Here’s the reception phone. Why don’t I see if I can get through to someone? It’s obvious no one’s coming to check on us.”

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

Penske picked up the sunbaked telephone handset and pressed 1.

“Space Fiction, this is Mary Beth.”

Penske signaled to Herbert that he reached someone and pointed at the phone, mouthing something unintelligible. “Hey, Mary Beth. We’re in the lobby. Can you come and speak to us for a second? There’s no one here.”

Mary Beth responded, unenthused, “Yeah. We prefer to live in anonymity around here these days. Wilkerson won’t hire anyone for that position. I’ll be out in just a moment.”

From the far northwestern corner of the room, the door popped open, squeaking and creaking as a heavyset woman in her upper 40s walked in. She was red-headed and pasty cheeked with hints of gray and a different tone of red in her hair from a previous botched attempt at coloring it.

That’s a DIY project in the back of a trailer house. The question is… I wonder if she split the box of hair dye with her significant other… or her mother.

She broke the silence, extending her hand to greet the pair, “Hi. I’m sorry. Yeah, we don’t get many visitors here face-to-face. What are your names again, guys?”

“Jack,” Herbert said. “This is my colleague, Neil. We’re doing an article for the Statesman and thought some of you or your bosses might be free to answer a few questions.”

“Yeah. Sure. Why not? I’ve got four months invested in this dump.”

“Wait a minute,” Penske said. “Why do you call it a dump?”

Mary Beth chuckled, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was behind her. “Chris Wilkerson, my boss, will kill me for saying this, but this place still needs serious updates. It’s been going downhill since… since the disappearances. Katrina… Nancy… There are others. It hit close to home. We don’t allow visitors into the production areas where we take the phone calls. We have mice and roach infestations like you’ve never seen. It’s kind of embarrassing…”

“I can understand why,” Herbert remarked.

“Wilkerson took his eye off the ball,” she said. “I can’t read his mind, but he must be thinking, ‘Nobody can see us… so what gives…?’ We’re just a call center, right? What’s the point of sinking money into building upgrades when you can pay for top-notch storytellers like… yours truly?” She spread her arms wide, motioning toward herself while channeling an awkward and crooked smile.

“How many people do you have working here again?” Penske asked.

“I don’t know. About seventy, I guess? We don’t come together all at once to have an exact count. Numbers are dwindling. Business is going downhill. We’ve got no one to light a fire under us. Chris just kind of checked out on us and seems in his own little world these days. He keeps things very… how should I say this? Siloed. We don’t talk to anyone outside our own department. I mean, we’re talking, full-on, non-disclosure agreement in our contracts. We have to keep our lips sealed about what goes on in here. You know, to preserve the integrity of the enterprise.”

Herbert spoke up, “Integrity of the enterprise? You make it sound like you’re a damn stockbroker with insider information. Isn’t this just an hourly joint? You guys aren’t doing that well for yourselves, are you? No disrespect.”

Mary Beth took offense to the haphazard comment as she put a hand on her sizeable right hip. “I’m at $5.80 an hour with benefits.” She gulped. “It’s not terrible.”

“I’m sorry, Mary Beth,” Herbert said. “Like I said, no offense. It makes sense… I guess. Speaking of Wilkerson, your boss… is he around?”

Mary Beth shook her head as she clamped her eyes closed for an extra second. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. He might be in the basement. That’s just Chris, a man of many mysteries — like the Wizard of Oz. He’s down to earth and everything… but that doesn’t mean that he always acts like he is. He prefers life behind the curtain — interesting, but in a disturbing way. It’s hard to explain—a man more tattered and torn than I’ve ever known.”

Penske grabbed the sides of the chair to distribute his weight, prepping to end the discussion and said, “Okay. Thanks, Mary Beth. Anyone else you think we should talk to?”

A fly landed on her head atop her altered and synthetic mane.

Look at those discolored roots, wrecked from years of shoddy self-treatments. It would be a miracle if that thing ever gets out of that tangled up mess.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Aren’t you guys writing an article? That can’t be enough material.