What A Wonderful World
by Jonathan Cardew
Every office has one: a tiny door tucked away near an elevator.
Yours was no exception; you passed the door every day as you walked along the third floor. You wondered what was behind it. What was the point? But you were always in a hurry to get to your office where sales were down.
Sales were so down.
Roget, the regional manager, was on your case 24/7 about the downturn of sales. His name was not a spelling error; it actually was Roget. Like Roger, except with a T. He was particularly concerned about the Blackthorne Place account. You needed that account. You. Needed. It.
You thought about the door all day long. There was something so romantic about a tiny office door. Something miraculous. Why was a tiny door to an office even needed? It had a tiny handle, suitable for a tiny hand, and it swung on barely visible hinges. It functioned as a door. It was a door.
After a particularly bad berating from Roget, you left to go to the vending machine and you passed the tiny office door and stopped.
You got down onto your knees and opened it with a pinch of your fingers.
The door opened easily, as if recently oiled or serviced.
Inside was a tiny office, complete with a desk and sofa and small working fireplace. It smelled of smoke, as well, suggesting someone—or something—had recently enjoyed a fire. On the desk was an incredibly small cup of coffee. It looked half full. Dandruff-sized cubes of sugar nestled next to the cup on the saucer.
You wanted to crawl inside.
“Why are you on the floor?”
Roget stood over you, looking down, clearly puzzled.
You nodded towards the door, which looked more like a small service hatch now. It also had a number on it: A-2921. Some kind of code. Some kind of reason.
“The door,” you said, as if nodding were not sufficient evidence.
⦿
Later that day, you called the Blackthorne Place account. A woman answered with a silky smooth and friendly voice, and you were put on hold for a short time.
A muzak version of “What A Wonderful World” played as you waited, and you mouthed the lyrics perfectly timed with the synthesized pan pipes.
You thought about the tiny office behind the tiny office door, the tiny ice cubes, the tiny saucer.
This was the moment.
“We’re going with someone else,” said the voice, and the office pitched, went in and out of focus.
As you leant back, you saw Roget staring at you from his glass-walled cubicle.
He had glassy eyes.
⦿
Tiny doors near elevators are convenient ways to access important electrical circuits. No need for a big door when a hand is all that’s required. A big door would suggest entry was possible for anyone. It would suggest everyone belonged.
But what about the tiny coffee, the sugar cubes? The roaring little fire? You needed more than sales and Roget and the fucking Blackthorne account.
⦿
The next morning, you arrived to work earlier than usual. You sailed through the sliding doors and up the elevator to the third level.
You felt elation in every step.
5:00am, and the hum of strip lighting.
5:00am, and no cleaner in sight.
By the tiny office door, you got down onto your knees, prayer pose. You smelt the smoke. You smelt the coffee. You felt heat from the fire like a pinprick to the eye.
5:00am. The world was yours.
Originally from the UK, Jonathan Cardew now calls the American Midwest his home. He is contributing editor for Best Microfiction and blog editor for Bending Genres. His short fiction can be found at wigleaf, Passages North, cream city review, SmokeLong Quarterly, and other venues. He tweets @cardewjcardew.
