Drop Ceiling Of The World
by Gregory Hischak, Farm Pulp Magazine
Nighttime and the floors are silent. Camped on the cold stone floors of Tey’s stairwell. I laid awake restless all night anxious to move on. Gazing at the uncounted millions of holes punched into drop-ceiling tiles, the distant wail of an unanswered phone somewhere far below. Such a lonely sound. I tighten my blazer around me and listen to the breathing of the others in my party, those of us called to roam these nether regions of the great indoors. At daybreak, the subtle shifts of season are noted by the keen and practiced eye of Kayla, our guide. He sniffs the gentle morning gusts from the ceiling vents announcing it is time to proceed to the Summer Floors. “Goli kat Gandaki’’ he whispers pointing out the replacement of new flora to the 24th floor arrangements. We thank Tey, our gracious host who has been busy the past month harvesting winter wheat from this south-facing stairwell. It is a pleasant stairwell and it is with regret that we break camp. Tey insists we share a last cup of tictac tea before departing for higher elevations; to the summer Floors.
The thirtieth through forty third floors: my heart soon leaps at the thought again. Our guide, Kayla, navigates the back stairwells and service elevators with a skill and assurance of one who has spent much of their life at these elevations, traversing the isolated tundric carpeting of one of the earth’s harshest environments. We have been on the move for several days now, leaving the last outpost of Dalink LaSalmon at the sixteenth floor, a small caravan of Professor Der, the Belgian photographer Damen Lebleux, myself, Ned and Kim, our hired sherpas, and of course, Kayla.
A culmination of months of tense negotiations between Professor Der, Building Management and various tenants had finally allowed us temporary access to these territories. We would be the first team allowed to document the restricted regions that ascended steeply to the forty third floor plateau of Fulcrom/Bendix, InterPort Partnerships and another suite rumored to be vacant.
A last minute bureaucratic snafu with one of the tenants of the twenty second floor, an important Allstate Appraisal Office, had to be appeased with an undisclosed amount of cash that Professor Der handed over to their receptionist. Phone calls were placed and at six the following morning we were informed by Building Management that we could proceed.
After winter dormancy, the higher floors have begun to bloom with life. The dawn click of light switches through sunrise stairwells. Dawn’s rosy finger dancing to the primal buzz of fluorescent tubing. Kayla stops us shortly after breaking camp the morning after leaving Tey’s. Silently he brings a finger to his mouth and indicates that we should remove our shoes. Tip toeing across the carpeting he leads us to the precipice ledge of a vast atrium where far below the sharp heeled clicks of a herd of paralegals are heard. Perfectly still, we finally spot them ascending an escalator to gather at a small snack kiosk. we grip Damen Lebleux’s belt strap as he carefully leans far over the railing to get a picture. we are startled by the sudden appearance of a brown-uniformed man from a stairwell just behind us. We almost lose our grip on Lebleux whose high-pitched squeal alerts the paralegals below to our presence. The brown uniformed man smiles and with Kim and Kayla translating, we learn he has brought a parcel for Professor Der. Kayla signs for it. The package contains socks and gum from Mrs. Der, valuable trading commodities on these floors but alas, in our momentary distraction the paralegals have vanished.
An inventory of our guide Kayla’s simple possessions: a broad belt of keys worn across his chest, a small briefcase slung over his back; several ties that flap in the stiff breeze across a coarse maroon goathair shirt; a pan, and a powerful talisman necklace of kneaded erasers and floss that a pilgrimaging copier repairman constructed for him. The stores we travel with remain simple as well. Na amh Pemba, a bread formed from non-dairy creamer and shredded letterhead is eaten at every meal. Flattening it and working it through the copier, it is a staple for people at these elevations. One evening Kim prepares for us Bishnu Kafle: glue sticks and white-out, simmered at low temperatures then poured over a hard biscuit of coffee grounds and pencil shavings.
Leaving the area of our paralegal encounter, we continue climbing all that afternoon. To the north the peak of Rainier Plaza catches the midday sun and beyond, slowly becoming visible on the horizon, the massive escarpments of the financial district who’s rainshadow we have traversed since leaving the mezzanine. Toward late afternoon gathering clouds outside obscure the distant midtown crags and Kayla announces it best we stop for the day. Camp is established in the austere lobby of Neuberger & Berman. With the flip of a coin Ned and Kim, our sherpas, have the couch while the rest of our party curl up beside a small table of mutual funds literature. Kayla translates some of it for us until we became drowsy.
Shortly after eleven that evening we are awakened by a rustling in the hallway. soon it is followed by the muffled bumping of plastic receptacles being emptied into other plastic receptacles in the next office. Kayla and our sherpa’s eyes light up. “Kola Samar!” Kayla says enthusiastically and quickly we prepare for guests. The Kola Samar, since time immemorial, have migrated across these regions. A hearty custodial clan, planting small batches of alfalfa during the summer months, herding and generally straightening things up the rest of the year, their appearance is a cause for celebration. Fifteen minutes pass before the somar arrive, bursting through the door of Neuberger & Berman with shouts and clanging. The Somar push decorative carts festooned with spray bottles and clear prayer baggies strung from mop handles. The draw their carts into a circle and join us. Several of them are known by Ned, our sherpa, second cousins on his mother s side he informs us. From a storage closet Kayla has produced some holiday ornaments and Professor Der and I quickly decorate the lobby while Ned and his cousins brew a hearty mead from white out and toner cartridges. Kayla rolls in a Canon NP 6025 and adjusting the setting to 999 copies, flings the lid open filling the room with a wild pulsating light. Music fills the air, a haunting bedouin dirge of slapped waste pails, flapping bags and fierce rhythmic whistles. Feeling the intoxicating effects of Ned’s mead we dance late into the night, one by one collapsing to the bristly industrial carpeting. Still we continue pounding our boots against the furniture, our voices loud and resonant through hollow stairwells, echoed against the patriarchal leather of timeless couches, filling the sweeping primordial fern draped lobby with the comradeship of those who chance meet in these desolate elevations. Finally a security guard arrives and asks us to keep it down.
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Gregory Hischak is a playwright, poet, Etch-A-Sketch artist and fiction writer. His brilliant zine, Farm Pulp, is one the great reading pleasures that we know. You should order it from him at www.farmpulp,com.