Elevator, pt 1

Ye-ah, this is going to be kind of weird. Part 2 will come tomorrow!

Marcella stared up the glistening marble steps of the office building with a feeling of apprehension. Did she dare enter such a place, knowing virtually nothing about this weird organization? 

Yes. She dared. 

She hoisted her large tan leather purse higher up on her shoulder and bounded up the steps two at a time.

The advertisement had appeared in the paper the week before. 

HISTORY BUFF? WE NEED YOU! 

It was followed by the initialism HWA in bold type, their address, and, oddly, a request for corset size. No other information was given. Still, Ms. Snyder was a teacher of World History II at the local high school, and she fancied herself rather good. 

Just inside the glass front door was a stretch of cushy beige carpet that lead to a white desk. Behind the desk sat a young woman, maybe twenty-five, talking on the phone. This would not have been out of the ordinary, except she was dressed like she had suddenly fallen out of the 1960s, a random flower child in the world of 21st century business.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a nasally tone, setting down the phone as Marcella approached the desk, feeling more apprehensive than ever. 

"Y-yes. I'm looking for the HWA. There was this ad…" 

Marcella dug the newspaper clipping out of her purse, jostling aside a makeup compact, her wallet, and a few coupons for the local grocery store. She slapped the crumpled scrap of paper on the desk, and the took a look at it.

"HWA, huh? Groovy." She leaned back in her chair and kicked her sandaled feet onto the desk. "Tenth floor. Suite 101."

"Th-thank you?" Marcella ventured, before hurrying to the gilt elevator. Better hurry, didn't want to lose her nerve.

It wasn't a very large elevator. There was more plush beige carpet in here, and some numbered buttons, but that's to be expected in a fancy office building. The upper half of the wall was mirrored, while the lower half was paneled with golden-brown varnished wood. 

As the elevator doors closed, Marcella caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrors. She wasn't at her best today; she had left the apartment in a hurry and left her frizzy red hair unbrushed and untamed. She made a face at the mirror before returning her attention to the newspaper ad. 

"HWA," she murmured, tracing the letters with her thumbnail. "What does it even stand for?"

The elevator slowed to a stop to allow another passenger on. Marcella was jolted back into reality by her new elevator companion. 

Or maybe it wasn't reality, because apparently this man was wearing a dapper green zoot suit. He winked at her as the doors shut, and she shrank back into the corner, clutching her purse in front of her like it was a shield.

"Don't worry, darlin'," he said with a devilish grin. "I don't bite."

"I-I wasn't worried about that," Marcella replied, relaxing slightly. "What are you, a re-enactor or s-something?"

"Or something," he shrugged. "You looking for the HWA?"

She nodded and lowered her purse. "D-do you work there?"

"Mm-hmm."

The elevator stopped at floor four. The doors slid open with a whoosh, letting a haggard-looking young lady carrying a simply enormous stack of papers step through. After the flower child in the lobby and her elevator companion, Marcella was only mildly surprised to see that the girl was dressed in fashions that had been out-of-date since 1910.

"Morning," she told Marcella, attempting a bright smile. To the 1940s man, she said, "Be a dear and press for five, would you? I have to copy all these papers and return these to fourth, and then take the rest up to tenth."

"Sure thing," he replied. Marcella wondered if this sort of thing happened every day around here.

"I'm Elsie," the girl said to Marcella, shuffling the stack of papers into the crook of her left arm in order to extend her right hand to shake. "Elsie Pickett."

"Marcella Snyder."

They shook hands, and the effort caused Elsie to lose her balance drop all of her papers. Most of them slid out of her arms directly to the floor, but some floated elegantly to the floor. Elsie sniffed, looking like she was on the verge of tears, before shuffling the paper back into a messy stack.

"Here, I'll help," Marcella ventured, kneeling, as the elevator doors slid open behind them.

"No, that's quite all right!"

Elsie grabbed the last few sheets from Marcella before sprinting out of the elevator.

"You could have helped, you know," Marcella told the 1940s man as a woman dressed in equally ridiculous garb stepped into the elevator.

"Intern," he shrugged. "Poor kid."

I might as well change the subtitle of this blog to "Writing, Rants, And Digressing," for all the dreaming I've been doing lately. What can I say, it's a…thing. With that other thing. And, y'know, the other thing with the things.

(Yeah, I do remember that I stopped halfway through my Ireland thing. Anyone want me to finish it?)