I’m at lunch with my friend Z. (Z isn’t short for Zachary or Zeke. Z is what Z’s parents named Z as a child, although Z has never asked why.)
I’ve told Z that I’m on the verge of quitting my job to become a detective, and Z says, I don’t know. At your age, I really don’t know.
I’m not that old, Z, I say.
Well, not ancient, Z says. But when you switch careers, they make you start at the bottom.
Even so, I say, it shouldn’t take long. As soon as they see what kind of person I am, they’ll promote me right up.
And what kind of person is that?
I notice things, I say.
I notice things too, Z says. That doesn’t mean I should quit my job and run around solving crimes.
What kinds of things do you notice? Tell me, I say.
All right, Z says. See that woman alone at the bar?
I glance at the blond in the horrid green dress. She’s tall (even sitting) with thick eye shadow and an oversized purse.
That one, Z says, is in a dead-end job but longs for much more. She’s in a bad marriage.
Her car’s on the blink. Lately, she’s been thinking of packing it in.
All that from a glance?
See how pale she is. See how she slumps in her chair.
Maybe she’s just not feeling so great.
If she’s sick, Z says, it’s because of the place where she works.
Okay, I say. (There’s no use arguing with Z for Z is as much an arguer as I am a noticer.) Hey, I say, tilting my watch so that Z sees the time. I’ve got to take off.
Why don’t we both be detectives? Z says once we’re outside the café.
You and me both?
Sure, he says. Partners in Crime. Z laughs. Get it? That can be our motto and also our name. We can share an office and wear funny hats.
I’m not sure, Z, I say. I kind of want to do this alone.
What’s all this alone business? You can be alone when you’re dead. Anyway, don’t answer me right now. Just promise you’ll give it some thought.
I will, Z. I really will.
When I get back to work, I nod to a woman I’ve never seen at the front desk. Maybe she’s a temp or maybe she’s someone we’ve hired to cover phones during lunch. Seeing a stranger might confuse some people, but I view this as a challenge, a gift. I seize this opportunity to practice my skills of detection. What I do is pretend there’s a loose thread on the floor. I bend to pick up this thread that doesn’t exist and, while doing this, I observe the woman as she tries not to get caught watching me. I notice that she’s pretty and likes to wear lots of blue; I also notice that when I glance over, her eyes dart away. Maybe she’s shy or maybe guys hit on her when she’s trying to work. It could be either of these things, or maybe both things combined. It could be she’s done some awful deed and now she’s on the lam from the law.
What I think I should do is wander over and ask a few questions. Where were you the day our phones wouldn’t ring? Are you in possession of white-out? Do you know it’s against company policy to steal snacks for your dog? I think I could startle her into making some sort of confession, but I decide not to test her or attempt conversation. What I decide to do is play it cool, leave her hanging, maybe wait till I have better questions. I stand up pretending to hold the thread that doesn’t exist. But doing so, I become dizzy. Maybe it was something I ate when I went out with Z. Or maybe it’s the fact that the woman’s so pretty. Who cares if she’s a crook? I’m pretty sure this is love. And yet, I don’t say a word. I snub her like she’s a paperclip thief as I go up the stairs.
It’s a long hike to my office, but walking is the only way I can go. I quit taking the elevator weeks ago because the safety certificate next to the fire alarm says the inspection was due on the first and now it’s the eighteenth. I’ve sent messages to Personnel and also to the man who runs Operations. But neither manager has written me back. It’s been seventeen days since my first e-mail and, each time I check the elevator wall, the dates never change. At night I have visions of cables snapping, bodies falling, strangers calling my name. Every few days I leave follow-up voicemails reminding Personnel and Operations that I continue to notice that the inspection is due. I tell those in charge that I’m worried. I phrase my concern in the kindest way that I can, I never cast blame; but until somebody does something, I’m taking the stairs. In any case, being alone walking up stairs is good for my soul and my brain. Like the best detectives, I turn negatives to positives. Walking gives me time to organize my thoughts and process things that I’ve seen.
In my office, I see that someone’s delivered a new chair with a lever that makes the seat rise and fall. I sit in my fancy new chair, push the gizmo and drop. It all happens so fast that my chin nearly smashes the top of my desk. This is when I notice a smiley face scribbled on a pink pad of post-its I broke open before I left to meet Z. Seeing smiley faces at the office makes me think this isn’t such a bad place to work. It’s cool in the summer and they give us coffee for free. Also, I’m the Manager of Supplies, so my job isn’t that hard. For the most part, I’m left alone to order things that we need. It’s not a bad job, I don’t hate it, it’s just that I’d rather linger over lunches and solve intricate crimes. One day I’ll do this—switch careers and become a detective—then I’ll have my days free to live as I please. Today, though, there’s so much to do that I can’t think about what it would be like to be free. I need to send another e-mail about the elevator dilemma. I need to check voice mail. I need to find out what that letter Z really means.
I’m serious when I say that I plan to leave this place to become a detective. It’s just that right now I’m busy with obligations and duties. I’m a decent multi-tasker, but right now I’ve got so many things going. Right now, for example, I’m busy moving files from one side of my desk to the other. These are important files containing requisition forms for post-its, surveys about laptops, guidelines for the best way to tape up a box. In an office, there are so many things that have to be done. I shuffle papers, dividing the keepers from those that need to be shred. I open drawers to search for my stapler, my indelible markers, my gum.
Now I multi-task. Now I collate. Now I chew gum. I do all this at once while I wait by the phone. I wait because important calls will be coming. With each call, there will be serious questions in need of serious answers. Serious action must be taken, for only with serious action can progress be made. I wait; I think; I prepare. Then I wait more. I need to be ready. I will be ready. In the meantime, I occupy myself making lists of things I must do.