Waterlogged Tower
A Short Story for STSC Symposium: Propaganda
This short story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Each month STSC members create something around a set theme. This cycle, the theme was “Propaganda.”
If you are a writer, you might consider joining us.
He arrived to the office just fine. His commute avoided the worst of what he saw on various social media sites: videos of water spraying violently from the grout between subway tiles; cars barely keeping their tires to pavement with water up to their license plates; and worst, the people and families bailing gray market basement apartments.
He, on the other hand, only received a persistent dampness of clothing that would react poorly to air conditioning and begin to smell, but otherwise was manageable and expected on rainy office days. There, as he entered the building, were the front desk and security people, bone dry. In the elevator droplets fell from sagging umbrellas and a few soaked pant-legs. His backpack had gotten wet enough to twist up the book traveling inside, but it was far from mulched and completely readable.
So, too, the landing of his floor remained clean. Yellow “Beware: Wet Surface” signs were placed not because of water but sheer precaution. The same colleagues typed away in their cubicles, the heavy gray atmosphere outside ironically creating focus by dimwashing the lights and muting the sound.
No, it wasn’t until he turned the corner to his open-floor desk that the storm’s violence selected him. His computer was second to last at the corner of a desk island that was currently buried under tarp and roof-plaster, surrounded by yellow-vested workers frantically mopping and cleaning where the roof had collapsed.