21 Questions: Chapter Nine

 

 

 

I inhale, long and deep, my eyelids fluttering in tandem with my heart as I watch the sign in front of me get larger and larger.

 

I walk ahead, still in utter disbelief as I near the acclaimed building.

 

Capitale de la Terre.

 

Saint.

 

Effrayant.

 

Merde…

 

I’m actually here.

 

Pour réel, pour de vrai ici.

 

After a relatively smooth, twenty-minute commute, I arrive at the physical pinnacle of my dreams over an hour early thanks to the trial run I did yesterday.

 

I’m wired even though I barely got any sleep. My nerves shot to hell. My skin buzzing. I reach for the door with a shaky hand, my breath stuttering as I suck in all the air around me, as if I’m afraid to touch it. As if the moment I make contact, I’ll realize that this is still all a dream and wake up to the most disappointing, mundane reality in all of existence.

 

My eyelids drift closed with another inhale, my fingers wrapping themselves around the handle.

 

I swallow, standing still as a statue for several seconds, like I’m waiting for it to happen; for this incredible, lifelike fantasy to come to an end.

 

When I open my eyes again, the building is still in front of me and my hand is still on the metal bar, gripping it tightly. I stand there, both afraid to pull it and let go, struggling to come to terms with the magnitude of this moment.

 

My fingers twitch when I finally jerk the door open, removing the last of barriers of this new frontier. Literally.

 

I make my way inside, eyes eagerly roaming, scanning every micro-section of the immediate interior. Expectedly, I’m required to clear a security checkpoint before proceeding. What’s ONUattendu, cependant, est à quel point le contrôle est approfondi et étendu, correspondant facilement à ce que vous attendez dans les aéroports. Convoyeurs à rayons X. Détecteurs de métaux. Scanners biométriques. Contrôle manuel. Les travaux.

 

Cela prend un bon moment - et un ensemble lot of my patience—to pass through, eating away at a large chunk of the time I’d hoped would go toward actually getting set up.

 

Que diable est ça, putain Pentagone?

 

Once cleared, I look back on the security post—more like, série de messages, vraiment - dans l'incrédulité une fois de plus, se demandant comment dans le monde les gens sont censés commencer à travailler à l'heure alors que tout le monde doit passer par cette palpation extrême et en série chaque jour.

 

A central lounging area greets me as I walk further, preceding the main reception up ahead. I inhale deeply as I approach it, trying to appear more confident than I feel, but I have to steel my nerves against the sudden spell of anxiety that pours down on me.

 

A slightly older woman sits behind the curved desk, the tawny waves atop her head clipped away from her face, enhancing the column of lines across her forehead. She’s on the phone, evidently stressed, barely registering my existence. When she finally looks up, she seems almost surprised to see me, as if I snuck up on her like a ninja when I’ve actually been standing here for a whole minute.

 

"Puis-je vous aider?" demande-t-elle, semblant quelque peu indifférente, la question venant plutôt après coup.

 

Pas le le plus chaud réception pour une réceptionc'est but I decide to ignore it.

 

"Euh, oui, j'ai été sélectionné pour le programme de stages cette année. Quand j'ai appelé, on m'a demandé de voir Mme Hillmer ?

 

“Just one second,” she replies, picking up the landline again. She punches in a number, holding the receiver to her ear as her eyes dart up to mine once more, like she’s trying to make sure that I actually am who I say I am.

 

"Salut, Jeannie", dit-elle alors qu'une voix étouffée et indéchiffrable se fait entendre à l'autre bout du fil. "Le nouveau stagiaire est là pour vous voir."

 

Plus de correspondance suit; échanges courts et brefs, comme un match de tennis mais, contrairement à un match, la conversation se termine rapidement.

 

“Okay, thanks,” the receptionist finally says, hanging up and turning her attention back to me. “You’re going to want to head to the fourth floor. Office four-o-one.” She gestures behind her. “Elevator’s up ahead.”

 

“Thank you,” I nod, walking in the direction she points.

 

Four lifts punctuate the connecting hallway, two pairs standing opposite each other. I summon the one closest to me, looking around as I wait for it to arrive. The main area seems empty. Quiet. But I anticipate an outpour of people with the typical morning bustle soon.

 

I glance at my watch, mildly annoyed. Thirty minutes have already gone by and I haven’t even located the main office.

 

The elevator to my left dings open first, its metal doors sliding away from each other. Even though the motion is a trivial, mechanical action typical of such an appliance, I can’t help but feel like this is a rite of passage; a grand gesture, welcoming me into its sanctuary.

 

I step into it, inhaling deeply as I hit the button for the fourth floor, nervous all over again when the doors close shut and the lift ascends.

 

I’m slightly surprised no one else is in here. I know there’s still half an hour left but there are usually a few early-birds in every workplace. Nonetheless, I’m grateful that the small, momentary privacy allows me to freak out—and subsequently compose myself—without inhibition.

 

The elevator comes to a stop and slides open again a moment later, revealing another hallway. I step out of it with a surge of excitement-slash-nervousness, vaguely registering the sound of its doors closing behind me as I advance.

 

In a way, I feel like Alice when she first fell into Wonderland; treading lightly, keeping a close eye on everything so I can find my way around this uncharted, magical terrain.

 

My gaze drifts to the corridor lined with offices on my right, latching on to the number beside the very first one.

 

Nous voilà.

 

401.

 

I regard the bold, block letters on the glass door.

 

PROTOCOLE ET ADMINISTRATION

 

It’s slightly ajar, but the shutter blinds on the windows are still closed. I knock on it softly, like I’m scared I might break it, anxious all over again.

 

Unexpectedly, silence ensues. I repeat the action, a tad less gentle. When I’m met with the same result, I push it open slowly, poking my head through, as if I’m lost.

My eyes immediately fall on two men and a woman, so immersed in what they’re individually doing that they don’t seem to have heard me knock—or notice that a strange woman’s head is currently protruding through their door.

 

“Excuse me,” I blurt, clearing my throat when my existence continues to go unnoticed.

 

Tous les trois lèvent les yeux de leurs appareils, leur expression collective étant un léger mélange de confusion et de surprise, un peu comme la réceptionniste en bas. On pourrait penser qu'ils avaient des écouteurs antibruit ou quelque chose comme ça.

 

“Yes, come in,” the woman beckons, peering at me beneath dark, tapered bangs, setting aside the tablet and stylus she was seemingly hypnotized by just a second ago. “You’re the new intern?”

 

“Yes,” I confirm, stepping inside.

 

"Avez-vous votre lettre d'acceptation signée avec vous ?" demande-t-elle, allant droit au but, clairement trop occupée pour les présentations.

 

“Ah, yes…” I reach into my bag, taking out the document in question. “Here,” I smile sheepishly, slightly embarrassed by how crimpled it now looks as I hand it to her.

 

Elle se glisse dans l'un des nombreux sièges, son regard voletant entre un écran d'ordinateur et la lettre alors que ses doigts tapent sur le clavier. C'est le seul son pendant plusieurs secondes, ajoutant d'une manière ou d'une autre à l'étrange malaise dans la pièce.

 

The two men go back to being quietly engrossed in whatever it is they were focused on before my arrival, saying absolutely nothing. The atmosphere is…strange. Almost…tense. And I’m not sure why. Like I walked in on a massive, passive-aggressive argument or something.

 

Peut-être que c'est à ça que ressemble la traînée du matin ici?

 

“Your department’s on the third floor,” the woman finally says, breaking the silence. She hands me back the acceptance letter, along with another document. “That’s a temporary employee form. Read over all the terms, stipulations and conditions. Then fill it out and sign at the bottom. You’ll need to see Dave Schapiro in 319. He’s the head of your unit. He’ll have to sign it, too. Then bring it back here.”

 

“Alrighty,” I nod, smiling to myself at the mention of the familiar name.

 

I walk out, leaving the door ajar the way I found it and head back to the elevator. Normally, I’d take the stairs for just a single floor, but this is new terrain and I can’t afford even the smallest delay. Not on my very first day.

 

I make my descent to the third floor, my stomach twinging with the drop, but I know my nerves are far more to blame for the sensation than gravitational pull.

 

Nous y sommes presque…

 

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