David Jensen

fiction

AND IT MUST BE KEPT

or

“J’espère que ce n’est pas ce que j’ai déjà vu”

(crudely translated: Not This Shit Again!)

The quiet padding of footsteps could be heard echoing through the deserted hallway. Fatigued, as it was early, not even 8 a.m. yet, and was the end of the week; but eager, as it was Friday. The stiff resin-rubber soles of a worn, but well-kept pair of black Oxfords plodded atop the linoleum flooring (the linoleum was actually polyvinyl chloride, and the Oxfords were actually Derbies; but Suzy had never called it anything but linoleum, which she had maybe six or seven times in the past six months, and had regularly, at least once every week or two, referred to them as “my Oxfords”).

Her footsteps resounded down the corridor as she walked from the elevator, at one end, to the door of LAB 404, all the way at the other. A few of the research buildings at the University of Naperville had “restricted elevators”, which allowed access to each floor based on preprogrammed keycards; the Neurology Building was not one of these buildings, the renovations having yet to make their way that far east across campus.

Suzy Thompson, and her “men’s-styled women’s shoes” (which had been purchased from the Men’s Department at Sears), walked past three other labs (the first two researching synesthesia and pain asymbolia, respectively; the third, unoccupied, and having been so for at least that same six months), as well as past the rooms housing the imaging facilities (MRI, fMRI, CT, PET, EEG, MEG, etc.).

When she found herself standing before the letters L, A, and B, and the numbers 4, 0, and 4, she reached into her purse, which was much bigger than it really needed to be, and which she had, for some time, been meaning to condense into a more manageable carrying-device. She unzipped the small pocket inside her purse, which was never normally zipped, but was unable to tactilely locate the thicker/heavier keycard among the other cards she kept there.

She pulled them all out, but found in her palm only the flimsy “frequent eater” cards corresponding to the nearby eateries she frequented for lunch (e.g., Stormy’s, where the eleventh “Mondo” burrito was half off; she only had two more burritos to go; it was her third card). But there was no sign of the heavy-duty keycard that allowed her access to LAB 404, as well as to the imaging facilities on the floor (MRI, fMRI, CT, etc.), while restricting her from the other three labs (again, only two of which were occupied), as well as most of the rest of the rooms of the building.

Suzy paused there at the door, her mind going over the realistic possibilities of where that card could have “gotten off to”, before exaggeratedly nonchalantly dismissing the one notion that repeatedly tried to present itself as a conclusion, and then walking back down that hallway, going back down that elevator, and heading back across that lobby she had just come from.

As she walked towards the security guard at the front desk, with the intention of asking him to come back up with her, in the elevator, down the corridor, to unlock the lab for her (which he would have politely refused to do: University Policy), she saw one of the front doors open and Ben Carlson come walking into the building.

Ben noticed the slight look of distraction on Suzy’s face, and, after signing in at the front desk, he asked as they approached each other:

“What’s up Suze?”

“I don’t have my keycard,” she told him.

And then added, despite his obvious indifference:

“I must’ve left it at home, I guess. I guess I must’ve left it at home.”

Two pairs of shoes could be heard walking down the hallway, padding along. A pair of “Oxfords” and a pair of Reeboks. As his necktie moved back and forth, the metallic glint of the light-blue thread reflected the fluorescent tubes above. With each step, a shimmer moved across the center of his chest. Slightly. A blue stripe cutting down from his neck, matte but for a few thin, seemingly random-placed, reflective, diagonal bands.

Ben Carlson always wore a tie to the lab (or at least he had since his father died four months earlier). It was a conscious attempt to curry favor with Dr. Mate, who also always wore a tie when he came into work.

In need of a distraction, Ben had stopped by the lab after his father’s funeral. Dr. Mate had offered his condolences (“Sorry for your loss, kid.”), but had then found the situation progressively awkward and had, for reasons unknown even to himself, felt compelled to offer a bit of “fatherly advice”, the inadequacy of which was typified by the fact that Dr. Mate was not himself a father, and, in truth, had no intention of ever becoming one.

But Ben was standing there hemming and hawing, and Dr. Mate was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and increasingly uninterested. Thus he had uttered the following:

“That’s a nice tie, son (he thought the “son” was a nice touch); you look good. What is that, a Windsor?”

Ben had taken the comment to heart, inappropriately gleaning from it that he ought to start wearing ties more often. However, he hadn’t known what to reply to the question, ignorant as he was to what was being referred to. Nevertheless, he had eventually flipped the tie up and begun inspecting the tag on the back.

“The knot,” Dr. Mate had then said, his tone much more rash than intended, his discomfort and disinterest soaring. “Is it a Windsor?”

“Yes,” Ben had replied, assuming it must’ve been. “Yes, it is.”

It wasn’t; Ben was wrong. The small, asymmetric bunch resting over his suprasternal notch advertised the likelihood of it being a four-in-hand knot (which it was). However, Dr. Mate hadn’t corrected him, his dearth of comfort having driven his interest elsewhere, and so it was that Ben had incorrectly assumed that the only type of tie-knot he knew how to tie was, in fact, a Windsor, and had thereafter proceeded to repeat the phrase “A Winnser for a Winner, baby” as he tied that four-in-hand each morning before coming into the lab.

“Can’t imagine how it could’ve happened,” Suzy said, “…leaving it at home like that,” and had been saying similar such things the entire ride up the elevator and walk down the deserted hallway.

“A freak accident…must be what it was,” she said. “A freak accident.”

But she was much too outspoken about it. And despite how indifferent Ben desperately wished to remain, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of suspiciousness sneaking in.

“Leaving it at home like that,” Suzy reiterated, “…can’t imagine how it could’ve happened.”

Standing there at the door of LAB 404, Suzy’s gladness to finally put this embarrassment behind her and Ben’s weariness to have been presented with it in the first place were both soon forgotten. Ben pulled a keycard out of his wallet and slid it in and out of the slot just above the metal door-handle. When a small green light lit up, he pushed the handle down and opened the door.

Upon entering, it was Ben who was first to utter a response:

“What the…”

Whereas Suzy was actually the one to finish it off:

“What the fuck?”

Ben followed suit:

“What the fuck…”

But, again, Suzy finished it off:

“What the fuck happened here?”

The distinctly feminine clicking of high heels could be heard clacking down the hallway. The thin legs leading up to a black pencil-skirt, cut just above the knees. A white dress-shirt tucked into the waist. Loose and casual, but tight in all the right places, with the top three buttons left unbuttoned, revealing a narrow strip of cleavage.

Cheryl Johnson prided herself on how well she wore a men’s dress-shirt, and did so vocally whenever the opportunity arose (which turned out to be much more often than most would have assumed). What she never felt compelled to vocalize, though, was the fact that her “men’s dress-shirts” were actually women’s, designed to look like men’s (expertly tailored to subtly accentuate her slender shoulders, voluptuous chest, and thin waist).

Cheryl was heading towards the lab, a small purse dangling from her shoulder, bouncing against her hip with each step taken. She knew that Suzy and Ben were already there. Having lost her keycard the week before, she had since made it a habit to check with the security guard in the lobby to make sure someone was already up at the lab, before going all the way up there herself. She had been informed, and reminded once, of the university’s policy of not allowing guards to open “authorized-only areas” (which all the research labs were classified as) for anyone but designated faculty members (in this case, Dr. Mate and his assistant, Dr. Embry). It was after waiting in that lobby on two consecutive mornings that Cheryl had finally just started showing up late, simply to make sure she wouldn’t have to wait down there again.

She knew that Ben and Dr. Embry (she liked to call him Joel) would get a kick out of her outfit, her top in particular. She liked to catch them ogling her, her titties in particular. It had almost become a little game that they played.

But even more so, she liked to catch Dr. Mate (she had called him Richard once, but even she had felt that the age difference, about 20 years, made this familiarity awkward). The others, when caught, were always playful about it. But not Dr. Mate. No, his demeanor, without fail, was that of severe embarrassment. Blushing a bright red, with that deer-in-the-headlights look on his face, he would usually then insist that she button her shirt up to a more “appropriate” level or put on a sweater (which was why she had stopped bringing sweaters to the lab). She had accused him of being a nudophobe for some time before he finally informed her that the proper term was “gymnophobe”, which she had proceeded to coquettishly accuse him, on a regular basis, of being ever since.

She had once seen Dr. Mate’s reflection in a window as he stared at her ass (almost every nook and cranny of which was exposed by her tight leggings). Not knowing that she could see him, he had just kept staring. Minute after minute went by. He, standing there, just pretending to look at some papers; she, doing the same. She had been curious to see how long he would continue, but it started to seem like he wasn’t going to stop. The angle of the reflection had eventually revealed a distinct swelling in the crotch of his pants, and it was at this time that Cheryl had finally turned around. Facing him, she had displayed an uncharacteristic hesitation and hadn’t been able to say a word. The two had just stared at each other, silently, for some time (both in discomfort, although he in much, much, much more than she), before Dr. Mate had hastily retreated into the supply closet, his face beet red, his eyes at absolute zero. At her apartment later that night, Cheryl had pleasured herself while thinking of this incident. To be sure, she didn’t find Dr. Mate attractive. Not at all. But still, something about it had excited her.

When she got to the end of the hall, Cheryl gave the door of LAB 404 a few solid bangs with the side of her fist.

Ben opened the door, and Cheryl could see that something was wrong in the look on his face even before she noticed it for herself. But as she stepped into the room, she noticed it for herself:

“What the…”

“Yeah,” Ben replied.

“I know,” Suzy said from the other side of the room.

“What the fuck happened here?” Cheryl asked.

…