Vocation Comments

I'm going upstairs to the CEO. The elevator doors glide open, and I step out. Deep, plum-colored carpets. Heavy doors. A receptionist is talking low into the telephone. She looks up, still talking, and her eyes follow me as I pass. I wander down hallways big as a landing strip. The floor is quiet and filled with light. Each room is empty as I walk by.

I reach the CEO's office. The secretary is gone. I push at the steel door, and it slowly swings open like a vault. The CEO sits behind his desk at the far end of the room. As I walk toward him over the thick carpet, I can see that his eyes are flat and milky. The wind whistles quietly at the windows. The CEO stares at the horizon, head tilted to one side, thoughtful. Like a desert king, his body has dried into a question mark, fragile and papery, the skin pulled back from his teeth. His hands rest lightly on the desktop. Through the broken skin, I can see the hollow bones in his wrists—small bones, like a bird's.
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