The Ivory Box
Work was sucking me dry. Eight hours a day of staring at a screen, attending “team” meetings, and dealing with other drones whose lives seemed even less meaningful than my own. This concluded with a one-hour commute to my studio apartment, where I ate instant noodles and stared at yet another screen, scrolling through lives that seemed so much richer than my own. Each night, after sliding my phone beneath my pillow, I eventually drifted off to sleep in a state of mild anxiety and dread. Please understand, my lowly social status was not the sole cause of my condition. I was, in fact, going broke. After paying rent and bills, barely enough remained to fund the basic necessities of my existence. I needed dental work, sedatives, a new winter coat. Like my sense of purpose and self-fulfillment, these too would have to wait. That’s what it’s like living in this city. They used to call it indentured servitude. Now it’s simply the cost of living. There had to be a better way.
Late one evening, ill at ease, I decided to peruse the classifieds. A brief ad among the clerical positions caught my eye:
Personal Assistant wanted for import / export business.
No experience necessary. Will train. $800 per week.
I emailed my resume and, feeling faintly self-satisfied, fell asleep.
The following morning I was surprised to receive a reply from Eburneum Imports. After a few polite exchanges, we determined that my interview would take place next week at an apartment downtown. I was optimistic. Perhaps, at last, I would be happy.
***
Mr. Worthington was an elderly gentleman, in his seventies from the looks of it. He wore a Van Dyke beard, wire-rimmed spectacles, brown cardigan. He walked with a cane. The apartment was huge. In fact, it was more of a gallery. A taxidermied grizzly loomed over us from one corner of the room. Beside it was the head of an ibex mounted on the wall.
There were display cases containing pottery and small statues that Worthington claimed dated back to the Sumerians. Bronze tools and weapons adorned the place. It was all so peculiar—and interesting. Yes. I could work here.
“As you know from my ad, I’m in the import-export business. I have clients all around the world. I’m a glorified middle-man of sorts. I locate rare and exotic items for a very exclusive clientele. And they pay handsomly. But I can no longer do everything. You see, my eyes are weak. It’s become difficult to keep track of all the email correspondence.
And the trips to the post office have become challenging. My knees….”
“I can handle all that,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
“Are you familiar with international shipping?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“And can you maintain a database? I must keep accurate records of my accounts.”
“Of course,” I said. “And I have no problem waiting in those lines at the post office.”
“Good,” he stroked his beard. “Well, I have a few more interviews to conduct. I will certainly be in touch.”
The days passed. I continued to drag myself to work, sacrificing the best hours of my life to OmniSeek, the corporate criminals who signed my paycheck. Allow me to provide a bit of background. In short, we were responsible for the cameras mounted on traffic lights. Have you ever received a ticket in the mail for running a light that had just turned red? That’s OmniSeek. You’re welcome.
And then the phone rang. Worthington.
“When can you start?”
“Tomorrow.”
I scooped up my belongings and fled. I was so eager to escape my cubicle that I didn’t even bother to inform the director. So much for that reference.
***
The work was easy enough. Email correspondence with international clientele. Wrapping rare and expensive artifacts. Shipping artifacts at the post office. It was awkward at times, just me and the old guy alone in the apartment, but it beat the soul-draining work of OmniSeek. Fortunately, he did leave for about an hour each afternoon to feed the pigeons. Always the same ritual. He retrieved a key from a small ivory box on his desk, unlocked the door to a nearby room, slipped inside. Moments later he emerged from the room and returned the key. He then headed downstairs with his brown paper bag, sat on a bench and tossed breadcrumbs to the pigeons. I sometimes watched him through the window—a pathetic, heartwarming scene.
One day, just before going outside, he paused before my desk. “Please, you must never go into that room. Is that understood?”
“Of course,” I said, and we left it at that.
He went downstairs.
Over the next few weeks, Worthington began receiving emails from an irate client in Morocco. A man named Bennani. Apparently, he’d paid a large sum of money for an item he did not yet receive. One day, after reading a particularly angry email, I informed Worthington. He grew aggravated.
“Tell him it will be there soon,” he grumbled. “Tell him it was shipped.”
“But he wants a tracking number.”
“Oh, dammit! Just tell him it will be there soon!”
Then, after the usual ritual, he headed downstairs to feed the pigeons.
Feeling slightly stressed, I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me. (I was a product of the surveillance industry, after all.) I snatched his key from the box, put it into the lock, and turned. I opened the door and stepped inside.
There was a flash of light, and I heard the door slam behind me. I was in a room with no windows. The door had vanished. I was surrounded by smooth white walls, white floor, white ceiling. It was all made of ivory.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice echoing thinly off the walls.
It wasn’t long before the ceiling began to rise, slowly, cautiously. And then I saw Worthington’s face—a vast wrinkled moon peering down at me. He was a giant. Or rather, I was tiny. He stroked the white copse of his beard.
“I thought you’d never go inside,” he sighed with relief.
“What the hell is going on!” I yelled up at him.
“Finally,” he smiled, “ I can ship that old bastard Bennani his item.”
And that’s when it struck me: somehow, I was now in the box that he’d been opening each day—the little ivory box with the key inside.
“But now who is going to bring you to the post office?” he asked with a grin. “I’ll have to place another ad for an assistant.”
“Let me out of here!” I shouted as he pushed me around with a paperclip.
Laughing, he closed the lid.
Phil Vas is a writer from Brooklyn, NY. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in such places as engine idling, 100subtexts, GhostWatch, Ginosko, Manic World, The Morgue, Vagabond's Verse, The Ave and Dumbo. Connect with him on Instagram @p.vas.1 and check out more of his work at parishghosts.blogspot.com.
