You skulk around the edges of the intern and press pods swarming around each other like eels mating, looking for a way into the basement. The stairs present a blank concrete slab on the ground floor. The elevators are mobbed with people going to the roof to vape or skin-pop. The emergency exit is just a painting on the wall.
You pick up a discarded white paper bag from the floor and stuff a selection of appetizers into it. You walk back to the entrance and find one of the guards frisking people as they enter.
“I have a DoorDash order!” you say over the din.
“Where’s it going?” he asks, tall and armed but friendly enough.
“The ticket says the basement,” you say.
“Oh, you don’t want to go down there, man,” he says, hitching his gunbelt.
“But it says to deliver it to the basement,” you plead.
“OK, I’ll tell you, but drop the food off and get the hell out of there.” He points back to the bank of elevators and says, “Talk to the skinny blonde. She’s a huge bitch, but the only way down there.”
“Thanks!”
The security guard is right about skinny and blonde but didn’t mention she was 6’ 6” in heels and used rubbing alcohol as perfume. She looks down at you like you’re a bug that just ran out onto her clean kitchen floor.
“DoorDash,” you say. “I’m supposed to deliver this to the basement.”
She just glances down, straightens her white dress, and sighs.
“The security guard said you could get me downstairs,” you say
“Which one?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which guard?” She pokes you with a long, thin finger with long, white nails.
“I didn’t get a name,” you say and smile.
“Enrique,” she snorts. “Did he call me a ‘bitch?’”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She narrows her ice chip eyes and pauses for a long time.
“You don’t look like a food delivery guy,” she says slowly.
“The economy,” you shrug.
“No tattoos,” she says, pulling up your shirt sleeves. “Not even an earring or a gauge.”
“I’m sorry?” you say.
“Fine. But you better be who you say.” She opens her hand out wide and brings her fingernails down on your face in five painful spots. She turns and punches a long code into the elevator security pad.
“Five minutes,” she snaps. “Don’t touch anything or I’ll break your ass. Like boom. Like shatter.”
You enter the elevator car with you, swipes a magnetic card, and hits the button for “Lower.” It doesn’t light up.
“Fucking thing,” she mutters. Her rubbing alcohol perfume is thick in the close confines of the car. She backs up and bends over to look at the card reader. The smell intensifies. Gagging. Almost now sweet. She runs the card back and forth in impatient swipes, flips the card over, and does the same thing.
“C’mon,” she says. You follow her down the bank of elevators to the last one and she pushes the down button.
“No security shit on this one,” she mutters.
As you wait for the car to arrive, you feel her nails dragged down her back.
“What time do you get off tonight?” she asks, voice all softness now.
“Midnight,” you say.
“I like the idea of someone with unmarked skin,” she says. “Fresh canvas. All mine.” She begins to bore a nail into the skin between your shoulder blades.
The elevator doors open and you step quickly on and turn, hitting the Lower button.
You watch lick her nails one by one until the door slides shut.
When they open, you step out into hell.
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