How in the holy helium did I get down here? I never take the elevator down to the Archives; this place creeps me out with its endless rows and rows of metal shelving, and the air is so heavy and still, it’s hard for me to breathe, too. Of course my inhaler is in my blazer pocket hanging on the back of my chair, up in my cubicle on the 15th Floor, which is where I should be right now, not down here in the land of the lost files.
But, as long as I am here, and not wheezing too badly yet, I may as well suck it up and take a quick look to see if I can locate anything regarding Linda and whatever it is that she and Herb are up to. I know they are hiding something, I can tell by the way they keep hovering over each other’s desks and murmuring. I would guess they were having a sordid little affair, but while their murmuring is furtive, there is not sex behind it, I can tell that much. Whatever their secret is, it is more mundane, and more earnest. My guess is trade secrets — Lord knows we have enough of them in this place — and if they are stashing any documentation, what better place than in this cavernous , seldom-visited fire hazard.
Time flies when you’re having fun, but is four hours of haphazard filebox pulling before I find what I am looking for. I am a little surprised, actually; I had not known that there would be anything like this, and the chances of my randomly putting my hand on it in this mountain of aging paper was clearly very low. But here it is: a banker’s box half-filled with torn ledger pages, off-shore account statements, flight receipts, names and address. There are even a couple of mash notes tucked along the side, so I guess there was some of that going on between them after all. Huh: there is no accounting for taste, I guess. I wonder which came first: the embezzling or the fornicating?
Well, anyway, this little find was certainly going to make tomorrow’s staff meeting very, very interesting for once.