Growing into the Job, Post 560: An Interlude in the Atrium

The atrium of the Far Horizons Evolution Center always made Jerry Miller feel small.

Small not just in the way any man might feel small here, standing beneath forty feet of carved stone amalgam, the statuesque giantess symbolizing the rise of female power that dominated the soaring space. Being here made Jerry feel small in the way he did every day now - scrubbing linens, hauling bags of laundry, trying not to look too long at anyone he passed.

He rolled his cart over the polished tile, the wheels squeaking faintly, the scent of disinfectant and fresh-cut flowers hanging in the air. Patients moved through the space like slow-moving fish, sleek and calm in their new-age pastel clothes. Mostly women, they all had that look - healthy, purposeful, important.

He slowed at the base of the statue, and rubbed his hand over his now-bald pate. They’d made him, along with all the other men that worked here and lived in the basement, shave. His days in a smart suit at the car dealership seemed like eons ago. He now spent every day in plain brown overalls, the uniform of the male drones in this hive of progress. 

He looked up. 

The thing dominated the atrium, rising from its marble plinth, robed like some curvy Greco-Roman goddess, her hand outstretched towards some distant horizon beyond the entrance. The stone-like material - which he studied, every moment he got - had a faint shimmer that made one think it was about to come alive and breathe. He wasn’t supposed to think it looked like Melissa. Melissa Monroe, who used to work for him, and was now some rising figure in this new order of women that were basically taking over the city. Officially it wasn’t her, the statue. They wanted everyone to think it was an everywoman, a symbol rather than a particular person. But the line of the jaw, the tilt of the chin, the hair and the strength and grace…and those tits. It was her. Every inch: her.

He stood there longer than he meant to.

“Hello!?! Jerry!!”

He jumped. The voice came from the reception desk. Nadia - one of the curvy receptionists, a dark blonde of vaguely arabic features - was glaring at him, one manicured hand resting on the counter, tapping a rhythm of impatience. The desk sat just below the base of the statue, like part of some altar.

“You were supposed to pick up the bags from the Maternal Optimization clinic like fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “They called up here twice already.”

“Yeah, I’m j-just - on my way now,” he stammered.

“Then go.” She flicked her eyes toward the service corridor and went back to her computer.

Jerry’s cheeks burned, and he straightened the collar of his new uniform, brown overalls. He pushed the laundry cart forward again, the wheels squealing a protest. He’d learned not to take it personally. Everyone here was higher up the ladder than he was, even the lowliest receptionist, girls half his age, any woman who worked here. He didn’t complain, though. Being a peon, a subordinate male, was the price of being near…her.

Allowing himself one more glance before moving on to his duties, his eyes strayed back to the statue as he passed under it. The morning light from the ceiling of glass skylights struck the marble so that her stone skin seemed to glow. Melissa, he thought, nearly groaning to himself, Melisssssssssa. His love, his obsession. Or, at least, what they’d made of her.

A goddess.

Jerry sighed. He was about to turn toward the service hall, back to his work, when he noticed something odd - just at the base of the statue, next to one of its enormous feet, near where the long steps from the floor ended. A duffel bag.

At first, it didn’t register. People left things all the time - backpacks, tote bags, even strollers. But this one looked wrong. Canvas, worn. Not one of the corporate-branded bags one of their upscale female executive clients might carry. Or a fancy gym bag left forgotten. 

He frowned, glancing toward Nadia - she was on the phone now - and he took a few steps closer.

There was a faint hiss.

He stopped.

A thin thread of smoke was curling from a seam near the zipper, so faint it might have been dust caught in a sunbeam.

He crouched down, frowning. The smoke had a strange, acrid tang - burnt plastic, maybe. He hesitated, fingers hovering over the bag’s handle, then thought better of it.

His throat felt dry.

He straightened slowly, and backed away, eyes darting to the statue’s feet and then - up, up, up - as though the stoic, stone woman might offer an explanation. For a heartbeat, he imagined she was watching him - something in the carved eyes that wasn’t just artistry, wasn’t just light.

“H-hey -” he called, back toward the desk. “Uh, Nadia?”

She didn’t look up.

He looked back down. The smoke was a bit thicker now, a lazy thread silhouetted against the marble. He could hear the faintest something - mechanical, uneven - coming from the bag.

And that was when he realized what it sounded like.

His pulse kicked.

Jerry stepped back once, twice - his heel clipped the laundry cart, sending it rattling behind him. The noise finally made Nadia glance up, her eyes narrowing in irritation.

“Jerry,” she said, “What?!?”

“I think-” he started, but didn’t finish.

A wisp of gray curled higher, reaching the statue’s knees…

Nadia’s eyes went wide.

======================================