Epilogue

Mr. Grey sat at his sleek, metal desk, inside his compact, corkboard cubicle. The grey left hand - less dry than once-upon-a-time - drummed its square fingernails in the old rhythm on the Clickety-Clackety-Word-Machine’s round keys. The grey right hand - positively balmy at the moment - wafted the air in a placating gesture. The grey mind ran the two hands independently. This day, the right bore the heavier load.

The right hand’s gentle waving failed to placate the sweaty, wild-eyed man sitting in Mr. Grey client chair of ruthless metal. The man ran a beefy hand across his large prospect of shiny forehead, before plunging into a wood of thinning hair. He met the flat, puncturing eyes of Mr. Grey with earthy ones close to tears. The man said, “I’m at my wits’ end, sir. I can’t do this anymore, sir. If the next parchment off that machine is another form to fill, I’ll-”

Mr. Grey’s left fingers stopped like the pistons of an engine out of coal. He spoke in a flat tone. “There’s no cause for alarm, Mr…?”

The man wagged his sagging jowls. Mr. Grey’s right hand swept to a parchment tower the man had dropped on the metal desk. The harsh office lanterns in the cubicle scaffold above made the hand’s spidery shadow crawl.

The man spoke again before Mr. Grey’s hand reached the stack. “What I’ll do is; I’ll walk calmly out of this hedge, walk calmly to the nearest window, and I’ll-”

Mr. Grey’s hand stopped and he spoke fast. “Slow down sir. I see you’re frustrated. I understand and I’m sorry.”

“Frustrated.” The man breathed out the word, with a slumping of shoulders, as though his mind in that moment could think only in singles.

“I’ve not handled your case yet. If I examine these parchments, I might be able to help.”

The man looked up, not yet with hope, but with attention. “You’ll ‘escalate’ my case? That’s what everyone says they’ll do. ‘Escalate’. I’ve been escalating in the visa-roundabout for ages. All they escalate is the speed I get tossed from one person to another.”

“A visa? Unfortunately sir, this is the Change of Address Department. I-”

“I figured. Go ahead and tell me where to go next. I’ll be sure to do that.”

The man stood. Mr. Grey waved him back down with the steady, right hand. “I mean sir, that I could - I will - make an exception. Your case sounds severe.”

“An exception?”

“Why don’t you leave these parchments here? Forget the visa for a day. Go for a walk in the park, or a steam swan ride. I’ll take these parchments and file what needs filing. Stamp what needs stamping. Come back this time tomorrow, and I think I’ll have it ready for your trip.”

The man stared with slack-jawed wonder. Mr. Grey stood stiffly. He guided the heavy, sweaty man to his feet. He added, “Cheer up now sir. I’ll take this off your plate. You go and clear your mind.”

Mr. Grey ushered the man from his cubicle. The man staggered, still confused by - even suspicious of - Mr. Grey’s helpfulness. When another cubicle dropped next to him with a corkboard thud and shudder, it returned the client’s senses. He shuffled along the moving corridors of the hedge. The sweaty client looked back once, and gave Mr. Grey a thankful nod.

Mr. Grey returned to his metal desk. He secured the client’s visa-tower in the crook of a right-angled elbow. As he went to leave he noticed the small kick hole in the corkboard wall by the door. He’d never put in a service request. Then Mr. Grey exited the cubicle, and entered the hedge.

The disorienting movement of the cubicles; the swooping cranes above and the shadows gliding over the pushers below; the clickety-clackety invasiveness of busy word machines; these were no trouble for Mr. Grey. He easily navigated the department’s cubicle hedge. With a wind-up-soldier gait, Mr. Grey walked the long hall lit by office lanterns. Those lights no longer cowered before him. They reached out with their heavy, humming glare. Mr. Grey still bore his stony expression - his stony exterior - but without his former matte-ness. The shadows and highlights touched him now.

With two sharp corners, two long hallways, a latched iron door, and many steps of perfect rhythm, Mr. Grey reached the metal catwalk at the building’s exterior. The Wind’s breeze reminded him to don his grey earmuffs. Cozily attired, he clanged across the grated metal and stepped inside the balloon elevator.

Mr. Grey closed the door. He touched the knob which would inflate the right number of blood-drop balloons, and raise him the necessary number of stories.

Mr. Grey’s hand stopped on the knob. He heard a familiar clanging; hasty feet on the catwalk. Mr. Grey’s head ticked a few degrees sideways. The grey eyes drew wide - in a welcoming way, as though holding open the conversation door - as they saw Ms. Maysey. She waved hello and hurried into the cage beside Mr. Grey.

“Hello Mr. Grey,” said Ms. Maysey with a timid smile, and no trace of breathlessness.

“Hello, Ms. Maysey,” said Mr. Grey without discomposure.

“Going up, Mr. Grey?”

“Going up. We’ll ride together.”

“Good deal. I’m so swamped with parchments lately. It does my digestive system a world of good, saving time on an elevator trip.”

“Seeing the clients breathe easier when they apply for an address change; I think it’s worth the extra effort.”

“I’m not complaining. Of course I wouldn’t! Only, don’t you think it’s nice when we’ve got a moment to breathe ourselves? And chat a little?”

“I do think it’s nice,” said Mr. Grey with a nod.

Strangely, as the balloon elevator rose, they entered this spare moment for chatting with instant silence on both parts. The silence veered toward the awkward kind. Fortunately, a commotion arrived to fill it. The elevator-cage rattled, the blood-drop balloons squealed against each other, and Ms. Maysey’s mice strung out in a sudden gust.

“Hello, Wind,” said Mr. Grey and Ms. Maysey at the same time. Ms. Maysey gave a short squeak of laughter.

The Wind - still Gaunt, still Brooding, still Hungry - said, “Oh, hello Mr. Grey and Ms. Maysey. I didn’t think I’d find anyone here…”

“Looking for alone time?” asked Mr. Grey.

“I’ve got cloud words to build at the beach tomorrow. I just need some time to psych myself up.”

Ms. Maysey drew the old pipe from her robe, but suddenly checked herself. She shoved it back into the pocket. The Wind said, “It’s fine Ms. Maysey. You might as well smoke. Everyone else does. I’m basically used to poisoning now.”

Ms. Maysey’s mice bounced as she shook her head. “I’m trying to quit the habit.”

The Wind blew low with surprise. Mr. Grey said, “Did you decide it wasn’t healthy?”

“Oh no, the opposite. I think I’ve gotten too reliant on my tobacco for safety. You know? I’d like to work on my diagnosis; try conditioning my lungs to hardship.”

“That’s admirable, Ms. Maysey.”

“Thanks Mr. Grey. I’m starting slow and small. No smoking while ascending by balloon lift or sitting in the hospital waiting room.”

Mr. Grey looked to the Wind, “Say, Wind. If you’re making clouds for tomorrow, I’ll see you at the park.”

“Will you be there?” asked The Wind with a disinterested air.

“I like to watch the kites fly on my days off.”

“I guess I can try to make some good breezes. Anyway, I’ve got condensation to blow on the windows, on the other side of the building. Be seeing you.”

The lift rattled one final time as The Wind departed. When she’d gone, the balloons pulled their cage quietly.

Mr. Grey interrupted the returning silence. “I like your new look, Ms. Maysey.”

Ms. Maysey smiled. She spread her arms and looked with primary eyes down at her robe. “I’ve still got the saddle-one. I wanted to try something new. I asked for gold but the shop didn’t have ‘gold’ silky fabric. They said if I wanted gold, they’d need to order it special. I’d have had to wait for eons, which wouldn’t do at all for my nerves. I do wonder if it would’ve looked better, in gold-”

“Silver’s just grand,” said Mr. Grey. Ms. Maysey beamed.

The lift thunked, loud and abrupt, as it locked into place on an upper scaffold. Ms. Maysey opened the door and stepped off. She turned to Mr. Grey and said, “Are you going farther, Mr. Grey?”

Mr. Grey held up his client’s parchment-tower. “I’m handling this personally. I’m getting an executive signature.”

“Good luck.” Ms. Maysey waved. She turned to leave.

“Ms. Maysey?” Mr. Grey asked. She turned back. “Would you like to come with me tomorrow? To walk in the park, and watch the kites?”

All of Ms. Maysey’s eyes shone. “I’d love to!”

Mr. Grey smiled.