Tristan slowly blinked open his eyes and painfully sat up in his bed. He had been dreaming. It had been a good dream. It wasn’t worth trying to remember, though. No matter how hard he tried, he could never remember.
He slowly dragged himself out of bed and shuffled over to the small refrigerator on the other side of his apartment. He prepared a meager breakfast and sat silently, listening to his neighbors’ argument through the thin apartment walls. If it weren’t for them, it would be quiet. It would be peaceful. He wished they would break up already.
After setting his plate by a few empty bottles of scotch, he opened his wardrobe. Five identical suits. He quietly donned a suit, tied his tie with a simple knot, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out.
Tristan made his way through New Oppenheimer’s twisting network of streets and alleyways. Dirty, concrete buildings rose around him, obscuring most of the hazy, gray sky. People walked silently or huddled in doorways. To avoid his claustrophobia, he looked up to the westward sky and fixed his eyes on his destination.
The Tower.
The Tower stood at the center of New Oppenheimer like a sundial, casting its long, authoritative shadow over the city. Though it was taller than any other building, it was much thinner. Skeletal. Rusting pipes and strange offshoots haphazardly covered the upper sections. Varied sheets of metal were riveted to the Tower’s exterior like patchwork. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.
The lobby of the Tower was a large circle with a tall ceiling and an electric chandelier. The receptionist waved and called out a greeting. Tristan didn’t respond. He walked directly to the elevators along the far wall and quickly pressed the button a few times. The elevator shuddered as it rose to the third floor. The doors opened and revealed an empty hallway with blank gray walls. Blank, of course, except for a large clock and a small pneumatic tube, Tristan’s only contact with the outside world. He turned to look forward and walked to a small desk with a nameplate: “Clerk of Court.”
Tristan sat and began filing the papers that had been left on his desk. He didn’t see another person all morning. At noon, he took a small brown bag out of his briefcase. He had packed himself a dry turkey sandwich and a bottle of water. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could ever muster the energy to pack. He ate his food at his desk. It was against regulation, but it didn’t matter. No one would see him.
His afternoon began with more of the same desk work and monotony, but after an hour, the elevator doors opposite Tristan squealed open. Out stepped Chief Prosecutor Keynes, who marched directly over to Tristan.
“Mr. Sparrow.”
“Prosecutor Keynes.”
“You aren’t busy, I take it? I wouldn’t want to distract you from, well,” Keynes smiled, “whatever it is you do.”
Tristan took a deep breath. “I'm in charge of organizing paperwork and getting people the files they need.”
“If you actually did that, I wouldn't be here in front of you.”
The clock ticked away as Keynes glared menacingly at Tristan. After a few seconds, Tristan broke the silence.
“What can I help you with?”
Keynes placed his hand on Tristan’s desk and leaned forward. “I need you to get me those files from the Rochester case. His lawyer pulled out some archaic appeals laws, and now I have to deal with this mess.”
Tristan forced a smile. “Alright. I’ll go ahead and collect them now.”
“Good.” Keynes stood to his full height and looked down with narrowed eyes. “I need those on my desk in the morning. Do make sure they’re there. You've cost the court enough trouble with your ineptitude.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Tristan waited for the elevator doors to close on Keynes’s face before slumping back into his chair. Keynes always acted like this, like he was so much better. Maybe he was. After all, he was the chief prosecutor, a champion of justice, while Tristan was just some lowly clerk. A clerk no one ever heard or saw.
Keynes never went to Tristan in person; he usually used the pneumatic tubes. He thought he had more important things to do than visit the clerk. In truth, he was right. Prosecutors were busy and overworked. But their job meant something. New Oppenheimer was sorely lacking in jobs that made a real, positive difference. Prosecutors were one of the few.
Looking back, Tristan could have gone to law school. He could have been a prosecutor, too. He had passed the entrance exams with flying colors, but then his mother fell ill. He had to drop out of school and help his sister take care of her. “You should become a clerk,” his sister had told him. “Then you’d still be working for the court!”
It wasn’t the same. He should have gone to law school.
His mother had died anyway.
After their mother's death, Tristan lost contact with his sister. At first she had called him every week, then every month, then a few times a year. The last he heard was that she was dating some woman who worked at some bar. That was years ago; they could be married now. Tristan was sure he wouldn't have received an invitation.
As Tristan ruminated, he drummed his fingers in time with the ticking of the large clock on the wall. He wasn't angry with his sister; sometimes people just stopped talking. That was how life went.
The rest of the afternoon was truly uneventful. He made a few database entries and filed a few papers, but he spent most of his time fiddling with and organizing his pens and pencils.
Once his shift ended, he packed his briefcase and left. The Tower cast its long shadow upon Tristan, pointing him back to his tiny apartment and his loud neighbors.
Once inside, Tristan breathed a sigh of relief and set his briefcase aside. He wobbled over and collapsed into a worn armchair. He lit a cigarette and stared at the wall for a while, letting his mind empty.
It occurred to him that he should get dinner. He grabbed a bottle of scotch, microwaved a single-serve lasagna, and sat by the window to eat and drink. It was dark outside now, and he stared into the greenish, fluorescent light of the nearby streetlamp.
He let his mind wander to a place beyond the electric lights and concrete. Beyond the clocks and the schedules. Beyond the Tower. He heard birds sing. He saw flowers bloom. Somewhere, a small path led to a cozy home where friends met by a fire after a long day. The smell of roasted chicken filled the air, mingling with the aroma of potatoes, carrots, and rosemary. Cards were dealt and bets were made, and even the losers laughed.
He knew this was all fantasy, of course. No one lived outside the city. In reality, the outside was a wild, dangerous place, where one false step meant a man's end. Some people left; no one returned. Everyone knew no one should leave. No one even talked about it—not that they’d admit, at least. That kind of talk would only be heard in an alleyway or through a cracked door. Even the most ardent of idealists would agree: Life in New Oppenheimer wasn’t beautiful, but it was better than an assured death.
***
Tristan woke up with a headache. He groaned as he clutched his head and shuffled across his floor. It was quiet as he ate his breakfast; his neighbors weren’t fighting. But instead of enjoying a blissful morning, pain pounded through his head with every beat of his heart. He took an aspirin and downed a glass of water.
Suit. Tie. Briefcase. Leave.
The people, streets, and buildings were the same as yesterday. The same as every day. Tristan had memorized his route through the concrete labyrinth years ago. He stared at his feet as he walked, cautiously weaving around strangers and stepping over litter and puddles of oil. Before long, he was at the Tower.
Ignore the receptionist. Take the elevator.
Tristan checked the pneumatic tube before sitting down. Nothing. He sat, drummed his fingers on the desk, and looked for anything that had been left for him overnight. Nothing. Without anything new to do, Tristan sat and double-checked the paper files against the electronic database.
Work the computer. Shuffle papers. Check the pneumatic tube.
Computer. Papers. Pneumatic tube.
The minutes blended into hours. Tristan started reading the files he was moving across his desk. One man was convicted of arson last month. One woman was convicted of domestic violence. Yesterday, a pair of teenaged twins has entered a plea of “not guilty” to burglary charges and was facing trial in two weeks. There was a pile of arraignments, trials, and sentencings for crimes and criminals of all kinds.
Tristan tapped his foot as he read. Why was it that all these lowlifes got to be important? Did burning down a building really make a person more newsworthy than all the nobodies who were forgotten and left behind? Maybe Tristan would snap one day. Maybe he’d burn down his apartment building. As he stood before the judge, everyone would talk about the day's headline: “Tristan Sparrow Sets Apartment Ablaze”. They would all care about him then. They'd finally see something he’s done.
But that wasn’t quite right. Crime was common in New Oppenheimer. The papers would omit his name. It wouldn’t even be a headline. People would look once, mutter condolences to anyone they knew, and go about their days.
Tristan’s day went by without interruption of any kind. No one stopped by to ridicule him; no one stopped by to give him any work. No messages came through the pneumatic tube; no messages appeared on the computer. In Tristan’s many years in the Tower, this had never happened.
This irregularity occupied Tristan’s mind the whole way back to his apartment. He opened a fresh bottle of scotch and stared out at the streetlamp. He didn’t eat. His mind was firmly fixed on the odd day. The only explanation he could give himself was that no one had been brought before the court, but that was simply absurd. New Oppenheimer always had some crime being committed somewhere.
As he finished the last of the bottle, the streetlamp buzzed, flickered, and died, only to flicker back on.
Good streetlamp. Never stop working.
***
Wake. Food. Suit. Tie. Briefcase. Leave.
Same old streets. Same old buildings. Same long walk to the same tall Tower.
When Tristan turned the last corner to see the base of the Tower, he faltered in his stride. Every morning for countless years, Tristan had walked in an unchanging routine. He had walked up the Tower’s steps again and again, always seeing and feeling the same things. But now he paused at the bottom step and looked up at the Tower, examining its rusting metal and dirtied glass as it loomed over him. It looked the same as every day, but it seemed different. Something was amiss.
Tristan cautiously ascended the steps and stepped into the Tower’s lobby.
The receptionist didn’t greet Tristan. Instead, he nervously leaned into the papers he was reading, purposely averting his eyes. He was very obviously pretending he hadn’t seen Tristan, and his acting was terrible.
There was someone else in the lobby today. Chief Prosecutor Keynes. He was wearing an expensive gray suit and his usual condescending smile. Keynes made eye contact with Tristan, waited for a moment, and broke into a grin.
“Mr. Sparrow!” Keynes sauntered across the lobby, the tapping of his shoes echoing through the silent room. As he walked, he pulled a small slip of paper out from the inside of his suit jacket. “Do you know what this is?”
“No, sir. No I don’t.”
“Well, then!” Keynes waved the paper in front of Tristan’s face. “Allow me to enlighten you. This is your notice of termination.”
Tristan must not have heard correctly. “What?”
“I had a little talk with judge about your competence, or rather, lack thereof.”
“I don’t understand. What are you—?”
“I personally told you to give me the Rochester files. I could have easily sent you a message, but I took the time to see you myself, and you still couldn't do your job right."
Tristan's stomach dropped. The Rochester case. He had forgotten all about it. But maybe he could make up some kind of excuse. Maybe they got lost in the pneumatic tubing. It could be the switcher's fault.
"I know that face. Don't give me any of your half-baked excuses." Prosecutor Keynes grabbed Tristan’s wrist and shoved the paper into his hand. “I deal with liars every day, and even if I didn’t, I’ve dealt with your lies for years.”
Tristan’s ears began prickling with heat. He forgot the files. So what? Everyone made mistakes, even Prosecutor Perfect. But that's what prestige buys you: a free pass.
Prosecutor Keynes shook his head and pointed to the door. “Just get out before I have to call Tower security.”
Tristan opened his hand and stared at the crumpled slip he was given. Tiny lettering printed on thin paper: the cheapest way to fire someone. He slowly shoved the notice in his pocket, wobbled out of the Tower, and stumbled down to the street below.
At the bottom of the steps, Tristan frantically pulled out a cigarette. He fumbled with his lighter as his hands began to shake, and threw it on the ground when he couldn’t get it to light. The casing cracked upon the pavement, and he was suddenly seized with rage.
“Damn it!” Tristan stomped down, feeling the lighter break with each fall of the foot. He kept stomping and cursing, hot tears falling to the ground and joining with the slick lighter fluid. His stomping slowed, his cursing quieted, and eventually he simply stood, staring at the ground and sobbing.
There was nothing left. His mother was dead, his sister didn’t like him, he wasn’t a lawyer, and he wasn’t even a clerk. All he had was his tiny apartment, his scotch, and his cigarettes.
As he became aware of strangers looking at him, he started walking. He didn’t care about his destination, just that he was going away from the Tower. He splashed through puddles of oil and took turns on whims as he weaved his way towards the outer sections of the city. He had to leave. He had to leave the cage.
After walking for over a day, he could finally see the edge. The buildings didn’t change or shrink. They just stopped. He stumbled, barely staying on his feet. He bumped into and pushed past people. Something in his heart still drove him forward. Then, before he knew it, he stood next to the last of the buildings.
Tristan looked out at the world beyond. A world he had never seen. There were no roads or cement. Instead, there was dirt, patches of grass, and shrubs. The wind brought him sweet smells he had never smelled before. Somewhere in the distance, the gray sky melted into blue.
It was crazy. It was stupid. Tristan knew all that. But, ignoring everything he had ever been taught, he mustered the last bit of strength his soul had. With a deep breath, he stepped off of the hard concrete and onto the soft dirt.