Day 167: Une Routine Perturbée

Dan's daily routine is disrupted by an unexpected development

approximately 1300 words

"La Patte de Desie" 
Day 167
Une Routine Perturbée

         As usual, another Thursday meant another cleaning day.  Dan rose early and cut three slices of the cream-filled brioche he’d baked yesterday, in preparation for today.  He pulled three Meissen blue orchid dessert plates from a cabinet and drizzled a spiral of maple syrup on each.  Next came a slice of the brioche, a dollop of whipped cream, and a brilliant red strawberry.  With a flourish, another drizzle of maple syrup finished the presentation.

         He paused to admire his composition, and satisfaction swelled in his throat. It had been months since he’d last been to the Wild Fork, mostly because his version of their signature breakfast item made theirs look and taste like an amateur’s pastiche.  More than just the presentation, his garniture à la crème, rich and mouth-caressing, was his pièce de résistance. 

         The recipe had been in one of those random websites he’d gotten as an assignment, back around day eighty or so.  With nothing better to do, he’d tried it out.  After that, he never went back to Wild Fork.  Just like the later recipe for Cōng bào niúròu, which was so superior to the Mongolian beef at P.F. Chang’s that he’d stopped going there, too.  In fact, soon after all his trips to Utica Square ceased.  Mrs. Dalloway continued to arrange for the anonymous delivery of any needs, and he no longer had the patience or necessity to deal with the bourgeoisie that teamed at the nearby mall.  She’d even arranged for a stylist to give him weekly, if silent, haircuts in the foyer outside his apartment. 

         His apartment had become his refuge from the world and all its nastiness.  He had no reason to leave the tenth floor, so he never did.  Mrs. Dalloway became his only touchstone with another human, at least to the extent that she qualified as such.

         Monsieur Désespoir chose that moment to trot into the kitchen, his tail aloft, and proceded to rub his head against Dan’s pajama cuffs. A smile bent Dan’s lips, and he asked, “Are you hungry, monsieur chat?” 

         Desi responded with an emphatic miaou. 

         Dan pulled a patty of his duck confit from the refrigerator and used his kitchen sponge to clean the cat's dish, a soup bowl from his elegant Meissen collection.  As soon as the food was available, Desie proceded to ignore him and used a paw to break off a bit of meat which he daintily placed it on the floor. Once there, he snarfed it down like un vrai chat.

         With a smile, Dan rolled his eyes.  Chats.

         He turned to his next chore, making a double shot espresso.  While the coffee brewed, he slipped an envelope with two fifty-dollar bills on the counter, underneath one of the brioche plates he’d prepared.  When they arrived later this morning, the cleaning crew would be sure to find their gratuity and brioche treat.

         A second envelope, which he’d found half-under the front door earlier this morning, rested on a sliver serving tray.  He steamed some milk and, with a flourish, added latte art to his coffee.  More pride swelled. His art was better than the barista’s pathetic attempts at Starbucks. Another reason to never return to the mall.  He put his coffee and one of the three dessert plates on the serving tray next to the second envelope and retreated to his office.

         Time passed while he savored his brioche and latte.  Soon, the bustle of the cleaning crew and the whine of their vacuum penetrated his closed office door. The muffled chatter of their cheery Spanish banter made him briefly wonder if they were married, or possibly brother and sister. It couldn’t possibly matter, so he dismissed the thought.

         As it had been since day four, his first task in his office was to update his daily journal.  One of the websites back on day lthree had been a tedious essay about the conspiracy theories in Dumas’ Crimes Célèbres, so on that day he'd started the journal and given it the title, Day 3: le journal de l'homme au masque de fer. He’d kept the ironic title ever since, and today’s entry was for Day 167 of le journal. The numbered entries had become part of his daily routine, rather like a prisoner marking off the days of captivity on his cell wall. It mattered not that his "cell" was more like a gilded cage that happened to feel like his refuge.  A cage was a cage, after all. He jotted notes about the brioche, the latte, and the duck confit to start today's entry.  He’d finish it tonight, at bedtime.

         Next in his routine came the time to open his envelope and scope out his assignment for the day.

         Instead of an assignment, the contents of the slip of paper he read from his envelope chilled his belly and sent an electric tingle jittering down his spine.  There was to be no assignment today.  Instead, a Mr. Magnus from corporate would be visiting him.  He was to await this person on the rooftop garden at one this afternoon. 

         Dan chewed his lower lip and tried to make sense of this stunning disruption to his routine. In the first place, he’d never been to the rooftop garden.  It had been closed ever since he’d moved in, and he’d never bothered to inquire why.  He thought about checking to see if it was, in fact, still closed, but that would have meant dealing with the cleaning crew.  Time to check into that later, after they’d departed.

         At least a rooftop meeting meant his visitor wouldn’t be violating his refuge.  But he recalled what’s-her-name’s words, back on Day One.  Miss Endicott. She’d said, “If your employer sees a need for subsequent contact, a representative will be in touch.”  That must be what this meeting was about: his employer’s needs.

         Could it be they’d found his summaries unsatisfactory?  With trembling fingers, he pulled up yesterday’s, then the day’s before that, then he last week’s worth. His reviews were all the same.  Kind of snarky, to be sure, but that was nothing new.  He’d done that from the first assignment, on day two, so why complain now?

         He fidgeted, with no tasks to complete and nothing to do but worry, for the next hour.  Eventually, a discreet knock at his door told him the cleaning crew was starting on his bedroom.  That meant it was time to retreat to the balcony, where he would remain hidden until they left.  Mrs. Dalloway had arranged for that knock as a signal that he could leave his office and not have to interact with the crew.  That knock, along with the implicit "thank you" that the brioche and gratuity represented, remained the only contact he had with them since a brief meeting on their first visit back on day six.

         When the cleaners finally left shortly after ten, Dan waited fifteen minutes to be sure they’d departed the elevator foyer, then checked the stairs.  The bright yellow barrier and the sign announcing the rooftop was closed for repairs were still there. 

         Back in his apartment, he tried watching daytime TV, but even his usual soap opera couldn’t distract him.  At 12:45, he couldn’t wait any longer and headed to the foyer, to the stairs, and, perhaps, to his destiny. 

         He stepped around the warning barrier and climbed the steps to a narrow landing at the top.  He pressed a bar on the steel door he found there, and it opened to a balmy fall day, with lazy clouds floating overhead.  Overgrown pots scattered about here and there. A few of the pots held discouraged trees that provided dapples of shade, their leaves just beginning to turn from an early frost the week before.  A path of cedar planks, littered with a river of sticks and dried mud, led to a seating area, surrounded by a low railing. A hideous ceramic pot, in the shape of a dog with google eyes and holding a basket of weeds in its jaws, huddled along the path. In better days, Dan supposed it might have once been a charming invitation to a little rooftop Eden, but now it looked more like the entrance to hell.

         With a sense of foreboding, he used a handkerchief to dust off one of the lounge chairs and settled in to await Mr. Magnus.