“Where are we going?” The walk continued in silence, as if he’d said nothing at all. This wasn’t the first time he’d asked.
“I said, where are we going?” repeated Bryant, with the lack of pattern recognition commonly mistaken for determination.
The young secretary looked at Bryant and frowned. He’d been running around the labyrinth of cubicles all day, pulling men like Bryant from their private caves of web browsing and daydreaming into the harsh halogen light of the offices of The Management. The work had started out easily for Jones: he simply distracted them with chatter about the weather, or questions about sports teams he couldn’t remember the names of. But word of the private meetings had spread like a virus, and questions followed the rumors. Questions that were, In Jones’ mind, intolerable. After all, he was an Executive Assistant (the latter term was always shrunken to asst. in his mind and on his business cards), he was practically management.
Bryant met the secretary’s eyes, and forced a smile. He could never tell what the guys in upper management where thinking, but Jones always struck him as a nice kid, the kind that never looked down on anyone. Though his perception might have been biased by Jones being the only other individual his age.

“The Manager’s office. Okay? Got it?!” snapped Jones, contemplating the painkillers awaiting him in his desk drawer.
“I’m just curious. There have been some rumors flying around. About some changes in the department. Maybe even layoffs.”
“It’s not my job to know what’s going on.”
“You help organize and process the initiatives for the whole office.”
Jones put his fingers on his temples. “That’s only in the job description. I forge a man’s signature on papers I don’t understand, while he cheats on his wife.”
Bryant found this disturbing. He’d never had any what his company did or how paying him to play solitaire fit into it, but he’d gotten through his five months at the company by assuming someone above him did.
However disquieted the news made him, he found the gap in the conversation worse. Mr. Bryant was raised to believe that moments of silence were for depraved loners and funerals.
“Too bad. His wife seems like a nice woman.”
“He disagrees.” quipped Jones as the pair drew nearer to the office door. “Be sure to knock, Mr. Bryant.” said the secretary before turning around to receive the next hapless soul on his hit list.

For a moment, Bryant was frozen. The door was more than a worn wooden gate. It was a barrier. The Gate between worlds: the world of the workers he spent every day with, and the unknown men and women (a singular woman in truth, the company was light years beyond the rest of the western world in terms of gender equality)that controlled their lives. He wondered, briefly, if it would be like stepping into Narnia.

He knocked lightly, and received no response. He knocked more forcefully, and the door fell over.
The office interior was not the opulent and grandiose suite Bryant expected. In fact, it would be generous to call it a larger version of his cubicle.
The occupant was unperturbed by the sudden crash. “We really out to get that fixed.” said the Manager without even looking up from his papers.
Like all people not raised by wolves, the Manager had a name. But no one in the office could remember it. Bryant struggled to form a name-free greeting.
“Good Morning Sir. Um, sir…how’s your wife.”
“Doing very well, I’m glad to say. It’s so difficult to find a partner you can trust.”
Bryant wondered what forgotten trickster god he had angered as a child. The world was using him as a plaything.
“Could you pull that door up behind you?”
“But won’t it just fall again?”
“We’re in business, Mister Bryant. We deal in appearances, not solutions.”
“You can call me Shawn, Sir.”
The Manager looked at Shawn like a talking dog. “Whatever you say, Mister Bryant.”
“…thank you Sir” said Shawn, catching the message.

A moment of silence passed, and an errant pin dropped loudly off the edge of the Manager’s desk.

“So, Sir, what did you call me for?” asked Shawn, feeling the silence. He prayed that euphemisms for layoffs wouldn’t be involved.
“Reorganization.”
Bryant suppressed a curse. He must have angered Raven. This was far too elaborate for Coyote.
The Manager continued. “There’s a small problem. It directly concerns you.”
“Sir?” squeeked Shawn, betraying a portion of his fear and confusion.
The manager put the papers down, and swung a foot onto the table.
“We have two Mr. Bryants. I’m supposed to fire one and promote the other, but hell if I can tell you people apart.”
Shawn eliminated Raven on his list of suspects. This had to be Loki.
“I told Jones I should get the two of you to fight for it, but he whined about it being ‘barbaric’. Pretentious killjoy.”
For once, Shawn didn’t feel an urge to fill the gap in the conversation.
The Manager cleared his throat. “Anyway, since I can’t make you guys fight, I’ve written a little list of amusing tasks for you to perform to keep your jobs. Sound fun?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve got it printed out right here. Used the official office letterhead and everything.”
Shawn took the piece of paper with a shaking hand.
“Sir. This…says to dance for you. Like a monkey.”
“Yep. You’d better put in some effort: the other Bryant can breakdance. You’ll need to buy a gorilla suit for that one.”

Shawn thought of the screenplay he kept tucked under his bed. He remembered the four long years he’d spent in college. He considered the casual derision he’d tolerated over the past five months, and something broke.

“Sir. With all due respect, I’d rather die in a fire than do anything on this list. Screw off.”
“What if I said you didn’t have to wear the suit?”
“Go to hell.”
Shawn stormed out of the office. He motioned to slam the door behind him, but it had already fallen over again. He then proceeded to look for a working door. He knew he couldn’t properly storm out of the building without slamming a door within it. It went against the way he was raised.
His search took him to the break room, where a perfect iron door awaited him. As he stepped inside, he found it empty save one man: balding Rick Bryant from accounting, silently mending the head to a homemade gorilla costume. Shawn looked at his poor reflection, and resisted twin impulses to hug the man and strike him.
“Rick?”
“Good morning Shawn.” replied the accountant, without raising his head to meet Brian’s gaze.
“You don’t have to do it Rick. I’m leaving.”
The needle fell to the floor.
“Where will you go?”
“Somewhere. Maybe nowhere. But I’ll have my dignity.”