Mister Weston

I walked through room after room, already knowing what was out of place since I went through this routine every few weeks.

When I was sure everything was alright, I walked into my private library and damn near lost it. All five hundred of my books were now rearranged by color instead of alphabetically. To make matters worse, my favorite three books were spread wide open on my desk, with several of their pages folded and creased. An unforgivable offense.

I pulled out my phone and sent an email to the housekeeping manager.

SUBJECT: MY GODDAMN Condo.

To whomever this may fucking concern,

For the umpteenth time, I don’t appreciate your incompetent and defiant staff rearranging my things while I’m away. I also don’t appreciate you continuing to use my unit as a tour site and “test suite” for potential renters—letting people pretend like they live here whenever they please.

Stay the hell out of my space if you’re not cleaning it. (And stop using that strawberry spray shit. Go back to lemon.)

J. Weston

THE MANAGER’S RESPONSE was immediate.

SUBJECT: RE: MY GODDAMN Condo.

Mr. Weston,

With all due respect, and for the umpteenth time, we have only used your suite for a tour once, with your permission. We do not use your unit as a “test suite” and we would never let any potential renter pretend as if they lived there.

We’ve given in to every single demand you’ve requested for your privacy—extra cameras, ensuring that no one on the housekeeping staff outside of myself knows your name, and private parking. In fact, just for you, we’ve recently installed an additional set of cameras above your exterior entry door to ease your worries, and per our security team, there has been no access to your space (outside of cleaners) while you’ve been away.

However, we have noticed that over the past few weeks, YOU have come back more frequently than normal, and during odd hours of the night.

I am not insinuating that you don’t remember these times, but perhaps you’ve moved things around your apartment during those hours and are simply forgetting how you left them?

I apologize if anything I’ve said is offensive or out of line.

We truly enjoy having you as a resident here at The Madison, and if you need anything more, or anything else, let me know. (I will be sure to remind the staff, once again, to stop using the “strawberry spray shit” in your place. We no longer have lemon, though...Would you like fresh linen instead?)

Mr. Sullivan

Head of Housekeeping

The Madison at Park Avenue

I DIDN’T ANSWER. I needed to think.

The last few times I slept here, I hadn’t really “slept” at all. I’d woken up in a cold sweat and stumbled out of bed and downstairs. Damn near sleepwalking, I’d staggered around a near desolate Times Square, staring at the bright and blinking billboards, listening to the late night conversations of straggling tourists.

Each time I found my way home, I did move things—but not in a rearranging type of way. In a shattering whatever I could get my hands on type of way. Whatever I broke, I quickly replaced the next day so no one on the staff could be blamed, but I couldn’t remember ever having the patience to mindlessly rearrange simple shit.

The few other times I returned at odd hours of the night were the result of me coming back after meeting a woman in a hotel. Those nights always ended in sleep, not senseless redecorating.

At least, I didn’t think so.

I took a seat on the sofa that faced the window and mentally rewound the past few months again and again, slowly recalling a few more wandering, sleepless nights. I started to send the manager a “My apologies for the miscommunication” email, but I spotted an open crossword puzzle tucked under my seat cushion. A completely filled out, not-in-my-goddamn-handwriting, crossword puzzle.

I flipped through the pages of the booklet, noticing that not only was the top page completed, but every single puzzle was marred and solved with someone else’s blue and black ink.

I knew he was full of shit...

I started to type a far more appropriate response for him, but another email popped onto my screen.

SUBJECT: AN FCE.

Dear Mr. Weston,

My name is Lance Owens, and I’m the Chief of Personnel Affairs at Elite Airways. I served as the witness last weekend at your final profile interview.

Although you told my colleague that you didn’t want to know what an ‘FCE’ was, and have yet to answer her follow-up email regarding its definition, I really think you should know.

An ‘FCE’ means that the executive board has unanimously deemed your previous record of service to be in such high regard, that you’re now an invaluable asset to Elite Airways. I’m attaching the specifics of what this means in a document, and perhaps when you’re up to talking, you can tell us how you, a transfer pilot, could possibly receive something like this when it normally takes our pilots ten years of consistent service with Elite to even be considered. Although, given your stellar record and your achievement awards, I’m sure it’s well-deserved.