As he entered his new office Thomas Burton noted his name was already etched into a metal sign on the door. A slight arrhythmia almost exposed him when he recognized his diplomas and certificates on the wall. Hadn’t he’d destroyed them that last day of his last job? He knew better than to ask what they were doing there. Instead, he placed his briefcase on the carpet and slid behind the protection of the large oak desk set like an island in the middle of the room.

Instinctively, he picked up the phone and began to dial. The receiver had the usual weight and fit comfortably in his fist. It gave him a familiar ease. He leaned back in his chair and anchored himself  to the floor with his heels. Gradually his left foot slipped from its loafer. Then his right followed. He went on talking, not noticing the change.

As he twisted the cord Burton saw his new secretary peek though the crack of the door. He motioned her in. She carried a stack of manila files and deposited them on the corner of his desk. Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, Burton whispered, “I’ll only be a minute” and waved her to a chair. She shook her head in refusal and smirked knowingly. Then she backed out of the office, without taking her eyes off of him.

Puzzled, but careful not to show it, Burton reached across to the stack of files. He picked up the top one and examined the contents. The drone of his conversation continued in his ear. Finally he said “good bye” and gave the file his full attention. He lifted back some papers and found a long single‑spaced typed document. He soon forgot about the secretary and her strange insolence, so absorbed he became in the tangle of words:

“The party of the first part hereby agrees to be bound by the party of the second part, its heirs and assigns, hereinafter in perpetuity by the following terms and conditions, to be amended, modified or terminated only upon receipt of written and signed memorials thereof, with not more than fifteen days’ notice to all interested parties hereto, including, but not limited to. . . .”

Burton smiled. He was in his element. He let the file fall to his lap so he could rub his eyes.  When they returned to focus he noticed the shelves of his office, as if for the first time. On them, between the books and treatises, were several metal signs like the one on his door. They were strategically placed like objets d’art. Burton read, “Susan Brooks,” “Charles T. Hill” and “Frederick King.” What did this mean? Who were these people? Were they former occupants whose nameplates had been left by some absent‑minded office manager? He shivered and picked up the file again, feeling that he was being watched. From a drawer he located a yellow pad of paper on which he began to scribble notes.

After filling about a page he was interrupted by scratching sounds behind him. He swiveled to the twelfth floor window and drew back the blinds. There was nothing but the usual: silhouettes moved in the windows of neighboring buildings and people scampered hurriedly along the sidewalks below. This was not enough to divert him. He returned to the document and its language which only he and a few select others were privileged enough to understand.

Moments later he heard the scratching again. Begrudgingly, he looked up. Outside, on a lanai he had not previously noticed—how could he not have?—was Marilyn Noone. She was the woman who had gotten him this job. They had worked together on various deals. After his old company had merged with another—thanks to his sixty hour weeks—he became superfluous. His responsibilities were taken over by his counterpart at the other company. When he was politely invited to leave after twenty odd years of loyalty, Marilyn suggested that he join her firm. But what was she doing outside, Burton wondered.

Marilyn was trying to open a sliding glass door. She pulled and pulled to no avail. When she realized he was watching she pointed to the handle and mouthed something through the glass. He couldn’t make out what. But he rose from his seat and found a latch to unlock. Marilyn pushed the glass to the side and entered Burton’s office as he returned to his chair.

“Nice reception,” Marilyn said, smiling wryly.

“Pardon?”

“Locking the door.”

“I. . . I . . . didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what, Thomas?”

“About this balcony. In fact, I could swear that. . . . Never mind.” Burton determined it was better not to display his ignorance.

“Are you going to offer me a seat?” asked Marilyn.

“Of course.” He pointed to one of the chairs opposite his desk.

She lugged it around to Burton’s side. This way they would talk without obstruction between them.

Burton started to turn his chair towards her, but stopped. He was still in his stocking feet. She might have seen when he let her in. But she might not have. He kept his feet hidden under the desk as he twisted the rest of him to face her.

“How do you like it so far?” Marilyn asked.

“So far, so good.”

“It takes a while to settle in, get used to all the idiosyncrasies.”

“Of course.”

Marilyn inspected the desk not quite surreptitiously. “I see you’ve already got the CST file?”

“Uh‑huh,” he agreed, not able to respond more fully as he stretched under the desk in an attempt to probe for his shoes. They seemed to be just out of reach and he didn’t want to be too obvious.

“It’s a bit complicated,” Marilyn continued. “More than first meets the eye. If you want any help, give me a holler.”

“Thanks. But I should be able to handle it.”

“Well, Thomas, keep it in mind. I’m always available. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“No. No.” Burton repeated, “nothing to be embarrassed about.” He thought his toe had found one of his loafers, but he couldn’t safely retrieve it without Marilyn noticing.

“We’re on the same team now, Thomas.”

“Of course, Marilyn. Of course.”

Just then, from a speaker overhead, a soft but firm voice called out, “Marilyn Noone, Marilyn Noone, report to reception.”

Automatically Marilyn rose. “I’ve got to go. We can talk more later.” She picked up the chair and returned it to its previous location.

Feet protected from her sight, Burton stood and extended his hand. Marilyn took it, shook it and went to the door—the one that led to the hallway, not the lanai. At the threshold she said enigmatically, “we must always be prepared here, Thomas. Always,” she repeated ominously and departed, leaving the door ajar.

“Of course,” Burton said. But she had disappeared.

Now that Marilyn was gone Burton could look for his shoes. He returned to his chair and extended his legs, reaching this way and that until he finally felt one foot and then the other slip into the loafers under the desk. He rose and walked to the door to close it. He had to get some work done.

But as he rounded his desk the shoes felt tight and strange. He looked down and saw shining buckles. He had worn penny loafers that morning.

Burton frowned. What was going on? Whose shoes were these? Since he was within reach of the door he pushed to close it. The door swung back open. He swiped at it again. But it wouldn’t stay. He took a step closer and firmly pressed the door into its frame. He heard the clink of the metal catch engage. But as he stepped back it popped open again. It was only a crack, and it didn’t seem that anyone could look in. Burton shook his head and reconciled himself to the stubborn door. Besides, the shoes he had on—how did they get there?—were beginning to bite into his feet. The phrase, “curiouser and curiouser,” rang through his head. He couldn’t remember from where it came. But, whatever happened, he knew, he couldn’t let the strain show.

Burton removed the loafers. He got on his hands and knees, hoping no one would walk in. There were no shoes to be found under the cavernous desk. He couldn’t understand it. Maybe they had slid behind something when he had explored for them with his feet. He went around the desk. There he found another pair of shoes. Women’s high heels. This was frustrating. Didn’t they clean these offices before new people came? First the nameplates, now the shoes. This sort of thing would never have been permitted at his old job.

He looked under the credenza behind him and found a pair of wingtips. They were his size, but wouldn’t go with his suit. Under the sideboard were a pair of Converse hightops, the sort he had worn as a kid to play basketball. He decided to look under his desk again and found some black flats. They were similar to Marilyn’s—or were hers. He could not be sure anymore. It was like a gigantic practical joke.

Burton stood erect to prove to whoever might have been watching that he was up to this game. It was just another problem to be solved. Nothing he wasn’t used to. This wouldn’t get to him. He would do what he had to. He looked around the room again with new resolve and saw a pair of loafers by the window. They couldn’t have been there before—he had looked. This was so peculiar. The shoes were not the ones in which he had arrived that morning, but he tried them on. They felt comfortable and snug. He walked back to his desk, settled into his chair and picked up the CST file and his pen. He had no choice. He had a job to do. Later, when his new boss arrived to welcome him, Thomas Burton was hard at work—in someone else’s shoes.

Some Else’s Shoes © 2017 Marc L. Sherman