Summer

Oki set up his tripod just outside of the Bon Dance's penumbra of lanterns. His parents had bought a Canon digital camera for his 11th birthday and this was his first opportunity to test it out in the nighttime. He hid himself along the sidewalk of a narrow street wedged between the rear entryways of two buildings. Hiding behind the curtain of darkness, he snapped a few long exposures and started fiddling with his camera settings. When he replayed at his images, he decided to pull back further, framing the bon dance between the two dark walls of the buildings. This made the festival appear as if it were hidden and tucked away from normal pedestrian traffic at the dark end of an alleyway.

The Shingon Shu temple was a small location nestled street-side next to a McDonalds. Dancers circulated clockwise around the yagura as two elderly singers wearing cherry blossom kimonos warbled on a microphone. The intermittent plucks of the samisen echoed between the buildings and the ring of kimonos dilated and contracted as a taiko drummer raised his bachi sticks into the air. He imagined ancestral spirits hanging from the lanterns.

He had grown fond of the Bon Odori's of summer, when such events were expansive and as large as carnivals. His parents made it a routine to drive out to one every Friday night. Mostly, he had been to those with great grass lawns, and food and games booths. But here, it was a smaller affair, where costumed dancers circumambulated around a small scaffolding festooned with lanterns and draped with fabric like bed sheets hung out to dry on a lanai. The dancers dragged their feet over asphault and parking lines, bumping into each other as onlookers unfolded little metal chairs, enclosing them completely. Cars drove by – customers exiting the Walmart or the Mcdonalds drive thru – and honked their horns as dancers and singers taking breaks spilled into the driveway. Somewhere in the crowd, his parents were dancing along.

"This is the weakest obon I ever seen," he said.

"What's that?" came a voice. "Weakest what?"

Oki turned around. There were three shapes in the shadows, and he could hear the gravel shifting and grinding under the invisible weight so disembodied he may as well have been listening to his own teeth grind. A single red cigarette cherry bloomed briefly then disappeared. "Weakest one, uh? What, boy? What you doing here by yourself in the dark? Spying?" Three kids his age stepped out of the shadow into a triangular swatch of light afforded by a street light partially hidden around the corner. They were wearing traditional happis, complete with matching crests and Japanese symbols. They wore white shorts cut well above the knees, and wooden slippers.

This was a taiko gang.

Oki backed off. "I'm just taking pictures. A hobby of mine. Night excursions. My parents are at the bon dance. Your bon dance!" he explained.

The shortest taiko drummer spat his cigarette out and extinguished it with his wooden slipper. "Trashing our bon dance?"

Another drummer wore a Japanese mask that resembled a farmer from an old folktale. "Lets fuck um up."

The beating came immediately. The three drummers encircled him and began hitting Oki along his arms, chest and back with their bachi sticks. Thwack! After a rough, patchy start, all three drummers found their rhythm. They struck with precision and timing and great synchronicity. At one point, one of the drummers fell back and extricated a wooden flute. As the two drummers pounded on Oki, the third drummer began playing an old traditional folk song. Twee-la-leet. Throughout the beating the third drummer blew through the flute and struck theatrical poses. The other two pounded in unison, and at the proper intervals struck poses of their own by brandishing their sticks in the air. The third drummer called out to them and they began chanting. Oki fell to the ground, drew his knees into his chest, wrapped his arms around his shins and clasped his hands. The drummers used various portions of his back to achieve the proper resonance. They began to hit faster and faster as the drummer with the flute blew with a renewed ferocity and vigor. Fweet!

Finally, they fell back panting. The short kid who had been smoking the cigarette said "Whooo!" and quickly struck another pose.

The drummer with the flute said, "Whew! That was good! Guys, that was one of the best jam sessions we ever played!"

The drummer with the peasant farmer mask stepped up, and in a voice higher than the others said, "The best, ever," and tore her mask off. She let her hair down and shook it into the night's fabric. "You okay?" she asked. The short drummer helped him up. "Hey. You okay?" he asked again, but Oki was tongue-tied. He took one look at the girl and all of the pain quieted. There she was, the first great love of the summer.

The Quitter

Dale put his head down onto his desk and fell asleep amongst the whir and clatter of the xerox machines. When he awoke, the cubicle was silent. Devoid of daylight and darkness, the office could have been in a cube orbiting saturn and he would have never known. It could have been within miles of the sun, or at the darkest depths of the ocean and the interior would have been unchanged for it. When he awoke there was a new stack of manila folders teetering like a dozen slices of bread on his desk. New reports of old reports. "Today is the day I quit," he said to himself. With that notion, a rush of elation blew through the widow's peak of his receding hairline and when it did he knew it was the right thing to do.

Since he had not seen or heard from his superiors, and since his email had gone offline ages ago, he was not sure how to go about sending in his resignation. His supervisor's office was on the 23rd floor, but he had not been there for what seemed like months. Occasionally, the gentle copier would spit out a single sheet of paper in what had become a small consolation – a sad signifier of humanity within the corridors – but he had not seen a soul.

He dialed his supervisor's extension, and for the first time, was energized by a busy signal. "He's here!" he cried, slamming the phone down. He ran down the hallway, took two lefts and a right and got to the elevator. He rode up to the 23rd floor, sprinted down the hallway, took a left, then a right, then stopped in front of the water cooler to compose himself. He fixed his wrinkled collar and walked straight ahead to the corner office.

Empty!

"I quit!" he screamed. "I'm done with this place! Anybody hear me up here?"

A copier whirred and spat and a thin sheet of paper crackled. "Hello!" Cried Dale. He ran two lefts and two rights until he came to a large cafeteria. "Must be the acoustics in this place," he thought. The buffet spread was filled with an assortment crescent sandwiches, cheeses, salads and pastries. One by one, he devoured the sandwiches, breathing violently through his nostrils. "These are salty," he said, and searched for the beverages.

No beverages!

Dale turned around and retraced his steps hoping to find the water cooler. He pushed onward past identical doorways, past identical stacks of folders, past old cardboard boxes filled with legal paper and found nothing. "Where the hell am I?"

He retraced his steps. Days went by.

* * *

A water cooler!

Dale rushed to it and began sucking heavily on its spout. "Ohh! Yeah!" He cried. He drank for a few minutes, wiped his mouth, inhaled, then cried "I quit! You hear me out there? I am done!"

A fax machine went into labor. He heard a single sheet of paper screech out onto the tray. Then suddenly, it sounded as if someone had snatched it – the paper snapping angrily and whipping in the air.

Footsteps!

Dale rushed to the source of the activity, left then right then left and found nothing. There was a duo of water coolers flanking the door to a darkened office like the sentry of the British guard. They gurgled and stiffened.

"At ease, gentleman," said Dale.

* * *

"Hello," whispered a voice. Dale opened his eyes and saw a pair of eyes hanging upside down over him. "Hi there," the woman said. She wore a small gold, hibiscus necklace and it dangled over his forehead as she leaned over him. "I'm the new temp."

Dale picked himself off the beige carpet and put his shoes on. He cleared his throat. "Hullo," he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Temp?" he laughed. "Trust me. You don't want to work here. Once you're in. You never get out," he said.

The woman, all curves and red hair arched her eyebrow and said "I wish that were true. I'm only here for the week. How long have you worked here?"

The question made Dale's head spin. "Weeks. Months. Years. Decades. I've lost track."

"Ah" she said.

"Can I follow you out of here? Maybe to the parking lot?" asked Dale.

The woman took off all of her clothes. She pulled Dale gently by his collar and kissed him. Her lips were soft, almost as if Dale were dreaming them in place. "Still want to quit?" she asked.

* * *

Days went by.

* * *

One day, Dale called every extension in the office building. There were twenty three floors. There were no answers.

* * *

Dale began to wonder about the temp, who was now a faint memory.

It had been weeks since he had sex with her in the hallway. As she dressed, he begged her to take him to the exit. "I can't," she said. She traced a long maze-like line onto his back. "But what I can do is this, here, take this thread and hold on to it. Wait a few days, and then follow it out. You can do that can't you? Wait a few more days?"

"Sure. I suppose. As long as you do what you promise."

She pinched a stray thread from the bottom of her blouse, and gently pulled it out. "Now hold on to it. When I leave, it'll leave a trail. Just follow the thread, and maybe you'll find me at the other end, outside... and topless." She smiled, turned and sauntered off.

Day's later, Dale followed the thread. It took days to follow it to it's terminus. In the middle of another long hallway, he found it. The thread had simply run out.

* * *

More stacks of papers and boxes of filing folders appeared around every corner. Xerox machines whirred and chattered amongst each other. Fax machines gave birth to shrieking sheets of paper. Water coolers bubbled and burped. Years went by.

Dale whispered into the ether, "I quit," but continued to type into a small computer until one day, a loud thump rattled the room.

"Hello? Anybody there?" asked Dale.

Another thump.

"Hello?!"

Another thump.

"Hello!"

A sprinting.

"Who's there?"

A full sprint. An eruption of heavy, hoofed feet running along the floor down the hall. Dale stood up above the walls of his new cubicle, his heart pounding SOS in morse.

From the hallway emerged a minotaur - half bull, half man. His entire torso was covered with fine auburn hair. He held a large wooden spear, it's base adorned with bite marks. Ringlets of hair hung down in front of his eyes. Large horns sprang out from behind his ears. His muscular legs were a cross between human and bovine – hoofed and slicked over with shiny fur. He kicked a cubicle wall, exploding it.

Dale stumbled back and fell against the wall. A dead wall clock dropped onto his head.

The minotaur paced sideways and faced him, then paced the other way and faced him again. His hooves pounded heavily against the floor.

"So," spoke the minotaur. "You're real."

"I should be saying the same of you," said Dale.

"Are you going to eat me?" asked the minotaur.

"Excuse me?" asked Dale.

"Who built this labyrinth?" asked the minotaur.

"I did. Or so I thought. How did you get here?" asked Dale.

"I am the captor become a captive. Or perhaps it is the other way around," said the minotuar.

"There was a woman," said Dale. "Did you see the woman with the red hair? She had on a brown blouse? A half blouse. Or maybe none at all."

"Perhaps," said the Minotaur.

"She smelled like plumerias," said Dale.

"Then, I ate her," proclaimed the Minotaur.

Dale crumbled. His entire body trembled. "How long have you been wandering these halls?" he whimpered.

"Since you created this place" said the minotaur.

"I'm not sure that I did," said Dale.

"Then who?" asked the Minotaur, seething.

"Maybe the woman," deflected Dale.

"No. It was you," said the minotaur. "To contain me. But somehow, you've threaded yourself back into the maze."

"I don't remember it."

"Where is the exit?" demanded the minotaur.

"There is none," said Dale.

"I thought you said you didn't remember creating the maze. How can you now know for sure?"

"It's the only hope I have," said Dale.

"Then maybe I created this maze," said the minotaur. His horns turned toward the hallway. "Maybe I know the exit."

"Then I'll follow you as an aid," offered Dale.

He stood up.

At that exact moment, the minotaur threw a spear into Dale's abdomen. Dale stumbled back but the minotaur kept him from falling. He pushed the end of the spear through Dale's body and into the wall behind him. Dale's legs slackened but the spear held his body erect against the wall. "No, you stay here," growled the minotaur. He twisted and jostled the spear, pushing it into the wall until he noticed something. Slowly, he pushed his hands into Dale's stomach, tore his flesh apart, and looked into the wound. It was the exit. Quickly, the minotaur crawled through Dale's wound and found his way out of the maze leaving Dale's body behind.

"I so, totally quit," said Dale, pulling out the spear.