I was a no one when I left the prairie, but stepping off the train on the cusp of the millennium, I know it’s my time to shine. The train took five days instead of three—we spent two nights parked under a giant sky while freight trains rushed by. My seat wouldn’t recline and I had only a mixed-tape to pass the time. It’s 1999.
I wander the narrow Toronto streets and it spooks me how there’s no sky. The buildings are too close together, they create shadows from the wrong angles on all sides. My motel room looks out on a brick wall and it’s a relief. My only suit is creased but I’m undeterred. Tomorrow I start my new life.
I’m in my wrinkled suit and chafing nylons at 8 am sharp at the entrance of “one of Canada’s top change-makers.” The company’s on the cover of every magazine, they say it’s a model of the new age. It barely hires but I’m one of five new employees. I whisper the company motto all the way up the elevator: brightening the millennium. When I step out the door, my stomach flutters. I kick myself for not practicing my handshake, or for checking my nylons one last time.
The company logo is on the door and when I see it, my worries vanish. It’s so bright I can’t think. I turn my head, it takes my breath and burns my eyes. I avert my gaze while I tiptoe closer. When I reach the door, I can’t resist a quick glance. Strange—can’t tell if it’s high-tech or ancient, a primordial mask on the sun, or an eclipse upon a hologram.
The door opens and someone from the company ushers me in. But my eyes are smarting, I can’t see right. I blink and find myself in a sea of cubicles. There are executive offices to my left, a giant photocopier to my right. Impressive, but they’re nothing compared to what’s on the back wall, all one hundred feet of it. I suck in my breath—it puts that wonder on the front door to shame. The giant logo ripples before my eyes and my legs start to sway.
I dig my too-tight heels into the washed-out carpet. Thank goodness the sharp tips give me traction. I stand there rapt, for god knows how long—and when I turn my head the other new employees are standing with me. Our hearts beat in unison, hypnotized by the logo in front of us. None of us can speak, and though we haven’t met each other, we all know this moment changes everything.
I have a flash of fear, but it’s drowned by exhilaration. This is why I left my prairie home. I’m embracing the new world, I’m becoming someone. My eyes have never been so wide—I’m twenty years old but I’m only now alive.
•••
Our supervisor tells us how rarely the company hires. They “mix things up” every five years by hiring five new employees. We’re all probationary. After six months, only one of us will remain. He says being chosen is everything—it means becoming someone, maybe even a Board Member one day. We all know about Board Members—they get awards, people call them “Change-Makers.”
We listen and nod like we’re paying attention, but all five of us are doing the same thing, we’re looking past our supervisor at that logo that’s enchanted us.
Our supervisor tells us we’re an interesting bunch—Jay, Jason, and Jeremy have relevant degrees and were interns at the company. Gabe and I are what our supervisor calls “wild cards.” Gabe meets our supervisor’s gaze but my cheeks burn and I give in to the overwhelming urge to look down at my feet.
We have a routine. On Mondays, we go for lunch together. Our supervisor joins us but he doesn’t eat. He arranges the cloth serviette on his lap and leans back in his chair, watching our reflections in the full-length mirrored walls of the restaurant. Jay and Jason know their table-settings, the layers of spoons and various forks. Jeremy isn’t too shabby with the cutlery either. I study and pick up their techniques and our supervisor nods at me, approving.
Gabe doesn’t bother. He looks at empty space when he eats and I have a feeling he’s not paying attention to Jeremy and Jason’s stupid commentary. Gabe is from the prairie too—he studied theoretical physics and his dad is Métis, like my mom. One day, I jam the printer and he uses a physics equation to fix it. From then on, we look out for each other.
One day, Gabe tells me a secret. The reason he’s so spacey at lunch is because he’s working out black hole theorems. I’m not surprised, he’s already told me how he spends his evenings—not watching Simpsons or Friends, but doing physics experiments, measuring light waves travelling to earth from supernovas.
•••
Three months pass and it’s almost the millennium. I find an apartment and live on microwave rice and tomato sauce. Make frozen pizza when I’m feeling decadent. My friends from home phone me and I don’t return their calls. I’ve stopped writing them letters. Now when I go outside, I don’t miss the sky at all.
My parents insist on buying me a plane ticket so I’ll be with them to mark the new age. I make excuses but finally give in. Land in a blizzard and cold, dry air hits me when I step out of the hangar. We get stuck in snow on our way home, they don’t plow here like they do in Toronto, so we have to dig ourselves out like old times. When I wake the next morning, my lips and hands are chapped and bleeding, the prairie’s done with me and the feeling’s mutual.
New Years is no better. I drink beer with my friends but they’re not interested in my new life. I tell them about the company and they change the subject. Their new friends are people I don’t know. The bars on the main drag have changed, and the old grain elevators are torn down.
I change my ticket to return to Toronto sooner. Think about the logo the whole time on the plane. It feels good to be getting closer to it. I land on a Sunday and it’s a new age. The wait to go into the office almost kills me. The company logo greets me at the door on Monday morning and my eyes water in relief at my homecoming.
•••
A month passes and I’m up for review. My supervisor says to treat it like a “chat.” He leans back into his chair like he does at the restaurant. There’s a window at his back, but I can’t see the sky, only the too-close buildings making macabre shadows on his face. I tell him the company’s the best thing that ever happened to me and I mean every word.
I pass and it’s a milestone. Jeremy isn’t so lucky—he misses lunch and doesn’t show up to work the next Monday. Me and Gabe high-five—us “wild cards” are still in the game. Our supervisor hands out pins with the company logo—Gabe puts his on his tie, Jason and Jay clip theirs on their blazer collars, and I pin mine on my blouse.
Jason says looking at his pin cures headaches. Jay says his sharpens his mind. I tell them I photocopy faster. Gabe doesn’t say anything, but he’s not into photocopying. He doesn’t know how the paper feels when it comes out of the machine, all smooth and bright, crackling with life.
Sometimes when I finish photocopying early, I stare at the pin. When I look away, all I see is the reverse of the company’s logo, it’s like a photocopy from the old millennium, when people photocopied their faces for fun.
•••
One day we’re having lunch and Jay and Jason start talking about their weekend at a cottage with our supervisor and company executives.
They tell me and Gabe it’s not personal, that all of their families know each other, they’ve been “cottaging” together for generations. I try to imagine what “cottaging” looks like and all I can picture are water-skis. I lose my train of thought when Jason mentions their fathers and their grandfathers went to university together. Their great-grandparents were the founding fathers of the whole colonial project that is this country.
Gabe rolls his eyes and I shift in my seat uncomfortably. The pin in my blouse catches the sun and I admire my reflection in the mirror. Maybe if I’m hired I’ll “cottage” with Board executives, too.
Another Monday passes and another lunch where we barely speak, we’re so busy admiring the glint of our pins and our reflections in the mirror. The next Monday, Gabe doesn’t come to work. I ask where he is and our supervisor blinks.
Was it the cutlery, the rolling eyes? We all know there’s a selection process, but Gabe’s better with printers and photocopiers than anyone. Though sometimes when we’re meditating under the logo, I catch his eyes wandering, and somehow I know he’s thinking about space instead of the company philosophy.
I ask our supervisor why Gabe’s gone and he looks at me. Jason smirks and mouths the words, strike one.
So I leave it be. I like Gabe, but I came here to become somebody. I redeem myself by decreeing I’ll meditate under the logo twice a day now, and our supervisor looks at me, approvingly.
But that night, something Gabe said comes back to me. He was helping me with my latest printer jam and I was barely paying attention. He asked if I thought it was weird how we didn’t know what the company made? Had I thought about what this job was to me? He said I shouldn’t let bright things dazzle me.
•••
One Monday, Jay doesn’t come in. Now it’s just Jason and me. Our supervisor says this is where things get interesting. He tells us to walk with him to the giant logo.
He sucks in his breath, so Jason does the same. I’ve meditated here so many times. I know the curve of the shapes, the luminous cursive twists that still take my breath.
Our supervisor puts his hand on the logo and we hesitate, then copy him.
We says, “What do you feel?”
Jason swallows. “Profit.”
“Prophet or profit?”
Neither of us get it. Our supervisor shakes his head.
“I’m messing with you.”
We exhale together. He turns to me.
“You’re the wild card. What do you think?”
I feel my nose reddening. Try not to look at my feet. Press my palm on the logo and say the first thing that comes to me. A moment later, my face is burning and I’m kicking myself for my idiocy.
But to my surprise our supervisor claps his hands. “Correct—it’s warm.”
He asks if we know why. This time I know better than to say anything. Our supervisor speaks so softly we have to lean in. He tells us there’s a whole universe behind the wall, and the heat is the ray of suns. We raise our eyebrows and he shakes his head, he’s tricked us again—he explains the joke, “production.”
I walk home under the demented shadow of skyscrapers while the sky presses in on all sides. I try not to think about Jason waterskiing or whatever it is he does those weekends “cottaging” with the company brass. I envision machines whirring behind that logo, like suns, producing life and energy. Just like the company’s motto: brightening the new millennium.
The next week is nothing exceptional, but I’m getting tired of Jason going on about his discussions with company executives and Board members while “cottaging.” He lunches with our supervisor every day. They don’t invite me. I spend my lunch hours meditating under the logo, trying not to let it bother me.
Sometimes at night, I worry about my chances. That I’ll be the next probationary officer not to show up the following Monday. That I’ll never be invited to “cottage.” Maybe it’s just as well, I don’t know how to water-ski. The motto’s the only thing that consoles me.
•••
We’re a week from our six-month mark. Jason comes into the office wearing two company pins. He smiles at my surprise then waves his hand.
“From the cottage, last weekend.”
I try to act natural, but Jason sees right through me. He makes a show of adjusting his pins and I look away. Our supervisor announces we’re in for a treat.
“Well, more of a test, actually.”
He leads us to the company logo and in that moment the light shifts from the window and the curves of the logo make shadows on his face.
We ask him what comes next and he tells us we’re looking at our last challenge.
Jason and I look at each other. He’s already told us what’s behind the logo, our last test is to reach the production line. There’s only one problem: there’s no door.
Jason makes the first move, grabbing the logo with both hands and trying to turn it. His veins bulge in his neck but the logo won’t budge. Our supervisor watches, aghast.
He tells Jason if he tries that stunt again he’ll be finished. Luckily, the logo’s not damaged. Jason reddens, I didn’t know he was capable. He catches me looking and glares. Walks to the end of the wall and turns into a corridor. Sticks his head out before disappearing and warns me not to follow.
I swallow and nod. Look for my supervisor, but there’s no sign of him. My heart thumps, drowning out the printers and photocopier. For all I know, Jason’s already won, they told him what to do at the cottage, in between water-skiing runs. The thing with the logo was probably a ruse so I wouldn’t know the test was fixed.
I have an overwhelming urge to look at my feet again.
•••
When I raise my head, the office is empty. The windows are dark and the safes and filing cabinets cast trembling shadows. Even the carpet creeps me out.
I don’t know where the time’s gone. It seems like a moment ago our supervisor was explaining our test. Now I’m the only one here. Jason must have found the machines hours ago—he could be sitting in a Board meeting right now. He’s probably already an executive. I’m as good as finished.
I let out my breath and tell myself it was inevitable. It’s been a good run. I lasted longer than most. And that logo gave me something, hope maybe. How many hours and days did I spend, meditating under it? The motto still inspires me, I’ll brighten the new millennium no matter where I go.
I close my eyes and sink down to the floor. The carpet fibres aren’t so intimidating from this angle, even the shadows are less disquieting. But still, it hurts that I won’t make it farther in the company. I had a pin. To think, I could have been someone.
I close my eyes and steady my breath. I want to cry, but the motto comforts me.
If this is my last day at the company, if I’ll be gone by Monday, I might as well make use of these remaining hours.
I decide I’ll spend the night on the carpet, meditating under this logo and its promise of a bright sun. I wipe a tear and recite the company motto. I see the logo when I close my eyes. Sitting here, with the office so quiet, I can almost feel its presence, prickling my skin, making me bright and alive, like paper after photocopying.
It happens without warning—the carpet shifts and I feel a strange flutter in my forehead. My two eyes are closed, but my third eye widens and the world is eclipsed by the logo’s brightness. The logo unfurls before my third eye, the cursive shapes straightening and forming new designs. My breath catches. This is more than a logo, it’s a universe.
It breathes and shimmers like poplar trees on the prairie. My ears pop while I take it in. I don’t have to do a thing. The logo shifts with the movements of the planets and the wall dissolves in front of me. I repeat the motto, then walk, three-eyed, forward.
The wall reappears behind me and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. There are no windows and starlight pricks my tongue. The air tastes of creation.
But it’s not the light that has my attention. The production line take my breath. These are photocopiers like I’ve never seen, they crackle while I watch them, tiny atoms popping and dancing like the static of paper freshly copied but a hundred times brighter and more alive.
The logo pulses in my third eye.I turn around to a machine and lift up the cover. Press my cheek to the glass. When my face is done copying, I lift my head to see another door open in front of me. This time even my third eye can’t believe what I’m seeing.
The twelve members of the Board of Directors are sitting at a long table. They turn their oval heads to look at me and I don’t even look at their elongated faces, don’t blink at their grey, spindly fingers—what has my attention is what’s behind them—the expanse of stars and outer space.
I search in my mind for the logo to ground me but there’s only the afterimage of the negative, lingering before it dissipates, and when I try to pronounce the motto, the words come back jumbled, backwards to me. I sputter the inverted phonemes and the greys around the table nod like they understand everything. They motion to an empty chair along the non-space wall and I take a seat. The Chair speaks in reverse to start the meeting and I nod like I understand everything.
•••
I think about it over rice and tomato sauce that night. I don’t even heat my dinner. It tastes bland like always and the cold tomatoes under my tongue disappoint me. I wish the rice had that smooth, barely contained vitality of still-warm xeroxed paper.
I wonder what Jason found when he went down that corridor. I close my eyes and my third eye shows me a vision of him, turning that corner and falling panicked into deep space.
I’m back at work the next Monday and Jason is gone. The supervisor invites me to lunch and it’s awkward since he doesn’t eat. He leans back in his chair and taps his fingers, I blink at their length. We admire our reflections in the wall-to-wall mirror and he says, more to himself than to me, “Always bet on the underdog.”
That night I dream the reverse image of the logo rising in the sky, a new sun in an ashen millennium. When I walk into the office the next morning, it’s just as I dreamed. Everything is the same except it’s reverse, even the sun and sky crowded out of the windows has a bright sheen and the carpet stares up slate at me. I spend hours photocopying backwards images upside down and in reverse.
The next time I go to lunch I at choke at my reflection in the mirror. My face is grey, and longer than it should be. My white blouse with black polka-dots has turned black with white polka-dots. My fingers are twice as long as they used to be.
“There’s something else.”
I turn around to see my supervisor looking at me.
“You’re no longer probationary.”
•••
I don’t go back to the prairie. Don’t even notice the lack of sky or the elongated shadows in the office building. Where I used to eat rice with tomato sauce now I fill my plate with tomato sauce and add a scoop of uncooked rice on top. I have a seat at the long table. My fingers are longer by the day and my face is getting greyer. On my seventh year at the company I become a Board Member. I celebrate with a meditation under the logo. My legs are stiff when I get up but it’s worth it because I’m a somebody.
The same year I pass Gabe on the street and by some wonder I recognize him. I call out his name and he says, “Oh.” It’s a moment before he recognizes me. He smiles but his eyes are guarded when he squints. I know he’s calculating some mathematical equation related to me and the distance between us since our last meeting.
His fingers aren’t spindles and there’s no a hint of grey in his skin. He tells me he’s visiting the city, that he can’t wait to get back to the prairie. He explains that he misses the sky, and I don’t understand what he means. He tells me my mind is in space, and I can’t argue. I ask if he misses the company, and he says at first he was heartbroken. But then he realized things aren’t always what they seem and that even dying stars emit light. He should know, he studies supernovae.
We go for lunch and eat across from the wall-to-wall mirror. Gabe doesn’t look at our reflections or admire the logos in my earrings, blouse, or lapel pins. I tell him I’m a Board Member, that I can pull strings and hire him. I expect him to thank me, but his expression doesn’t change. I suggest that he start on Monday and he throws me off by saying, “No thanks.”
He asks why I’m not eating and I look down surprised at my untouched plate. The bill comes and I offer to expense it but Gabe insists on paying. I hold out my arm so we can shake but Gabe jumps away. He leans forward and I expect him to say he wants a job, after all, but instead he tells me I should study astronomy.
I take the elevator back to my office, trying to make sense of Gabe’s words. Can’t shake the feeling I’d understand, back when I lived on the prairie, when I travelled by train and thought a mixed-tape was worth something.
When I walk into the office, it’s empty. Neighbouring buildings occlude the sun and the photocopier, for once, is silent. The living logo at the back wall watches me.
I start toward my office but stop when I reach the photocopier. It’s covered in dust, I hold out my finger and the company motto in cursive swirls. I shake my head and feel stupid—our latest probationary employees won’t be able to read it, no one learns cursive writing anymore. The thought’s saddening.
That lunch with Gabe unsettled me. I don’t like the thoughts that are coming to me. How long has it been since anyone used the photocopier? Have I actually seen any probationary employees? How long have I been alone in here?
I reach my office and pull open the door. Light shines backwards through the windows and I greet my demented shadow. I should be used to it, but today it unnerves me. I decide I need air.
When I step into the elevator, the doors close but we don’t go anywhere. My warped reflection greets me on four mirrored walls, grey skin and long arms confining me. I press the door open button and rush back to the office. This time I don’t stop at the copier, I run to the logo like it’s my salvation. Put my long hand on it warmth.
Something screams inside of me—a vestigial reflex deep in my core that knows Gabe was right, that I should get away while I can. But the logo doesn’t let go of me, I’ve been in its orbit too long now.
I dig in my pointy heels and try to scream but all that comes out of my mouth is that backwards motto. The wall dissolves in front of me and all three of my eyes are wide with terror.
The photocopiers in the production line are cold and dusty. They’re older than the one in the main office, they look obsolete, from the eighties maybe. The board table at the back is empty, save for cursive scribbles on moldy notepads that no one can read. I barely breathe looking at the twelve alien skeletons sitting across from me. There’s a starless expanse at their back.
I suck in my breath. Gabe was right—there’s nothing here but death. I forgot what the real sky looked like. All these years, the razzle-dazzle—everything about this company is a Ponzi scheme. I should have never left the prairie. I turn to run but trip on the photocopier.
I reach out to break my fall, but my arms can’t support me. Look down and realize my hands aren’t spindles, they’re skeletal. I drop my mandible to let out a backwards scream but it’s drowned out by the void in front of me.
By the time I open the photocopier cover, my phalanges are disintegrating. I already know it’s futile. Photocopying my face can’t save me. I’d only get a picture of death, a rotting skull overexposed, a logo.
I’m like the rest of them, a Board Member. My brightness died a long time ago. There’s nothing left of me but crumbling bones.
