After Jake’s smokescreen vanishing act and Devin’s haunted Halloween party, I wasn’t too eager to see what Sergeant Sheep had in mind for me. I shot out from under the table. "Follow me!" I told Lydia.
I outflanked the diner’s rowdy guests, sprinted through the front door, and ran around to the side of the building. I didn’t see Lydia anywhere. In all the commotion, I had completely lost track of her, and for the first time since all the craziness started, I was worried about her. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I missed having Lydia around.
What a time to go soft! At any moment, the sheep and his gang would pour out of the diner to come after me. I was as hyper as a jack rabbit as I fixed my eyes on the front door. But then, all the lights in diner went off, including the welcome sign out front. No one came outside, not even the sheep.
There wasn’t a sound to be heard, save one: a squeaking noise across the street. The revolving door to the entrance of Zillman’s Department Store was slowly rotating. Maybe that was where Lydia had taken refuge.
I slunk over to the multi-story building and squatted down behind the store’s grimy glass door. "Zillman’s" was spelled out in large, brass letters, inlaid to the glittery sidewalk under me. I nudged the door forward, and crept slowly into the store.
The inside was like a dark cathedral from an old horror film. Tall, cylindrical columns rose up from the floor like giant redwood trees. Magnificent chandeliers hung from a beautiful ornate ceiling. Acres of store shelves sat empty, stocked with nothing but spider webs and dust bunnies.
Aisle after aisle of display cases were covered with white sheets, like rows of linen-draped coffins. It was like being in a huge mausoleum with cash registers. I imagined ghost-shoppers from the 50s, jammed onto escalators, combing the store for specials on hula-hoops and silk stockings.
Light from the street streamed in through cracks in the boarded-up windows. I stepped into the light to cross the sales floor when a shadow suddenly passed over me. I ducked behind a checkout stand and peered over the counter top. Outside, Sergeant Sheep had squeegeed a circle in the revolving door with his hand. He looked inside, his nose pressed flat against the glass.
I sat on the floor with my back against the counter and sighed. When was this cat-and-mouse game going to end? Only time would tell. Until then, this was one mouse in need of a hole to escape into.
Apparently satisfied that the store was empty, the sheep turned and faced the street. Just then, a bell rang.
Ding!
A sliver of golden light streaked down the aisle next to me, then parted like curtains in a darkened theater. I traced it back to an elevator right behind me. Swing music poured out its open doors and reverberated through the humongous store.
A young man with a charming smile stood just inside. "Elevator Operator" was embroidered above the breast pocket of his purple uniform. Gold braids clung to the shoulders of his brass-buttoned blazer. A striped bow tie encircled his stiff collar like an unopened Christmas present. If this guy was a ghost, he certainly was a snappy dresser.
"Going up, miss?" asked the man.
Fearing the sheep might turn back at any second, I hopped into the elevator car and crouched down in the corner.
"Welcome to Zillman’s," said the polite elevator operator, tipping his pillbox hat. "What floor would you like?"
"Any floor!" I snapped. "Close the doors. Hurry!"
"Very good, miss."
The man grabbed a brass lever with his white-gloved hand and the doors slid shut. Then he pressed the button to the second floor. The elevator lunged upward.
Unlike the deplorable condition of the store, the classy elevator was like new. The metallic art deco doors were polished to a soft sheen. Over the wood-paneled walls, a poster promoted the store cafeteria’s mid-week special: roast beef, smothered in mushroom gravy.
I grabbed hold of the railing and pulled myself up, just as the elevator eased to a stop.
Ding!
The man threw his shoulders back, then said, in his best radio announcer’s voice,
"Second floor—Apparel:
Baby clothes, tank tops,
Panty hose, flip flops.
T-shirts, tube socks,
Miniskirts, house frocks.
Pink pajamas, comfy slippers,
Flippers, zippers, toenail clippers.
Bathing caps, wet suits,
Jockstraps, work boots."
The elevator doors opened, revealing a shopper’s paradise from a bygone era. Clothes racks were crammed with poodle skirts and polka dot dresses. Saddle shoes and penny loafers lined the shelves in the shoe department. Mannequins modeled the latest fashions; sultry maidens with blood-red lipstick wore cross-your-heart bras; rugged outdoorsmen showed off their plaid hunting jackets. Only one key element was missing from this retail wonderland: shoppers!
Exploring that retro world would have been totally amazing, and I would have done it except for one problem: what if the elevator operator left without me? I decided I had better stay put.
The man cleared his throat and glared down at me, bewildered. Then he closed the doors and hit the button to the next floor.
Ding!
"Third floor—Housewares:
Electric toasters, door stops,
Turkey roasters, floor mops.
Towel racks, soap bars,
Candle wax, cookie jars.
Salt shakers, throw rugs,
Coffee makers, beer mugs.
Egg beaters, bed sheets,
Space heaters, toilet seats."
The doors parted, and the elevator was immediately filled with the scent of Ivory Soap and fresh linen. The floor was stocked to the hilt with everything the happy homemaker could ever want; from pink toilet seat covers to cat-faced clocks with pendulum tails.
An immaculate kitchen displayed all the latest appliances: countertop stoves, electric dishwashers, frost-free refrigerators; all useful and easy to operate. (Imagine, a world without computer viruses, internet spam, or cyber hacking.) It was an Ozzie and Harriet world of purity and innocence—well, maybe not so innocent. An exploding atomic bomb was depicted on a child’s lunch box.
Again, I didn’t budge. I could see that my helpful tour guide was getting impatient with me. He grabbed hold of the brass lever, and a moment later,
Ding!
"Fourth floor—Hardware:
Workbenches, flower beds,
Socket wrenches, shower heads.
Gas grills, hard hats,
Power drills, thermostats.
Rubber tires, water pails,
Pairs of pliers, finish nails.
Garden hoses, sun visors,
Needle noses, fertilizers."
I struggled not to give in to my impulse to go shopping. For all I knew, going in there meant walking into an elaborate mousetrap.
The elevator man was now clearly irritated. "We could do this all night, miss," he said. "Why don’t you just tell me what you want?"
I turned my nose up at him. "I don’t want anything," I said.
"Don’t be silly. Everybody wants something."
I thought for a moment. "Happiness!" I said. "That’s what I want. That’s not asking for too much, is it?"
"Well, why didn’t you say so?" said the man, straightening his bow tie. "That’s our most popular item."
The doors closed and we were whisked away to the next floor.
Ding!
"Fifth floor—Wealth:
Dollars, Pounds, Euros, Yen,
Happy days are here again."
The song "We’re In The Money" began playing as the doors opened onto a miser’s dream. The floor was filled with mounds of silver and gold coins ten feet high. Money was literally growing on trees. Stock certificates floated down from above like a winter’s day on Wall Street.
Coming from a fairly well-to-do family, I wasn’t very impressed. "‘Money won’t buy you happiness,’" I said. "Ever heard that one?"
"‘There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty,’" he responded. "I’ve heard that one."
"This ain’t gonna do it. I’ve seen what the almighty dollar does to people. Haven’t you got something a little less hoity-toity?"
Ding!
"Sixth floor—Leisure:
Tranquility, peace, and relaxation,
No frets, no debts, no obligation."
Ocean waves lapped onto a sandy, white beach, under a golden sun. Palm trees swayed to the rhythm of a strummed ukulele. A gentle breeze carried the delectable scent of shrimp cocktail and seared swordfish.
It was a relaxing, tropical setting, and yet, the view wasn’t all coconuts and hula skirts. Drunken, old men with bloated bellies swung in hammocks, like beached whales on holiday. Middle-aged women with sauce-stained lips devoured barbecue ribs, like pigs at a feeding trough.
"Who are these people?" I asked.
"The Idle Class," said the elevator man. "This is usually their next stop after visiting the floor below us."
"Sure you don’t mean the Lame Class? Look at the them. The Earth could be colliding with Mars and they couldn’t care less."
"But, they’re so happy."
"And so irresponsible. If I were them, I’d spend less time slurping Mai Tais through bamboo straws and doing more to help the Struggling Class."
"So, you’d be happier if people were more like you. Is that what you’re saying?"
"Exactly."
Ding!
"Seventh floor—Equality:
No sides to choose, no one to blame,
Beliefs and views, are all the same."
A school bell rang. It sounded just like the one that rang each day at my school. When the elevator doors opened and the ringing stopped, I was back at Shankstonville High—at least it looked that way. Where Zillman’s seventh floor should have been was an exact replica of my first-period English classroom!
It had been reproduced with incredible accuracy: the school flag in the corner; the football field outside the window; the smell of sulfur from the science lab next door. No detail had been overlooked. Even the rain-damaged ceiling tile above my desk was there.
But who was that seated at my desk? Who else, I thought, would be there except . . . me! I was looking at an exact copy of myself the way I looked normally. Not only had the room been perfectly reproduced, I had been copied with equal precision, right down to the neon-blue streak in my hair.
Seated two rows over at Lydia’s desk was another "me." Still another sat at Andy’s desk. In fact, "Amys" were seated behind every desk in the room. They all chatted amongst themselves, unconcerned that an elevator had just invaded their classroom.
"It’s our Back-to-School Sale," said the smiling elevator man.
Whatever they were selling, going in there was just asking for trouble. Then I noticed Mr. Pierce’s laptop lying open on his desk. Maybe it could show me where I was and how to get home. If there was the slightest chance it was connected to the real world, I had to risk leaving the safety of the elevator.
I reached past the elevator man, grabbed the door lever, and yanked off its brass handle. "A little insurance," I said. I stuffed it into my back pocket. "We can’t have you running off without me, can we?"
The moment I stepped out of the elevator, the chattering stopped. Every head in the classroom turned in my direction. Looking back at them was like seeing my reflection in thirty mirrors at once.
Every eye followed me as I walked slowly over to the teacher’s desk. I hit the power button on the computer and the screen displayed its welcoming graphics. Suddenly, the screen went black. Across the desk from me stood one of the Amys with the computer’s power plug in her hand. "Those things are heartless and meaningless," she said. "Strictly for losers."
"That may be," I said, "but I’m gonna use this one to find my way out of here."
Another Amy approached the desk. "You could ask one of those hay-baling hicks for directions," she said, "except they couldn’t find their way out of a pumpkin patch in broad daylight."
"Careful what you say about them," I responded. "You’re gonna need the ‘hick’ vote if you want to win the election."
"Our dad could come get you," said a third Amy, "if only you could get his couch-potato ass out of the house."
"Maybe if you were a little nicer to him . . ."
I caught myself in mid-sentence. There I was, appalled by the language I was hearing, heedless of the fact that those same words had crossed my own lips.
The whole class had now surrounded the desk. They glared at me with contempt, as if I had raided a slumber party that I wasn’t invited to.
Then another Amy slammed the laptop closed. "What the hell kind of Amy are you?" she said, her human nose in my skunk face. "We don’t defend the family boneheads, and we never stand up for those backwoods hillbillies."
"It’s ‘cause she’s half skunk!" said a voice from the back of the room.
I backed away from the desk.
"That’s right," said the in-my-face Amy, "but then, what’s the other half?"
A barrage of insults followed:
"Eew! I can smell her from here."
"Open the windows, quick!"
"Stand back! She’s raising her tail."
I ran back to the elevator, reattached the brass handle, and quickly closed the doors.
"Didn’t see anything you like, miss?" asked the operator.
"You don’t exactly offer much selection."
"We buy in bulk and pass the savings on to our customers. Perhaps you’d like a sample to take home with you."
"No thanks. Got one already. Had it for sixteen years. What’s your return policy here?"
"Thirty days from time of purchase with a receipt."
"Too bad. I was thinking of trading myself in for a better model." A nice idea, except who would take a trade-in on a lemon like me? My attitude was shot, my personality needed an overhaul, and I was long overdue for mental tune-up.
How depressing! I hung my head and shoved my hands into my pants pockets. Then I felt something in my right hand: the Parcheesi game piece from long ago.
I pulled out the souvenir from my past and rolled it gently between my fingertips. "I’ve got it!" I said. "The good ol’ days!"
"How’s that?" asked the man.
"You know, the good times. I want to go back to when I was little. That’s the only time I was truly happy."
The man pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket and riffled through the pages. "Sorry, miss. We’re out of stock on that item."
Then he pushed the button to the ground floor. The elevator rocketed downward. My feet nearly lifted off the floor from its rapid descent.
"What are you doing?" I shouted, over the roar of the pulley motor.
"Sorry, miss," the man shouted back. "Store’s closing."
"But I know what I want now."
"Face the front of the elevator, please."
The elevator slowed down, then screeched to a halt.
Ding!
"Main floor—Reality:
Meanness, anger, doubt, despair,
Bungling boneheads everywhere."
The elevator operator, who had been so obliging up to now, levered the doors open. He looked straight ahead into the empty store. "Everybody out, please."
"Take me back up!" I insisted.
"Exit doors are to your right, miss."
"I want to complain to the manager."
"All grievances must be filed at the complaint desk."
Complaint desk indeed! There was no such thing. Even if there was, what would I complain about; that the magical mystery elevator wasn’t also a time machine? Maybe it was just as well. I’d seen too much already.
I stepped out of the elevator car and faced the young man in the purple uniform. "Sorry I didn’t buy anything," I said. "I’m more into saving than spending. But I’ll tell you this: I’d give my last dime to have people like me again."
"Respect isn’t something that can be bought," said the man. "It has to be earned." He grabbed the door lever. "‘Investing in humility yields the greatest return.’ Ever heard that one?"
"No. Who said it?"
"I just made it up." He tipped his hat and smiled. "Thank you for shopping at Zillman’s." Then the doors banged shut.
He was right, of course, even though his words of wisdom did little to lift my deflated ego. I felt even more alone now, standing in the stillness of the dreary discount emporium.
Then I spotted a soft light peeking out of the darkness by the front entrance. The florescent tubes under the makeup counter were on. Moths fluttered above the pale-blue light. To my surprise, seated on the makeover stool was Lydia!
I marched over to her and said, sharply, "Next time I say ‘follow me,’ do it!"
Lydia, who wasn’t listening to a word I was saying, held up a small item in her hand. "Look," she said excitedly. "Marilyn Monroe’s favorite mascara."
But her enthusiasm ended abruptly as we heard the squeaking of the revolving door. The silhouette of a menacing-looking figure with a pointy hat stood just inside the store. The light of the display case hadn’t only attracted moths, it was a Bat Signal for Sergeant Sheep.