—I’ve never been in an elevator, Billy said to the operator.
—Enjoy the ride, the operator replied.
Then he pulled the lever and sent us shooting up into the building.
Normally, Woolly would have been humming a ditty on a ride like this, but I was the one who was doing the humming tonight. And Billy, he was quietly counting the floors as we passed them. You could tell by the movement of his lips.
—Fifty-one, he mouthed. Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four.
At the fifty-fifth floor, the operator opened the doors and we disembarked. When we proceeded from the elevator bank into the hallway, we found rows of doors stretching to our left and right.
—What do we do now? asked Billy.
I pointed to the nearest door.
—We’ll start there and work our way around the floor until we find him.
—Clockwise? Billy asked.
—Anywise you like.
So we set about going from door to door—clockwise—and Billy would read out the names that were etched on the little brass plaques, just like he’d called out the floors on the elevator, only this time out loud. It was quite a parade of paper pushers. In addition to attorneys and accountants, there were brokers of real estate, insurance, and stocks. Not from the big firms, you understand. These were the shops operated by the guys who couldn’t make it in the big firms. The guys who resoled their shoes, and read the funny pages while waiting for the phone to ring.
The first twenty shingles Billy read in a punchy, upbeat manner, like each one was a pleasant little surprise. The next twenty he read with a little less enthusiasm. After those, his delivery began to flag. You could almost hear the thumb of reality beginning to press down on that spot in the soul from which youthful enthusiasm springs. Reality was almost certainly going to leave its mark on Billy Watson tonight. And that mark was likely to stay with him for the rest of his life as a helpful reminder that while the heroes in storybooks are usually figments of the imagination, most of the men who write about them are figments of the imagination too.
When we turned the fourth corner, we could see the last stretch of doors leading up to the spot where we’d begun. Slower and slower Billy moved, softer and softer he spoke, until finally, in front of the second-to-last door, he came to a stop and said nothing at all. He must have read out fifty little plaques by then, and though I was standing behind him, I could tell from his posture that he’d simply had enough.
After a moment, he looked up at Woolly with what must have been an expression of disappointment on his face, because Woolly suddenly had an expression of sympathy on his. Then Billy turned to look at me. Only his expression wasn’t of disappointment. It was of wide-eyed amazement.
Turning back to the little brass plaque, he extended a finger and read the inscription out loud.
—Office of Professor Abacus Abernathe, MLA, PhD.
Turning to Woolly with my own expression of amazement, I realized that the sympathy on his face hadn’t been meant for Billy; it had been meant for me. Because once again, the feet I had pulled the rug out from under were my own. After spending a few days with this kid, you’d think I might have known better. But like I said: I blame the high spirits.
Well, when circumstances conspire to spoil your carefully laid plans with an unexpected reversal, the best thing you can do is take credit as quickly as possible.
—What’d I tell you, kid.
Billy gave me a smile, but then he looked at the doorknob with a touch of apprehension, as if he weren’t sure he had the gumption to turn it.
—Allow me! exclaimed Woolly.
Stepping forward, Woolly turned the knob and opened the door. Inside, we found ourselves in a small reception area with a desk, coffee table, and a few chairs. The room would have been dark but for a faint light that shone through the open transom over an interior door.
—I guess you were right, Woolly, I said with an audible sigh. Looks like nobody’s home.
But Woolly raised a finger to his lips.
—Shhh. Did you hear that?
We all looked up when Woolly pointed at the transom.
—There it is again, he whispered.
—There’s what? I whispered back.
—The scratching of a pen, said Billy.
—The scratching of a pen, said Woolly with a smile.
Billy and I followed Woolly as he tiptoed across the reception area and gently turned the second knob. Behind this door was a much bigger room. It was a long rectangle lined from floor to ceiling with books and furnished with a standing globe, a couch, two high-back chairs, and a large wooden desk, behind which sat a little old man writing in a little old ledger by the light of a green-shaded lamp. Wearing a wrinkled seersucker suit, he had thinning white hair and a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. In other words, he looked so much the part of a professor, you had to figure that all the books on the shelves were for show.