Glass Tower

It's not a secret unless everyone knows it's a secret

Glass Tower

It was said that the old man had chosen to build it as a getaway from urban life, from a sapping existence. Others mused that perhaps he’d begun a project, an architectural folly funded by his lottery millions as some crowning achievement of his career.

Whatever the truth, I was stood at its base, admiring the craftsmanship. An eternal glass tower, in parts reflecting and glistening the evening sun, in others calmed by shadow, revealing some of the central intricacies. Winding passageways, twisting stairways, puzzles and keypads dotted at intervals. Dotted with hanging ferns, scattered with wildlife. The top level of this glass obstacle course of a skyscraper was not to be seen, staggering into the distance. 

Many had tried to climb, many had fallen short. If you were stuck on any given level, a slide was available to return. Many an exasperated soul would whistle down it on a weekly basis, abandoning their chase of the rumour. It was said, at the top, could be found London’s most exclusive bar or pub, only for the owner. The perfect exclusive getaway.

It’s not a boast to say I did more legwork than most. I was lucky, my office faced the marvel, nothing blocked my view. A few reports were hurried, but it didn’t matter, not to my obsession.

Binoculars, note-pad out, as I saw the regular yoda punch numbers, move slider puzzles, hop and skip along the right moving platforms like some videogame, some crystal maze. A few playthroughs , some days later, I’d peered through the glass enough times to memorize his secrets.

I won’t give you a full tale of my trek. I’d climbed hundreds of floors with not much but a backpack. Drugged meat for the guard dogs, snacks for myself. In my exhaustion, the slide at each level was tempting, but I wouldn’t back down.

Many hours later, approaching sunset from a sunrise start, I lifted a glass hatch, eternally grateful for an upwards climb, to overcome the glass floor vertigo. Above the clouds, I saw my prize. A typical pub, nothing more. An apparently aged establishment, existing as if helicoptered from the moors of most rural Kent, complete with cobbled pathway, surrounding turf, and its own slice of rural peace. To further my surreal, otherworldly sense of awe, a few small sparrows chirped and fluttered about, not minding the thing air. Likely, they relished retribution from the pollution below.

Taken aback, I thought only to resume my boldness, to venture inside. I stepped slowly, paused, focused on any sounds within. It hadn’t even a name to it, I found it hard to picture the occupants. I opened up, made it inside.

My first internal note was of the sheer..normality of the place. Aged red brickwork, slightly dirty floral carpeting. Sturdy oak beams to match the bar and other interior furnishings. At once an air of cosiness and yet, the hollow darkness of an unwelcoming unknown.

Greeting me with no greeting, sat quietly and casually melted into an inviting burgundy armchair, was the man himself. Simple tweed shirt, suspenders, cloth cap. Peaceful as ever was a man in all the world. He glanced up, met me with the glare of a dying blizzard, allowed to die down, give way to his former peace. I approached him tentatively.

“Well” he grumbled “Someone made it. You’re in my head now, boy. That’s what I get for making the structure so transparent, I suppose. It...invites.”

“If you’d rather have been left alone..” I got straight to the point “Why make the building from glass? All I had to do was follow you up.”

“It was, well,” the man shifted, at first with discomfort it seemed. In fact, he was only sitting up in his chair, to grip an amber ale, a potion of peace dwelling half consumed on the oak end table. He continued: “...It was aesthetic. I’m an architectural success through my functional designs. Theodore Sanderson, known for practical, efficient structure. Let me have my masterpiece, be an artist for once.” He took a calm sip, to finish his thought. I mused on him, not quite satisfied, physically, mentally, spiritually thirsty.

“Besides, it’s a good enough workout, climbing a course of my own design and earning my peace. Now, boy, well done for getting this far, but I’m afraid you weren’t invited. Do enjoy the slide on your way down, eh?”

I did not turn away from the fellow, even as he disengaged me. I looked upon his face, his countenance. A little drooped as if with age, fatigue, but unmistakably still relatively youthful. Not older than his thirties. I deduced a fact, or chanced upon a guess at his character.

“Suit yourself. It’s clear enough to me, like your structure, that you’d hoped someone would make their way up. You act as if you seek isolation, but you’ve set this all up to tempt people in, the right people. Lonely, but for the right company.”

I paused for effect. He inhaled, sighed, the flicker of a smirk became the most fleeting warm joy. Presently, he effected a stoic countenance.

“Very well, if you’ll make such a fuss, help yourself to a drink and stay. Makes no odds to me anyhow.”

I looked slyly at him, as I snuck off to pour myself a pint. I slumped down across from him in the adjacent armchair. Sinking in, I absorbed the cozy quiet, such comfort. We locked eyes. He never asked my name, We broke off, looked to the fireplace, lost where we were. Alone, together.