High Tension - Part Two - Name My Disease

A morning with Arnie. Will his paranoia cause him to lose it? Or is he just some kind of nut case?

Name My Disease

So here I am strolling along this highly congested vein we call a sidewalk. Unable to get this morning's events off of my mind, I had called a doctor before leaving my apartment. Yeah that's right, a shrink. While weighing out the possibilities it won by an inch with opening my lid and scraping the mucus off of my brain with an aluminum spatula coming in second. I figured I could fit the appointment in during my lunch break, since my appetite has been following my sleeping habits as of late.
        Reaching my building I look up at the midget among the skyscrapers. Now don't get my wrong, it's by no means small. Thirty-eight stories easy, and of course like most companies founded on masonry traditions, has no thirteenth floor. Gigantic buildings rise up all around it, blocking out all contact with the sun and casting a continuous darkness.
I step inside the cylinder that acts as a revolving door, toss a wave at the over-enthused Ms. Carmine who has been working this particular receptionist's desk for twenty-seven years, and make as if I'm in a rush to avoid speaking to her. She could talk the ear off an auctioneer with a multiple personality disorder. All she ever talks about is either her cat or how some handsome young billionaire is going to come waltzing into this lobby and sweep her off of her feet one of these days.
        The elevator doors open as soon as I reach them, I rush inside and push button twenty-one. I work for a company called Laughing Stock Inc.. We supply audience reels to sitcoms and even live talk shows.Which means when you hear a crowd laughing or applauding on your television it was probably made here. I specialize in the Quality Assurance  department. What I do is listen to all of the tracks and cut out any overacted or less believable guffaws. It can be a mundane job, and sometimes it can even suck the sense of humor right out of a man who has worked here long enough. I've been here for fourteen years, by the way, and I'd say I had lost mine around year three.
        The first twenty-four stories of this buidling were here since the since the 1930's, most of it being used as a studio for radio broadcasting. Black and white framed memories littered the walls of most of the floors. The depict things like founders and clients in grinning-handshake poses, and some even have the old radio stars in action, bellowing into a large microphone while performing visual feats never to be seen by anyone outside of the studio.It all seems like a more quiet an simpler time in our history, but then again the only thing we have is a silent still that is forever frozen within the confines of it's glass and frame as a reference.
        All of a sudden there was a popping sound sound in the elevator car, loud enough to make my ears ring. The car shook a few times and then stopped moving all together, the overhead lights flicker and then go dead as well. I back myself up against the wall and grip the railing behind me with both hands. Just before the darkness felt like it was going to  consume all rational thought, the red digital read-out came on at number eighteen. It glows loud in the blackness just above the elevator doors. I watch it for a moment before there was anther loud electrical pop and two of the lines in the eight flicker off until they read thirteen. Both of my eyebrows rise as if they are trying to physically push this bit of information out of my over-reacting brain. I start to release my grip on the railing just to latch them back on again as the silver doors slide open in front of me accompanied by a high-pitched bell chime.  Never releasing hold of the rail that doubles as my lifeline to reality I lean forward a bit in order to peer into the gloom beyond the elevator, my eyes still wide with cautious fright. I blink several times as I start to hear a very faint sound coming from what seems to be the far end of this floor. I lean even closer to the opening of the car until my slack is up. It sounds like old music, and from the cracks and pops it sounds like it is vinyl being played on a piece of antique audio equipment. Tilting my head as if I were a transistor getting a better signal I start to hear some crooning that follows along with the melody, like one of those songs that were popular in the thirties...
      The thought stuck like glue. Glue that was infecting my brain with fright. I push my back to the wall once again and close my eyes as I try to will it all away. I keep repeating over and over in my head that it isn't real until I can feel my lips muttering the words aloud. Just when I start to think I can't take the weight of the fear bearing down on me, the doors slide close. The lights flicker back on, and the car starts moving up again. My eyes go straight to the digital read-out above the doors. Twenty, twenty-one, it is moving up from eighteen. I release the railing, I had forgotten I was still gripping it and I found that my hands pulled away like flypaper from the well incubated metal. I'd heard of night terrors while sleeping, but never of any that followed you around the rest of the day. This has got to be a serious problem and the sooner it is diagnosed and taken care of the better.
      How the hell am I suppose to do my job if I'm hearing things?
      Oh well, just a few hours of work and we'll see what is really going on in that messed up head of mine.
      The doors slide open and my company's floor is awaiting on the other side, much to my relief. I take a deep breath and exit the elevator, making my way to the cozy little office in the corner.
      "Yo Arnie, what's the deal and how does it feel?"
      I glance over and see Tom Sweeney dressed as loud as ever in a bright green Hawaiian shirt, sherbet-orange slacks and a pair of off-setting wing tipped shoes for contrast. His personality is every bit as annoying as his fashion sense. Feeling as if he needs to be the center of the room at all times and everything else should shift around him accordingly. I give him a short nod of recognition and continue on a bit faster , squinting my eyes as the residual haze of orange and green float around in my vision as if it were burned on by exposure to a radioactive image. My curiosity is tweaked as I notice the door to my office is open, and upon entering I find Diane Lipscomb, head of audio recording, sitting on the edge of my desk.
      "Almost didn't think you'd make it in today," she glances at her watch with a smirk.
      "Elevator malfunctioned on me."
      "Should start taking the stairs, like me," she slides off the desk and smiles.
      "Oh sure, and be out of breathe before the thirteenth floor...," well that one just popped right out, didn't it?
      She gives me a funny look and then continues on with her pitch without acknowledging what I'd said.
      "Listen Arnold, I know you're not too fond of the whole thing, but I could sure use a few sarcastic chuckles for this new British comedy they handed to me," she has been trying to get me into that damned booth since day one, and I'm pretty sure the only manifested emotion she has ever heard out of me was a cough.
      I shake my head and walk around my desk, sitting down in the chair behind it.
      "I'm not the talent, Diane."
      "Oh come on, Arnie," she shakes her clasped fists in front of her as she pleads, "I need a fresh voice for this one, I can't very well have every reel sounding alike."
      "Yeah, well you let me know when you want someone clearing their throat or snoring. Otherwise, no," I turn my computer on, the monitor buzzing as the static charge in the room clings to the screen.
      She gives a dramatic huff, stomps her foot on the ground once before turning on a heel and marching out of my office. Now that almost made me chuckle, but there wouldn't have been anything sarcastic about it.
      I take a deep breathe and then let it out slow before placing the studio headphone's cups on my ears. I double click on the audio editing program that I use, and start uploading all of yesterday's work. I go through the first few reels, and start getting into my usual flow. I stopped hearing laughs and applause a long time ago. Now it's only the variation in tones, if they don't blend correctly I cut them out. I save the project I just finished and hit play on the next layer. I can't help but make a face as static fills the phones. They are suppose to clean these babies up before handing them to me. Must be someone in training over there. I move the mouse cursor over the stop button and just before I click it I hear something. It starts out as what sounds like a long drawn out sigh, and then it elevates itself into a low sing-song voice, the very same that I heard on the cassette tape earlier.
      "Go to sleep, nightie-night, so we can play together..." Just then, a glass I sometimes have water in, shatters on my desk. I jump back and almost fall out of my seat, my forearms lift to cover my face. I get on my feet and sidestep over to the opposite end of my office, my eyes never leaving the broken glass. I then realize my headphones are still on, the cord dangling in front of me like a dead snake. I must've yanked the cord out when I jerked back in my chair. I toss them aside before making my exit, closing the door behind me. 
      Everything was business as usual outside of my office, which means no one else noticed my freak-out. I look at the clock on the far wall, which is just high enough over the maze of cubicles that litter this area, so everyone can see it. Twelve minutes until my break, and an hour and forty-five minutes before my appointment. I don't think anyone will notice if I leave a bit earlier than usual, and the fact that I'm not feeling well should be etched clearly upon my face.