Morgan Makes His Way to the Lobby

The tenth story felt like the longest one. Of course, that’s what Morgan thought of the eleventh story as he was passing . Four stories ago, Morgan had a job, a fake tree and a nice cubicle with obtainable upward ambitions. Any hopes of going upwards after passing the tenth floor seemed more ludicrous than ambitious. As the ninth passed, he began to wax nostalgic about the fourteenth story. Curses to the superstitious lot that refused to make a thirteenth story.

Six stories ago, Morgan was reading a memo on safety in the work place while desperately trying to ignore the water guy’s heaving excited package. It was an effort in vain, as he found himself wondering more and more the exact dimensions of the member. It occurred to Morgan that every time he met the water guy, the water guy was aroused. This was by far the most consistently aroused suitor that Morgan had ever met. The fact that Morgan was heterosexual seemed less important than the fact that Morgan desperately needed to be loved.

If he had read the memo, he would have learned that the structural integrity of the windows on the fifteenth story had been put into question. He would not have leaned on the window sobbing heavily, nor would he have beat on the pane with his fist. He would have simply held it in and repressed his emotions as was his family tradition. Ms. Right would come soon enough and he would live happily ever after. There would be free pony rides and ice cream at the wedding.

Eight stories down, Morgan admits that the whole bit about Ms. Right was a lie. Morgan didn’t even like ponies. Morgan and Mrs. Right’s marriage was a sham that existed solely for his hypothetical children to have a sense of stability. Still the practical application of homosexuality seemed icky. Maybe it’d be better if the water guy would call himself Beverly and wore a frilly dress.  Sadly, coulda, shoulda, woulda.

In his mind, the moon has come and gone. In his mind, the eclipsing clouds are the night. There are six stories to the ground and Morgan finds himself coming to grips with the eventual inevitable pavement. As sure as the sun would rise at least three times before he hit the ground, he would die and the only regret beyond the soup or salad minutia was the lack of resonance his ripple had. Sure his few friends and his copious family would mourn but in a decade, gone as so many leaves in the autumn. Six stories and closing tortuously slow.

Morgan resolves to be more charming and lively as he meets the nice woman working on the third floor. He smiles and waves. She begins to scream. Suddenly Morgan’s world became green. Somehow he had been teleported to an arboreal themed hell. Every snapping sharp point, every sturdy branch of wind stealing timber, every leaf ingested was there to remind him that he stabbed a tree when he was seventeen. The words ‘Morgan Rules’ seems so unimportant in retrospect. That tree had friends,. That tree had family. That tree had plant mob connections.

As he sat on the ground, the friendly sound of emergency trumpeted through the mid afternoon bringing an ambulance in it’s wake. Sometime after the ground, the gurney and the attending nurse named Dante, Morgan realized he was alive. Life renewed and broken bones numbered (fifteen), Morgan planned his comeback to the world at large. After all, Beverly would not wait forever.