By Michael Czyzniejewski
We started on the first floor, but only because the door to Headquarters was on the street and the street was on the first floor. Once inside, we were taken down several levels in a freight elevator, and in the bottommost basement is where we actually started. The Members’ original plan had been to start on the first floor and move up from there, but then the first group of Candidates screwed something up and it was decided to instead start at the lowest possible level. We whispered amongst ourselves how that wasn’t fair, how we weren’t those original Candidates, but it’s what the Members decided and everyone has dealt with it since.
As we descended, we wondered how far down we were going, how much ground we’d have to make up, no floor numbers in the freight elevator, no little numbers lighting up, just UP and DOWN. Someone said that buildings were like trees, that as far as they grew upward, the roots spread equally far down. Headquarters was 101 stories tall—we hoped Headquarters was not like a tree.
As soon as we reached the bottom, we were orientated on how it worked: Every time someone passed out or fell asleep or died—in essence, fell—they’d be taken out via a service elevator. Simultaneously, we’d be herded into the freight elevator and taken up one floor. When we got to the top, we’d be Members.
We had questions, like how many people would make it, if there were exceptions to the rules, what would happen if we sat down to go to the bathroom. “Yes,” the Members answered, to all the questions at once. That was the end of the orientation.
***
Because there were no windows in the sublevels, we never knew if it was night or day. Yet, at times, they turned the lights off, leaving us in the dark. Since they’d confiscated our phones and watches, they distributed headlamps. No one ever looked each other in the eye—looking someone in the eye meant blinding them. We talked to each other staring down at feet and soon came to know everyone by their footwear as well as their faces. For example, Deandre had white loafers, so if you’d headflash onto white loafers, you’d say, “Hey there, Deandre.” Evelyn had pink Reeboks. Tony had penny loafers, sans pennies. I had sandals, but so did the other Jerry—I was Close-Toed Jerry and he was Open-Toed Jerry. I wondered how long that would stick, if my Member name—if I made it—would be Closed-Toed Jerry.
***
It wasn’t long before someone wondered if we could force the issue—i.e., knock a Candidate out—and move up a level. We tried it on Charlize (saddle shoes), experimenting on her because she’d been the one who wondered if we could force the issue. Hayward, in his tree climbers, picked her up and set her on the ground, butt first. Immediately, Members came for Charlize and we went up—it had worked. We then wondered if it would work with multiple people. We tried it on Veronica, whose sciatica was raging so she volunteered, and Open-Toed Jerry, who had massive corns and was deemed to have terrible judgment. Sure enough, two people out, two floors up.
Camps immediately developed that wanted to battle-royale it out, decide all this in one fell swoop: Last person standing makes it to the top, to Membership. Most of us, however, dissented. We were not fighters, firstly, but former farmers, plumbers, and concierges. We had also grown semi-fond of each other in our short time as Candidates. We ended the debate with a vote, and it was decided we’d stop forcing eliminations. It wasn’t worth becoming a Member if that’s what it took—basic decency had won out.
***
Because none of us could sleep without falling, time eliminated Candidates quickly enough. There were those of us who were never going to become a Member, the trial simply too vigorous; the elderly and the sick and the weak, along with the habitual nappers and narcoleptics, were gone before we knew it. This soon brought us to the first floor, to daylight, which reinvigorated us all—not a single Candidate was eliminated for some time.
Eventually, the sparkle of daylight wore off and more Candidates fell. It’d been a long time to go without sleep, let alone sitting down. To stay awake, we played memory games to relearn each other’s faces, the headlamps no longer necessary. (Soon, we all forgot whose shoes were whose.) Next, we sang songs with catchy refrains, songs that inspired us to stay upright. “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” was an early favorite but was soon replaced by “Stand,” the peppy R.E.M song. Damian, formerly of combat-boot notoriety, sat down on purpose after the hundredth-straight rendition, choosing to forsake Membership rather than hear “Stand” ever again.
***
Near the fiftieth floor, someone postulated that there were other Headquarters, other routes to Membership. After all, we could see other buildings from our building’s windows, so it made sense. What else would they be doing in these buildings? Commerce? Government? Living?! Some Candidates theorized the easier route might be these other Headquarters. That was absurd: Our Headquarters was the way to Membership—any other Headquarters was false and would lead to elimination and elimination only. Exactly one Membership existed and our Membership was thatMembership—not these bogus Memberships forming in other buildings.
Rebellion persisted. A few Candidates sat down, eliminating themselves automatically, insisting to be taken to the Headquarters across the street—those of us remaining did not believe any of them were taken anywhere but out. Next, a trio stepped out onto a window washer’s platform and pulleyed themselves down to the ground, ran across the street, and entered that building. We weren’t sure what happened to them, wondering if we’d ever know. The next group, nearly a third of us who were left, opened the freight elevator, hit the DOWN button, and ran to a different building a block away.
It was hours before the Members realized what had happened. None of them were sure what to do once they found out, but they held congress and chose to elevate us the proper number of levels. It was exhilarating, moving toward Membership so quickly.
Still, all of us had to be thinking the same thing: What if those Candidates who left for other buildings were on a better path to Membership, if we were the ones on the false path? Our legs and eyelids heavy, doubt crept into the Candidacy.
***
When there were less than thirty of us, we did our best to hold each other up. We reminisced about our shoes, how we got to know each other in that strange way. We also looked ahead, toward being Members. We sang “Stand” some more. Every few hours, someone would nod off, collapse to the ground, and the rest of us would be promoted. Evelyn tripped over the untied laces of her pink Reeboks and was removed. We regretted Evelyn more than most rejected Candidates, her fall so avoidable, so absurd.
***
When we were down to eleven, the PA system announced that after the next fall, the remaining ten candidates would be selected for Membership.
Days passed without elimination, no one wanting to be the last Candidate ousted. We held each other up, literally now, muscles running on pure adrenaline. When the adrenaline ran out, we developed a system, a pyramid of sorts, where someone could stand in the middle of the floor, everyone else leaning into them, allowing us to fall asleep in the standing position. We drew straws and I was chosen as the initial center Candidate. I was lucky: I could fall asleep and the weight of the other ten candidates pushing inward would keep me upright. Someone on the outer ring would fall and it would be over. I started to envision myself as a Member. I drifted off, smiling.
Instead, when I woke, I was being carried to the service elevator, the elimination elevator: I was the one who had fallen. I watched as Members escorted the remaining ten Candidates to the freight elevator, where they’d rise and accept their Membership. I heard rejoicing. I saw happiness. I felt joy. I traveled the ninety-one stories back down, regretful, but also angry, sad, and frustrated.
When the elevator reached street level, the Members said I was close, but if I wasn’t cut out for Membership, I wasn’t cut out for Membership. The doors closed and that was that. I did not know where to go, having invested my whole world in Membership. I spied a group lining up outside, 145 new Candidates, and tried to slip myself within their number. Within seconds, Members appeared and dragged me from the group, carried me into the street, and told me not to come back. I wasn’t cut out for Membership: I should start accepting that and move on.
By chance, I saw the door to the building across the street open. A sign saying WELCOME, written in black marker on a sheet of loose leaf, was taped to the glass. It was the building the three Candidates who used the window-washing platform had gone into. I walked through the open door and to the Information desk. I told the receptionist I wanted to apply for Membership. He smiled and handed me a laminated ticket with a number on it, 8227319. He pointed me toward an elevator. I went inside and pressed the only button, UP. I rose and rose.
The doors opened to a room full of Members. I saw the three window-washer Candidates. They waved when they saw me. I saw the final ten Candidates from across the street, the winners, and they waved as well. In fact, all the candidates from across the street were there—Deandre, Charlize, Hayward, Damian, Evelyn, everybody—interacting with the rest of the Members, thousands of them, somehow in the same building, in the same enormous room.
A Member came up to me and asked me to follow him. It was Open-Toed Jerry, who I’d forgotten. He’d made it! He brought me up onto a stage and spoke into a microphone. Every Member in the room stopped talking and looked my way. Open-Toed Jerry said, “I’d like to introduce you to Jerry, our newest Member.” The room buzzed with applause. I stepped down and shook hands with Members I’d never met before, learning their names: Marion. Bill. Ephram. Jan. I found a table with chilled champagne and giant shrimp. I was told to drink and eat my fill.
The bell dinged on the elevator and another new Member came in and was introduced: Sally. Then another: Ryan. Then William. Then an Oliver, a Blake, and a Euripedes. They were all as exhilarated as I was to be Members, glowing. We all stood chatting, sipping from flutes, munching shrimp. I hadn’t slept in weeks. I couldn’t sleep now if I tried.
~~~
Michael Czyzniejewski is the author of four collections of stories, most recently The Amnesiac in the Maze (Braddock Avenue Books, 2023). He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Moon City Press and Moon City Review, as well as Interviews Editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. He has received a fellowship from the National Endowment of the Arts and two Pushcart Prizes.