A Regular Day

3...2...1… Three o’clock. Two more hours to go until I go home, see the dog, and open a beer. 59...58...57…

Jason Stevens works a regular job, at a regular office, in a regular city. He’s been working there for twenty-seven years, first out of high school needing a job, and now to pay the mortgage, and help the kids through school. He doesn’t love his job, but he appreciates it and the stability it provides. Luckily his wife Margarete also works - as a teacher - so they can go on a nice date here and there and the movies. 

On this particular day at this particular job, Jason has been stuck with paperwork. The stacks as high as small hills and as bright as the snow. If he closes his eyes it almost seems like he’s outside enjoying the first frost and playing with his children. He can even smell the cold, as many do, approaching his bones. Wait a minute - that’s not a daydream. Jason opens his eyes and to his astonishment there are flakes gently floating outside his window. That can’t be, it’s August, he ponders aloud. He walks to the window and touches the glass. The bite of cold greets his fingertips telling him his eyes are telling the truth. A big smile graces his face. Although he still has some time left until he can leave his regular job and its regular building, he knows when he gets home he can let the dog out and start a fire. Margarete loves fires. 

Attention employees! Attention employees! This place has a loudspeaker - since when, he thinks. Due to the current weather conditions and expected blizzard this evening all personnel are requested to leave early. Submit your time slips as usual at the end of the week. Sweet! Don’t mind if I do. Jason hurriedly gathers his belongings, his coat, his folders, and the pocketknife Margarete had engraved for him last Christmas. Never a big fan of tight spaces, Jason opts for the stairs and shortly arrives four flights down to the parking deck. He walks to his car only to realize he forgot something - his keys. Crap, can’t go anywhere without those, he thinks. Resolved, he turns around and heads back up to his office to retrieve his keys he left in this desk drawer. 

As Jason exits the stairwell and enters his office something feels...off. Probably nothing he thinks to himself and begins to search through his desk. Aha! Gotcha! He exclaims holding up his keys to no one in particular. Just as he does the room goes dark. Crap. Either the generator blew or corporate changed their minds. Accustomed to working late and leaving in less than illuminated conditions, Jason heads towards the stairs. Flight three...flight two...flight - Bang! He misses a step and falls backward, landing hard on his wrist and back. Lying there supine, he takes a minute to regain his breath as the fall knocked it out of him. Slowly he sits up and mutters a few choice words to no one in particular. He checks that everything is still there. Keys? Check. Folders? Check. Pocketknife? Pocketknife? He searches his pockets and finds nothing. He checks where he fell and the ground nearby, but it's gone. She’s going to be pissed, he thinks. Dismayed, he begins descending the final flight of stairs. 

He makes it down, and gingerly reaches to open the door with his damaged wrist. It won’t budge. He tries the other door. Nothing. He tries kicking it, shoving it, yelling at it and nothing. He’s locked in. It’s a damn snow day and he’s stuck at work. He reaches into his pocket thinking he might call the fella on security - what’s his name, Ken? Kevin? - but what he finds instead is a broken case and black screen. Not only did he lose his pocketknife he also broke his phone. Now he’s really in trouble. He dashes back up the stairs to see if any of the office lines are working. Dead. He tries another office. Dead. Don’t panic he thinks, Margarete will realize when I don’t get home and come looking. At most that will only be an hour. Two max. So, Jason decides to wait. He finds an unfamiliar office and takes a seat, waiting until his wife comes looking. 3...2...1…

When he wakes it’s even colder and whatever light there had been from the sun is gone. He checks his watch. 8:30. Margarete didn’t come.  No one did. Maybe something happened. Maybe she was in an accident or someone broke in?! He starts to panic. He runs to the other side of the building and tries those doors. Locked. He tries desk phones. Dead. He yells at the top of his lungs. Nothing. He’s trapped. The air is getting thicker, closing in around him. The walls are growing, towering over his head. His heart is screaming - let me out! Not knowing what to do he runs. He runs down the hall, and around a corner, descending another flight of stairs and another. He does not know where he’s headed, but it’s getting warmer. The air is thinning and his heart calms. Before long he is bent up against a wall catching his breath. Gradually, he looks around trying to remember how he got here. 

He’s in the basement - the old boiler room where all the heat vents from. There’s cleaning supplies and old desks, and boxes of old papers stacked around him. It smells earthy, and calm. He walks towards the boiler hoping to warm up his cold hands and body now that his cold sweat has dried. He finds a not too dusty chair and drags it over, setting himself up for a long night. If no one is coming then at the very least his car will be found in the morning and someone will start asking questions. With that thought, he drifts off to a fitful sleep.

Jason? Jaaaason? He wakes. Ever since he was a child he would always wake up when someone called his name. Now, he assumes it is at last his wife, or at least the security guy - Ken or Kevin or whatever. 2:46 AM. He looks up, but sees no one. He turns around to where he thought he heard the voice, but the room is empty save for him. His teeth begin to chatter and he sees that the boiler has gone out. The 600 pound piece of metal whose sole purpose is to provide heat, has broken. Crap. He looks around for anything that could keep him warm for the duration of the night. While he was sleeping the temperature plummeted. When he stood feet felt like bricks. Solid and stuck to the ground. He tried to move them, but nothing happened. He looked down and they were as blue as the sea. He knocked them together and they clinked like the wine glasses Magarete loves so much. Slowly ice is forming on him, freezing the rest of his body as it had his feet. Jason. He turns around desperately trying to discern where the voice was coming from. He tries in vain to move, but his body will not. He can feel the cold creeping up, now past his knees and to his hips. Soon, he realizes, he will be frozen. His desperation only grows and he begins to panic. In his effort to move he stumbles, and falls. Catching himself with his wrists he looks down. His pocketknife. Jason B. Stevens engraved on the handle. Suddenly, it’s clear. He can either suffer through slowly freezing to death or he can make a choice. He ice creeps higher, now up to his stomach. He grabs the knife and flips it open. It’s blade gleems beautifully, reflecting the love he puts into polishing it every night. Firmly, he moves the knife to his neck placing it where he can feel his heartbeat the loudest. The ice creeps up. His breaths are painful as the ice crystals begin to solidify his lungs. He takes one last deep breath and says on the count of 3. 3...2...1… and he pushes. 

JASON! He opens his eyes. Margarete is there, bundled up in his old sweatshirt. She’s standing next to the night security guard. His badge reads Wren. Jason looks down and checks his watch. 5:30. Margarete did come when he wasn’t home. She must have found the security guard and checked the building for him. He looks around to see he is in the first unfamiliar office. He quickly checks his pocket and finds his pocketknife  pushed to the bottom. It was all a dream, he sighs in relief. What? Margarete asks. Let’s go home Jason it’s freezing. Gleefully, he stands up and follows his wife outside while Wren locks the door behind them. The snow has made a thick blanket by now, covering the ground with its beauty. Jason takes one look around to assure himself he is not dreaming. No. Just another regular day, at a regular job, at a regular office. He takes out his pocketknife to make sure it too is real. Jason B. Stevens is carved on the handle. He breathes a sigh of relief, that is, until he opens it and sees the blood.