Sound Stage

Matt Robertshaw

I find myself lying on my back on a hard surface. I open my eyes pointlessly. I’m straining to adjust to the smothering darkness when a tiny light flickers on directly above my face. I am walled in on every side. A crude coffin. I touch the cold, splintery surface to my right. I bang my fist on it once. Useless. A scraping sound to my left. I swivel my achy neck to see a small panel slide open. Fine sand starts to pour through the opening. Scrambling toward the opposite side, I shout out and then hold my breath. I try to block the opening with my hands but it’s no use. The growing sea of sand begins to overtake me.

A bell rings in the distance. A muffled female voice announces: “Alarm clock. Cut.”

With a click the walls around me are lifted an inch from the floor. A hard light streams into my coffin. I blink.

Disoriented, Trevor awoke in a cold sweat. What an awful dream. Mechanically, he sat up in his bed and reached to disable the chiming alarm clock. Alarm clock, he said to himself. Cut. He let the ringing continue, and paused a moment to mentally reconstruct his dream. He shuddered, remembering the experience of being buried alive — his greatest fear. And then there had been a moment of transition, a light and a voice. Who said that? He wondered aloud, shrinking back into his linen cocoon. I wonder if I could…

I’m back on the hard surface, half-buried in sand. The coffin is gone. A glare of tungsten emits from the ceiling high above. Two figures stand over me, uninterested in my presence. One is a woman in a dark grey suit with a calm but authoritative voice. She is holding a stack of manila folders. The other, a short man in coveralls with a grey moustache, carries a broom.

“Was the sand too predictable?” says the woman.

“I thought it was perfect,” says the man. “They call ‘em classics for a reason.”

“Yeah…” she sighs. “I just get tired of rehashing the same old motifs. It’s banal. I want to try for some innovation.”

“I don’t know about banal, Miss Nora. Seems to me you can’t forget about your subject. An avant-garde nightmare will only really work on a great mind, not some average slob like this kid.”

To emphasize his point, he beats his broom in the dirt pile, mere inches from my face.

“Watch it!” I say.

The two of them look down at me, incredulous.

“What’s he doing here?” says Miss Nora.

“Medic!” says the man with the moustache.

In an instant, two men in lab coats are kneeling at my side. One checks my pulse, the other shines a light into my eyes.

“He isn’t comatose,” says one.

“Of course I’m not. Where the hell am I?”

The two men help me into a wheelchair. I look around. It’s a large open room with lighting, stands and other equipment scattered here and there.

“Please remain calm, sir,” says one of the lab coats.

He slaps me in the face.

“Hey! Who do you think—”

“No response.”

“What do you mean—”

“Please remain calm, sir,” the other repeats. He turns to the mustachioed sweeper. “Otis, take him down to see Mr. Freud.”

“Sure thing, doc,” says Otis. He hands his broom to one of the lab coats and takes the handles of my wheelchair. He rolls me out the door.

We are in a long hallway. Both walls are lined with a series of identical doors.

“Wait,” I yell, grabbing the wheels and forcing us to stop. “Where are we going?”

A door to our left opens and a middle-aged bald man in glasses leans out into the hall.

“Please be quiet!” he hisses. He disappears back into the room and slams the door behind him. On the door, I notice a small plaque that reads: ‘Writing a Test.’ There are similar plaques on the other doors.

“Where are we going?” I ask more quietly.

“You heard the doc,” Otis replies. “I’m taking you to see the big cheese.”

“What are all these doors? What is this place?”

A scream emanates from another closed door.

“What was that?”

Otis leans in and reads the plaque. “Being chased,” he says. He turns back to me. “I don’t mean to rush you, chief, but I still have a pile of sand to clean up.”

He seems friendly enough. I don’t want to get him in trouble.

“I can walk,” I say, standing to my feet and the two of us begin down the hall. Straight ahead, someone is walking toward us. Maybe he can tell me what’s going on. As he approaches I notice he is soaking wet from head to toe, and is in full snorkeling gear.

“Afternoon, Brian,” says Otis.

The man in the snorkeling mask nods at us as we pass each other. The sloshing sound of his footsteps dies away behind us.

“Here we are,” says Otis, indicating a door.

The plaque on this door reads: ‘Evan Freud. Assistant Manager – Nightmare Division.’ Otis knocks. A woman’s voice calls us to enter. Inside is an impossibly small waiting room, hardly bigger than a closet. The secretary, whose desk takes up the better part of the room, looks up from her computer screen expectantly.

“He in?” Otis asks, gesturing at the door behind her.

“Take a seat,” she says. “He won’t be a minute.”

“I’ll leave you to it, chief,” Otis says. He leaves.

“Sit,” the secretary commands.

I look around. Since the only chair is currently occupied by the secretary, I take a seat on the carpet in the cramped space between her desk and the wall. She resumes her typing. Minutes pass. The room has no windows, and yet is terribly cold and drafty. I rub my hands together. From my spot on the floor I can’t see the clock on the wall. I stand to check the time.

“Please have a seat, sir,” the secretary says. “He won’t be a minute.”

“Any chance you could turn the heat up in here?”

“It won’t be much longer. Do you want a magazine?”

“No thanks. I—”

She continues typing. I return to my spot on the floor. The minutes crawl by. The second hand on the clock and the typing together drum a maddening symphony. Tick, tock. Tap, tap, tap. Tick, tock. Why is it so cold? This is unbearable. I need to get out of here.

I stand to leave.

“Mr. Freud will see you now,” she says.

I consider going back out the way I came in. But I decide I’m more likely to get answers from someone in charge than anyone I might encounter in that bizarre hallway. I squeeze past the secretary’s desk and open the door. I’m hit with a wall of warmth.

“Come in,” a man barks, “and close the door quickly.”

I do as I’m told. It is a large office with hardly any furniture. On the floor there is a bright green floral rug on top of a dirty grey carpet. The walls are bare. There are no shelves or paintings. A small square desk sits in the middle of the room, and a small round man sits at the desk. On the desk there is a telephone, a pen, a single sheet of paper and a large coffee mug. The man wears a short-sleeved collared shirt, has cropped red hair, and is sweating. It is, in fact, quite hot in the office. After being in the frigid waiting room, the welcomed heat quickly gives way to a new discomfort.

“Take a seat, son,” the man says.

I approach the desk. Unsurprisingly, there is no chair for me. The sweaty man notices this. He jumps to his feet and offers me his chair.

“Please, take a seat.”

I sit down in his spot. He shuffles over to where I was standing on the other side of the desk.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asks.

“It might help.”

“I’ll have Myrtle bring us a refill. How may I help you, son?”

“What is this place? Who are you people? Why won’t anyone give me a straight answer?”

“Whoa there, calm yourself, son. One thing at a time. Do I come to your workplace and inundate you with demands? Never. Now talk sensibly or I shall have to send you on your way. Now, what brings you here?”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out. I was in a box filling up with sand and then suddenly I’m in an office building.”

“Sand, you say?” He rubs his chin and begins pacing the floor. “Where is that coffee?”

“Yeah, some doctors checked my pulse and then told me to come see you.”

“Did they slap your face?’

“What? I mean, yeah they did.”

“Hmm. This is very serious,” he says, still pacing, and sweating all the more for it. “Very serious indeed. I’m afraid this falls outside of my job description. I’ll have to refer you to my boss.”

He reaches for the telephone. It rings. He looks at me, uneasy. He lifts the receiver and puts it to his ear. He turns the other way.

“Evan Floyd speaking,” he says. He turns back to face me. He holds the receiver out to me. “It’s for you.”

“For me?” I repeat. “But no one knows I’m here.”

I take the receiver.

“Brooks? Trevor Brooks?” a voice says on the line.

“Yeah…”

“Your presence is required in conference room D-12. It’s on the eighth floor. Please make your way there immediately.”

“Who is this­—” I say, but they’ve already hung up.

“What is it?” Mr. Freud asks.

“They told me to go to D-12…”

“Well you’d best be on your way.” He ushers me off of his chair and toward the door. He opens the door and adds: “It’s on the eighth floor.”

He pushes me back into the waiting room and closes the door behind me. The secretary looks up at me over her half-moon glasses, typing all the while.

“Have a delightful afternoon,” she says.

I scurry over her desk, knocking over a pot of dead petunias, and stumble back into the hallway. I look left and right. No sign of Otis. No sign of anyone. If there is one place I’m not going, it is conference room D-12 on the eighth floor. I head to the left, looking for a stairway or an exit sign. I need to get outside. Things will look better outside. I hurry past a few dozen doors, trying to be inconspicuous. I arrive at the end of the hallway undetected. There I find a double door with a sign saying: ‘The Mundane.’ I slip through the door and into the adjacent hallway. It too is lined with eerie doors. At the far end of the hall I see a tall man in a green sweater heading my way. Without thinking I force my way into one of the rooms to hide.

One half of the room looks exactly like the sound stage I woke up in. The other half is dressed to look almost convincingly like a convenience store. On the sound stage half, a group of crewmembers turn to me. One of them, a large man with a goatee in a turtleneck, walks up to me and puts his arm around my shoulder.

“You must be the new body man,” he says. “Go on. We’re ready for you. Remember, gum and a lottery ticket.” He leads me into the convenience store set.

A man in a turban stands behind the counter, counting packets of cigarettes. He turns to me as I approach.

“How can I help you, sir?” he says.

“Uh. Sorry. Uh. Gum? Gum and a lottery ticket…”

“Of course, sir.”

He turns to get my gum.

“Wait,” I say.

“Sir?”

“Wait, no. This isn’t real. None of this is real.”

“Pardon me…”

There’s a din from the other side of the set.

“You have to listen to me,” I say. “My name is Trevor Brooks. I live at 97 Meadowport Drive in…”

As I’m talking, one of the crewmembers comes on set.

“Trevor!” he says. “Forget the gum. We’re going to be late for class!”

He grabs me by the arm. I jump back, knocking over a shelf of potato chips.

“Let’s go,” he says forcefully. “Now.”

He ushers me back off set. The man in the turtleneck grabs me by the shoulder.

“What are you thinking?” He roars. “These are the Mundys not some paranoia piece.”

The door opens and the man in the green sweater walks in.

“Who are you?” says turtleneck.

“Derrick,” says green sweater. “The new body man.”

Turtleneck turns to me. “What are you trying to pull here?” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just need some air. What’s the quickest way outside?”

“Head around the corner into ‘Mares and all the way to the end of the hallway to the elevator. Now get offa my set!”

I stagger out the door. I dash back around the corner the way I came and run at top speed to the end of the hallway. There it is. The elevator! I press the down button repeatedly.

Ding. At last, the doors open! Seeing it’s occupied, I shrink back. Two men wheel a large glass aquarium out of the lift.

“Shark coming through,” one of the men announces.

I stand back and pray they don’t notice me. They pass by and I slip into the elevator. I press the ‘G’ button for the ground floor and then anxiously hammer the ‘Close Doors’ button. Those things never work. Finally the doors close it starts going… up? Dammit! Someone else must be getting on. Nowhere to hide…

A few floors up — ding — the doors open. My last hope of escape evaporates when a room full of people is revealed.

“Mr. Brooks, we’ve been waiting for you,” one among the crowd declares. I press ‘Close Doors’ again, but before it can fail to respond someone steps forward and pulls me into the room.

This room contains a large conference table, with many lights hanging above it. At one end of the table sit five wealthy-looking executive types. A small crowd of note-takers and other onlookers are gathered behind them. All the way at the other end of the table sits someone I recognize.

“Take a seat Mr. Brooks,” says one of the suits.

For once there is no shortage of chairs. I sit near the middle of the table.

“Mr. Brooks,” he continues, “where did you first meet the accused?”

“The who?”

“He means me, Trevor,” says the woman at the far end.

“Oh… I met her earlier today, in the room with the sand and the fake coffin.”

One of the on-lookers bellows out: “Let the record state that the witness, Mr. Trevor Brooks, met the accused, Miss Nora Kepler, on the 25^th of June of this year in the ‘Buried Alive’ sound stage in the Department of Nightmares where the latter works.”

“Hang on,” I say, “what’s going on here?”

“We’re asking the questions now Mr. Brooks,” says another suit. “Describe the events as you saw them starting with your arrival on the sound stage.”

“Really?”

“Really, Mr. Brooks. We don’t have all day.”

“The thing is, I hardly understand them myself.”

“Please try. You have nothing to fear Mr. Brooks, you’re not the one on trial.”

“Well… I woke up in a coffin. The coffin started filling with sand. Then I heard an alarm clock, Miss Nora said something and—”

“What did she say?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Mr. Brooks…”

“Something like ‘Alarm clock. Cut.’”

A wave of murmuring seeps through the crowd. The bellower says: “Let the record state that the accused, Miss Nora Kepler, broke protocol on this the 25^th of June, by calling ‘Cut’ before her subject was disengaged in clear violation of Article 173, section H, subsection 7 of the Oneirological Control Code.”

“Doctors Cannefort and Tibbs, can you ratify this testimony?”

“We can,” says one of the two doctors from the sound stage, who, it turns out, are both standing behind me.

“Then in accordance with the procedure laid out by Article 173, section H, subsection 7 of the Oneirological Control Code, I hereby sentence you to termination.”

Miss Nora lays her head down on the table and begins to weep softly. From behind me, the two doctors walk over to her and lift her to her feet. They lead her into the elevator. As soon as the doors close the tension breaks and everyone begins talking casually all at once.

“What just happened?” I ask the crowd. No one responds. “Hello? Where are they going? Termination? What does that mean?”

The suits get up out of their chairs and someone hands out cups of champagne. Everyone is talking and laughing and having a good time. They’ve forgotten my presence. The small crowd, as if a single organism, soon makes its way out of the room. I’m left alone. What have I done? What’s going to happen to that poor woman? I didn’t want to hurt anyone…

What am I saying? I didn’t want to come here in the first place! What’s going to happen to me? How do I get out of this building? How do I even get out of this room? Everyone went out the door, but where is the door?

I jump up and look around me. The window! I run over and look through the glass. What a miserable day! Nothing but fog. I can’t see six inches past the glass. I could try throwing a chair through the window but surely the eighth floor is too high to jump. If only Otis were here.

Ding. I turn to see the elevator doors open and reveal a smiling man holding a broom.

“Otis!” I shout, heading toward him.

"Evening, chief. Listen, I’ve done some digging and I’ve figured out how to get you out of here.”

“Honestly? Otis you’re my hero! Good timing too, I was starting to lose it there. Thinking about jumping out an eighth-storey window.”

“Heh heh. Follow me, chief. Let’s get you on your way.”

I step into the elevator. To my surprise, Otis presses ‘23’ — the top floor. We start ascending. To the ominous sound of smooth elevator music, I wonder how this escape is going to play out from the top floor. A helicopter lift, perhaps? The distance from 8 to 23 seems infinite. I try not to wonder what types of madness are going on on the floors we’re passing. Otis carelessly taps his broom to the slow groove.

Ding.

“Here we are,” says Otis.

The doors slide open. I gasp. The 23^rd floor isn’t a floor at all. All there is a 23 storey drop. Or rather, one can assume that’s what it is. The fog makes it impossible to tell.

“Bon voyage, chief,” Otis says, holding down the ‘Open Doors’ button.

“So I throw myself from the 23^rd floor?”

“That’s it. Off you go.”

“And I’ll end up back home?”

“Could do, chief. Not sure, really. Anyhow, it’s the only way out so far as I can tell.”

I walk to the ledge and peer over. Fog and more fog.

“Can I borrow this?” I say, taking the broom. I wave it in a useless attempt to clear the fog. Then I let it fall.

Otis grimaces. “Hey, that’s my—”

I gesture for him to be quiet. I listen for the sound of the broom hitting ground. Nothing. I stand there motionless, trying to build up the nerve to jump. I can do this. I can do this. I can’t.

“Listen,” says Otis. “I don’t mean to rush you, chief, but I still have a pile of potato chips to sweep up.”

“Do I have any other options?” I ask.

Otis seems not to have been expecting this.

“Well,” he says, “well, I guess you could stay here.”

“Here…?”

“You’d need a job.”

“A job…?”

“There’s a director position open in Nightmares.”

“…I could do that.”

I step back from the ledge. Otis presses ‘Close Doors’ and nothing happens. Soon the doors close on their own. Otis presses ‘4’ for Human Resources. The elevator music hums the accompaniment to my descent into my new life. Trevor Brooks. Director, Nightmare Division – Buried Alive Specialist. That’s going to be a good-looking business card.

Ding.