Temperatures outside the isolated station were cold enough that even inside the heat-generating metal walls, people’s breath still puffed in clouds as they moved through the halls, bumping each other continually because every corridor was only wide enough for one and a half average people, and the gravity’s pull on everyone, coupled with the indulgent diet designed to stave off depression, made everyone a little rounder than average.
Milt Sinew observed this again as he stood in the surface elevator waiting for the doors to close. He fished in his deep pockets and mentally grabbed hold of one of those last thoughts. A diet designed to stave off depression. It hadn’t worked too well. Everyone he knew was in a shade of the blues. Even he, the laughing, joker of the crew was only standing in this elevator because the trip up to the surface was long enough for him to let out a sigh.
The doors finally closed. There was a pause before the elevator began to progress upward. Milt drew in a breath, and sighed it out. His fingers finally found the box in his pocket, and he pinched inside it to draw one long white cigarette into view. He perched it between his lips and fumbled for the lighter in his other pocket. The smoke bobbed in and out of his vision as he raised the little flame to its end. The next moment he was breathing warmth and heat, the only warmth and heat that could be found around here.
The elevator dinged to a halt, faster than anticipated. Milt sucked smoke into the back of his throat as the doors opened and the ever-present janitor stared into the chamber.
“You coming out?” he asked through fat jowls that looked like extra marshmallows were stuffed in them.
Milt smiled thinly and shook his head once, holding his breath and mentally urging the doors to hurry up and close. Once they slid back shut over the blank face of the janitor, he exhaled, sending simultaneous bursts of smoke and breath vapor billowing into the chamber. Milt coughed. He was used to taking risks like that, and having them turn out fine. Usually the janitor wasn’t there.
The janitor. Milt pinched out his cigarette and shoved it back in his pocket. The burned patches on his thumb and forefinger were numb enough by now that he could do it without pain.
That janitor was an enigma. He’d been here as far as Milt could remember, yet no one knew his name. They only knew the blue coveralls and stubbly jowls, and the mop he was sometimes seen toting.
Milt absently fished a palm-sized can of air freshener from his pocket and sprayed it for a good fifteen seconds, till his nostrils reeled. Not enough to cover the smoke smell–nothing ever was–but this time it was brownie-scented, so before anyone noticed the smoke smell they’d be thinking about something else.
Whenever anyone saw the janitor, he was at the elevator door. Never down the hall, or near the sealed airlock to the surface, or even a little further down the hall. You never saw his back either. The man could have a hole in his pants large enough to display any number of ludicrous underwear choices, and no one would be the wiser.
At that thought, Milt smirked and the elevator doors opened back on the original level. He stepped out into the halls and was confronted with everyone’s attention. He thought he could sense their drooped heads pick up a little bit. Almost as if they expected a speech.
“Hello,” he said. They smiled.
They expected something funny. They always did. He scrambled around in his head for something.
“Forgot my keys,” he said. They chuckled and turned back to their work. Milt melted in along with them, looking for something else to do. As the joker around here, he was something like a captain. The only one who could keep his spirits high enough to make a decision.
He felt around in his pocket for the box of cigarettes, and counted them up by the feel. Three. There wouldn’t be another supply shipment for another four months. Let’s hope there aren’t more than three big decisions to make before then.