Eston strolled regally to the office building’s entrance, then begrudgingly opened the front door, as if irritated that it hadn’t opened on its own. Right by the door, in the lobby, he saw a simple metal stand brimming with freshly printed newspapers. He rolled his eyes dismissively after seeing they were from the Los Angeles Times, then began scanning one of the papers in search of the date. He already knew the date. He checked it twice that morning using his preferred newspaper, the Los Angeles Caller. Once, immediately after waking up, and once more after rereading “Crawling Into The Concrete Cavern,” his most recent addition to his column, Critique Esthétique. Out of fear of missing the reservation, he was compelled to check one last time, in case the date had changed on the 30-minute drive from his apartment. A sigh of relief crept from his mouth as his eyes settled, yet again, on August 17, 1962. But for some unknown reason, his anxiety returned when he caught a glimpse of one of the headlines that read: “Through your most grievous fault.” He could have sworn he had heard that phrase before, but there was something different in the wording that made him feel a bizarre sense of dread.
“Eston Thornwall?” An angelic voice seemed to sing from behind the front desk. The pit in his stomach went away as he gazed up at a beautiful young woman with a golden blonde bob. Her straight curtain bangs accentuated her round, youthful face, and her large eyes sat atop her rosy cheeks like two blue suns rising over two pink hills. But Eston was not taken by her beauty; he didn’t seem to prefer the company of women, nor men for that matter, and neither preferred his. What had taken him was hearing his name uttered with so much enthusiasm. In an instant, his dreadful expression had been replaced with the look of a curious child.
“Why, yes…” he began with surprise before standing upright and strutting toward the desk. He straightened his tailor-made suit, adjusted his cufflinks, and looked down at the secretary through the thick round rims of his glasses, which rested at the bottom of his long, sharp nose. With a face overflowing with fraudulent confidence, he asked rhetorically, “You recognize me?”
“No, sir,” said the secretary in a tone as benevolent as it was oblivious. “You are the only person picking up keys today. You are staying the night at the Drako House, correct?” she asked, smiling ear to ear.
His smirk melted back into his permanent scowl. “Oh… yes,” he grumbled.
The secretary’s genuine excitement kept her unaware of Eston’s unpleasant demeanor. “I just know you are going to love this house! I must admit, I’m jealous of you, being able to spend a night in Nora Drako’s newly finished house. You know only a handful of people will get to see it until she moves in herself and I’m sure you know how reclusive Ms. Drako is. Gee, I took this job just so I could meet her and I still haven’t been able to see her in person! Can you believe it? No press, no interviews, nothing, even though she is the greatest modern architect to-”
“The keys,” said Eston, sharply.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. I get carried away sometimes. I just really admire Ms. Dra—”
“A fraud,” Eston stated plainly.
“What?” asked the secretary, in genuine astonishment.
“Ms. Drako is nothing more than an abstract artist who dares to take up the third dimension with her monstrosities…”
The sentence felt like a slap in the face to the secretary, which is exactly what Eston intended.
“In an attempt to create something new in this world of half-baked copies, she has built homes shaped like copy machines; concrete boxes upon concrete boxes…”
As he went on, the secretary’s smile and Eston’s scowl slowly traded places.
“And now, in the humbly named ‘Drako House,’ she has built the greatest monstrosity yet — I’m sure of it.” Eston’s long-toothed grin slowly revealed itself as he reveled in the defeated look on the secretary’s face. These were the last lines of his most recent article. He recited them word for word.
The pink hills on the secretary’s face flattened and the once bright pair of blue suns now sat extinguished, as her eyes pooled with water. Paying no mind to the distress he had caused, Eston added, “But it will make for a good column, won’t it, darling?” He let out an aristocratic chuckle and reached out the pale open palm of his right hand. The secretary said nothing. All of the joy that animated her was gone. She grabbed the keys off the rack mechanically and her hand held them as if they were already infected by his touch. She dropped the keys into his palm as one would drop a used tissue into a trash can. His long bony fingers snatched them like a beartrap. “Thanks, darling,” he said victoriously while giving a shallow bow.
The secretary remained silent. The bells on the office door rang as Eston exited, giving a single tear permission to stream down her beautiful face.