The Pent Umbrage of the Tempy, Part I

You look around the mailroom.

No one else is here. It is absolutely silent. There isn’t even the faintest whisper of movement. Of air, of water, of earth, of burning. ( How is this place heated, anyway? How is it ventilated? Funny. You've worked here for thirteen years and never asked yourself these questions…You've taken a lot for granted.)

The place is cluttered with all sorts of equipment. Some of it state of the art, some of it defunct, obsolete, antique. Printing presses with moveable type, probably from the eighteenth or nineteenth century. You'd have to be a historian to know for sure. Probably no one in THE FIRM knows how to use it. Why don’t “they” get rid of it?

THE FIRM is closed for the day.

After business hours, there is no reason to linger in the mailroom. There is nothing not related to business which is interesting here. There are no books down here—not even books relating to THE FIRM’S business. Because THE FIRM’S computers shut down automatically precisely at the close of business,you can’t use them to entertain yourself.

You don’t really know why you are lingering down here today. You just have a feeling you are done with the place. You are staying here longer today because you will not stay with THE FIRM very much longer.