The Alternative

I never open my mail. Not even flip through it.

Given the following reasons:
# 1. Pizza fliers instigate nausea.
# 2. I receive pizza fliers exclusively.

This is the era of electronic mail, mass-takeaway and uninsured sound devices from the East. So when the postman knocks on my door earlier this evening, I quickly dis-exist and ignore all pizza propaganda. I do have some political standing on the matter.

He keeps knocking, eventually reverting to the bell which I must short-circuit.
I rub my eyes until they gain that special Texas Chainsaw Massacre glow and proceed to the door. What do you know? A small citizen, hardly an official figure, with a medieval letter. Furthermore, my you-just-lugged-me-outta-precious-sleep glare has no effect on the guy; he hardly bothers to look up.

Go to hell.

The letter looks like a scam which somebody put much thought into. That sounds like an oxymoron; if you want to swindle people, you should remember to evaluate your potential profits against your initial debit and someone here clearly got his formula wrong. Unless they know what they're talking about.

But this person cannot possibly know. How could they nominate, elect and prize my old essay, half-fabricated due to chemical intake at the time? I do not need to rummage though my computer to verify what I've sent them all those months ago; a sprawling piece about Bolivia, so laden with culturally-confused mythology that no one would ever consider it non-fiction.

Maybe the judges were hit by a culture shock.

I call my agency, informing them that I cannot work on the 15th due to Climate Change Day; it brings about early psychosomatic rheumatism. In any case, the Japanese Tourist prefers the South during late spring, and I currently have a very shallow tour-guiding agenda. Then, I calculate debit/profit according to my scheme and figure that it won't hurt to check this scam out. Obviously, I go alone, very alone; I do not wait for the company car to pick me up. Why would they provide directions in the first place?

The building is being renovated at one corner, hence I miss the entrance. Upon discovery, I wind up having that guide's conscience riot, which generally hits me when I take the wrong exit on a highway or miss my aisle in the supermarket. Not to mention that I've wrenched my umbrella in the process.
My shoes squeak up the stairs, leaving precise footprints. They could be following me. There could be CCTV circulating, monitoring my steps with their glossy little eyeballs.

There are none. There is nothing of a menacing aura about this place, despite the terrible weather. It's just that I am a little – lost?

I hear a car revving downstairs, followed by a man's voice instructing somebody to go up two flights, enter an open-plan office, and take a seat. I race another set of stairs up, nearly fly over a miniature dead palm, and collapse on a bench.

I leap up, plant the umbrella next to the palm, compose a swift mental eulogy for both objects, and return to the bench.