The Man Who Falls

 I'm worried about the man falling over in our office. 

It took a while to notice him, of course, because it took a while to get my bearings. I had just moved from Maine (there's more work as a compliance consultant in Southern California), and so much was new and unusual. The heat in November, the alien vegetation, all of which I slowly acclimated to… But the old man that falls over in our office-- often flailing and taking stacks of papers down with him-- he's particularly strange.

When I ask other people in the office, like I asked Parker in billing about this guy, the response I get is always the same. A shrug of the shoulders, a slight chuckle, and a small shake of the head, "that's Eddard, just ignore him." 

How can I just ignore him? At least once a day, this guy just straight up falls over. Sometimes in the kitchen. Sometimes at the copier. Once, he was holding a full cup of coffee which he spilt all over himself. Burning, scalding. A small whimper…

It can be pretty loud too. I swear to God, his head slammed into a filing cabinet last week, and it sounded like a bomb. I popped up from my cubicle, and there was Eddard, slowly standing, rubbing his noggin. No one else even moved or went to help him. He picked up the files he had scattered all over the floor, mumbling to himself.

He's constantly mumbling to himself under his breath. It almost sounds like he's growling. Sometimes, if I strain hard enough, I make out a solid curse word or two.

It took me a while to figure out where he even worked, like, where in our office, what department. He toppled a stack of empty cardboard boxes last week while I was on a break, and I decided to follow him... Away from the cubicles and my own little comfort zones, the places I know I can loiter and procrastinate without management noticing. He wandered off into a hallway. I followed him-- peeking out from dimly lit corners, my footsteps muffled by the old tacky, patterned maroon carpet-- to a part of the office that I had never seen. And I was stunned.

His office is huge. Gorgeous. Hanging from the ceiling are these lush plants in colorful, glazed ceramic pots. Windows overlooking the palms and terra cotta rooves ubiquitous in Southern California. It is clean like nothing else in this office is, like everywhere else there's this dust slowly accumulating over everything else, but his office is spotless, shiny. 

So now I'm pissed off. 

Who the fuck is this guy?

Seriously, it seems like his position in the company is just that he wanders around, and falls over, sometimes creating hours of work for other people. Like there's this intern Lisa. She spent two hours alphabetizing purchase orders, and Eddard walks through, cursing under his breath, and he trips over his own feet, tackling a two foot tall stack of papers. Lisa had tears in her eyes as she helped this guy up, and he didn't apologize or nothing, just walked off.

I need to get to the bottom of this.

I took Parker in billing out for a beer. Parker is in his early forties, bald, the gut of a comfortable man. We were draining beers, talking about new aches and pains creeping into our bones, when I bought another pitcher, leaned in and went, "so for real... tell me about Eddard."

"There's nothing to tell," Parker said. "He's been with the company since the 70s.”

 “Right, but.. who is he? What does he do?”

 “Acquisitions or something? I don’t really know. All I know is he’s been with the company for a long time. Just ignore him.”

That’s it! That’s fucking it! This useless guy just wanders around our office, falling, creating a hazardous work environment. Breaking glass… Seriously! He hit his head on one of the windows and cracked it. I am looking right now over my cubicle at a cracked window from a guy that does “acquisitions or something.” I can’t tell if I should be upset with my coworkers for ignoring it, or upset with the fact that this guy is even allowed to walk around without a chaperone. For real this is just…

He lives in a mansion!

Yes. I followed him home. Because, come on, I had to! This man is an enigma. I need to know everything about him. I mean, I moved here by myself, so it’s not like I have a family to go home to or anything. So I waited to leave work until he wandered out. I waited for him in the lobby, put a newspaper up to my face and everything, just like in the old black and white detective movies. He walked to a bus stop (I was relieved to see he doesn’t drive). I followed him onto the bus, worried he might see me, but the bus was crowded, and I was able to squeeze behind a tall man with a thick stink.

I followed him off the bus, down a very pleasant street. A nice part of town…

And he walks up the driveway of this veritable palace. Holy crap. I almost shit myself.

I made sure no one was watching me, and I crept up to his windows. Hidden in the shadows I peeked in, trying to get a glimpse of the life this guy is leading. He has a grand piano. Large modern art fills the walls. He’s got that kind of open space that only the wealthy can afford, with great, gorgeous furniture. You can tell someone who thinks they have taste decorated the place, but that was the strange thing…

There was no one else there.

I didn’t see another person. I just watched Eddard make himself spaghetti, pour some red sauce over top and sit down to watch Jeopardy on his massive TV. Then at about 9 he wandered upstairs and presumably went to sleep.

So now I follow this guy home two or three times a week. Because I have to. Because there’s something about him that draws me in closer and closer. What is his deal? What is his purpose? Why does he have so much? Why is his falling tolerated? Why is it that when I look at him, I get so enraged? 

Is this what I have to look forward to in life? Lonely wandering from home to work and back, stumbling, tumbling, ignored by all…

Then. The inevitable…

I follow him, same as every other night. His backyard fence is easily scaled, and from there I can move freely in the dark, shadowing his daily routine. I crouch behind a large potted tree outside his glass doors, under the pale moon. Studying him. Same as every night. I cannot remember what it was I used to do for fun. I cannot recall how I used to pass the time. I only know Eddard and his routine, his familiar patterns…

He finishes his dinner. Scrapes his plate into the trash. Rinses it, puts it in the dishwasher.

Then his wooziness takes hold. 

There’s a face he makes before the falls… A pure expression of dizziness… The face a man makes before consciousness loses its footing. He reaches out for something to stabilize him, but he can’t find his footing. So…

He topples. Falls. His flailing arm knocks over a jar of marinara sauce. It shatters red on the floor.

His head splits open on his marble countertop with a hollow thud. His eyes roll back into his head. His hand twitches like he’s trying to grab something unseen, something on the other side… The blood and the sauce mix together on the floor. I stand, frozen. I know I need to call someone. But how would I explain. What would I say?

Work has been a lot duller lately. Sure, there’s plenty of compliance consultation to be done, but the office is quieter. Sober. Less excited. Less talking.

Less Eddard to ignore.