I walked up the path that led to the building. The entryway was ornamented with white marble that shined against the sun rays. The doors were made of thick glass that was cleaned so much that you could see your own reflection. I pushed the door open and stepped into the reception area. It was like stepping into a five star hotel. Marble, glass and steel were everywhere. Black leather couches and fluffy white carpets all added to the grandeur of the place. The smell of disinfectants filled the air. Someone has been busy cleaning all year long. A couple of lone synthetic trees stood in two corners of the space. I turned around to the reception bench and saw a smartly dressed receptionist who had a smile pasted on her face. I greeted her and asked if there were any vacant apartments for rent. She nodded her head and disappeared into a door at the back. A couple of minutes later she walked out and gave me a set of keys. On the label was the following: ‘Unit 1008’. I cringed at the label. ‘Unit’ was not something I wanted to live in. But I took the keys politely and headed to the tenth floor.
The elevator, like everything in the building, was a portrait of clean lines and cleanliness. I pressed the button to the allocated floor. A computerized voice of a woman uttered: ‘Doors closing’ and I jumped in surprise. What was that for? Suddenly, the doors opened. I didn’t realize that I reached the floor for there was no sudden stop or jolt. As I stepped out of the elevator, a huge painting greeted me. It hung on a white wall. I looked at it intently and realized it was a print of some eccentric artist’s work. I didn’t understand the haphazard lines that crossed the canvas trying to communicate the artist’s ideas. It had no feel to it. I walked down a brightly lit corridor that had numerous doors on each side. Numbers were printed on wooden doors. Doors 1001, 1002, 1003 dashed by until I reached in front of a door that read ‘1008’. I opened the door with the key I had and stepped into a narrow darkened hall which led into a small living room. The windows I saw from the outside blocked out the sun making the room feel like a coffin for the living. Marble floors stretched throughout the entire space and white walls divided the rooms.
I turned on the lights and could see that the living room opened onto a tiny kitchenette. It had stark white cupboards and stainless steel appliances. I turned around stepped back into the living room and took another narrow corridor that led into an even smaller space- the bedroom. It was big enough to house a small bed, a side table and a vanity table. The window was high up in the ceiling, making it difficult for any natural light to enter. In the wall was an enclave that housed a tiny closet. I opened it to check the space and found a compartment for hanging clothes and another divided by small shelves. I closed the closet, turned back and walked out of the room and into another door on the left. The bathroom was the smallest space in the whole apartment. It barely housed a shower, bidet and sink. It was physically impossible for two to fit in the bathroom at the same time. I felt claustrophobic and left immediately. It was depressing.
As I walk back to the space they call a living room, anger starts seeping through me. How could they build such things? All beautiful and shiny on the outside but depressing and prison-like on the inside. We are human beings, aren’t we? Suddenly I feel like a hamster in a cage and a wheel in the corner for my entertainment. I stand in the middle of the living room and realize I can’t take it anymore. So I rush to the door and leave. As I stand in the corridor to lock the door, I am suddenly acquainted with silence I have never felt before. I look down each end of the corridor and see no one in sight. I try to concentrate more intently in hopes of hearing a sound… any sound that indicates the presence of people in the building. Nothing. Just the vibrations of silence hitting at me from every direction and taunting me, pointing at me, telling me that it won to dissipate the spirit of humans.
I rush down to the corridor and decide I do not want to take that freaky elevator. So I open a door marked ‘Staircase’ and rush down in fervor. I want to get out of this place immediately. And so I go round and round and downwards at the speed of light until I get to the ground floor, open another door and throw myself into the starkness and emptiness of the reception area. The smart lady at the reception looks up at me in confusion. I walk up to her, breathless but relieved. I hand her the keys as she asks, “The elevator is not working, ma’am?” I look at her and say, “No it is working properly….actually too properly.” She continues, “Did you like the unit?” I cringe at the word and say, “No, I didn’t.” The expression on her face is that of insult. “Ma’am, this is the best building in the area and our standards are high.” I look around me and say, “Maybe, but it feels like living in a morgue. Thank you for your time.” I open the immaculately cleaned glass doors and head out. The sun greets me and the blueness of the sky smiles down at me. As I leave the immaculately designed block and near the hustle and bustle of the street, I feel alive.
