Love & Ladders

H. Ermés slouched against the pristine mirror walls of the elevator, going up, up, up. He grinned as the doors slid open, revealing the Mayor of Danlordo. The Mayor, with disheveled salt and pepper hair, stood with an eager smile and was prepared with a well-oiled handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ermés,” the politician said, his flashy smile revealing too-white veneers. “And welcome to Danlordo, ‘The City Mid.’” He shook H. Ermés’ hand before H could even cross the threshold of the elevator. “We’re eager to discuss your new art installment in our fair city. I believe you mentioned a sculpture?” the Mayor said, practically salivating. A small group of cheap suits and cheaper morals crowded the back of the Mayor’s office, ensconced in blue cigarette smoke.

“Yes,” H. Ermés said smoothly. He wiped his hand on his pants, now free of the Mayor’s clutches. “I took the liberty of scouting the perfect location.” He paid the gathered audience no mind.

“Of course,” the Mayor said in reverent awe. “And what, if I may be so bold to ask, is the subject matter of this beautiful piece?”

“A ladder,” H said, noticing the hungry glint in the Mayor’s eye. 

An original H. Ermés sculpture would be sure to elevate the city as a top destination for the fine arts and all of the frivolous spending associated with such scenes. H could practically see the Mayor counting stacks of dollar bills through the reflection in his pupils. 

“Ah,” the Mayor said, nodding with what he hoped conveyed nonchalance. It did not. “I see. No doubt a commentary on social mobility, a symbol of man’s ascent to a higher state of being.”

H smiled. This would be too easy. He clapped a hand on the Mayor’s shoulder. “Sure,” he said, “Why not.” He led the Mayor towards the smoke covered flock.

Cecil P. Lanner was buried in paperwork. Cecil was always buried in paperwork. He sighed, scrubbing a hand down his tired face, and left a smudge of ink on the bridge of his nose. 

He’d spend the better part of the last five quarters meticulously planning traffic light patterns, adjusting street flow, and proposing new jurisdictions. His work was perfect. It was orderly.

That was, until the city announced it’s partnership with hot short artist H. Ermés. Cecil’s jaw clenched, his fingers gripped his pen, cutting off the circulation to his fingertips. H. Ermés with his effortlessly cool and adoring fans. But what did H.  Ermés know about city planning? Who had given him free reign to pick the site for his next installment? A ridiculous 300 foot tall ladder over the busiest highway that connected the North and South sides of the city. What could go wrong? Cecil rolled his eyes just thinking of the monstrosity. 

A lot, that’s what! But would anyone listen to Cecil? No. It would be his job to fix the inevitable clusterfuck. Disruption to traffic alone would occupy his working life for the next seven quarters at least. Cecil sighed again. He would do his best to get ahead of things now to ease the consequences sure to follow the unveiling of that damned structure next week.

His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his grim workflow state. He blinked. That was odd. His phone was set to work-mode until 5:15pm, it should still be on silent. He glanced at the clock; it read 7:43pm. He shook his head; looking out the window he saw the sun’s sleepy descent behind the city skyline. He tossed his pen aside and rubbed his eyes. He’d done it again. He hadn’t felt the minutes drain away. 

He picked up his phone, his pulse rapidly intensified when he saw the name, her name, on the voice memo notification. He opened the memo and pressed play, hunching eagerly over the phone. His heart broke all over again at the sound of her sweet voice.

“Hey Cece, it’s Penelope.” He could tell by the sound of her voice that her hair was now pink. “Listen, I’ll be in town for the H.  Ermés unveiling,” Cecil’s finger clenched around the phone. Damn Ermés. “If you find the time to tear yourself away from work -,” Cecil’s heart lurched with regret. “- maybe we can meet for hookah. Sorry, coffee. I’d love for you to meet Elwood.”

Cecil felt a pang of jealousy. Elwood? Who was Elwood? A free-spirited sexpot who knew how to clock out on time? No doubt this Elwood came from family money to boot. 

“Anyway,” her voice went on, “let me know. And Cecil?...take care of yourself.” 

The sculpture was unveiled with no shortage of pomp & circumstance accompanied with free-flowing champagne. There was certainly no shortage of disruption and chaos. There it stood, a massive metal A-frame ladder towering over 300 feet over the SR-583. The tourist buses alone backed up southbound traffic for nine miles. The horns blared and everyone shook their fists, mouthing all sorts of obscenities from the security of their vehicles.

In time, hundreds of thousands of commuters would pass under the Ladder to Heaven’s gleaming arches, gazing in awe.

They hadn’t felt the rend in spacetime, hadn’t seen the spirits attach themselves. It was as if the city at large had forgotten what they say about passing under ladders, and what is let loose by doing so. 

The city, already split into North and South by the highway, began to shift. To the North, law and order took a rigid hold. To the South, chaos manifested. Northern streets began to shift, arranging themselves into perfect grids, slicing through pre-existing buildings, parks, and garages. Nothing would stand in the way of perfection. The historic district crumbled overnight, replaced by uniform, boxy prefabs in the morning. Bricks dissolved and melded into perfect tarmac so smooth and devoid of friction, that cars skied, their tires unable to grip the surface.

In the South, wheel and spoke streets erupted. Commuters became trapped in endless roundabouts. Buildings tilted and strained against acute and obtuse angles as their bricks lacked a uniform shape. The land rose and fell, causing enormous potholes in the streets and unleashing sinkholes all over the city . Before the city had time to respond, the sinkholes sprung forth with sea life while the medians bursted with dense, sprawling overgrowth. 

H.  Ermés watched the river from on high in his rented penthouse and smiled as he sipped espresso from his demitasse cup. He’d built his ladder, he’d opened the door. Each unsuspecting vehicle passing under the ladder welcomed a spirit, an otherworldly parasite. Northbound commuters beckoned the orderly, the rigid, the fixers. Southbound commuters beckoned the chaotic, the renders, the wild and organic. The river’s flow changed, its currents crashing together forming a massive whirlpool.

He watched the spirit world battle for dominion over the city. He knew co-existence would be impossible, and he wanted for nothing. 

Cecil fought his way to the city planning office. Dead center in the city, City Hall, was split. The South Wing, gripped by chaos while the North Wing was suffocating in order. He had to find a way to reverse this damage; he had to find the cause. It couldn’t be a coincidence that this all happened when that braggart Ermés unveiled his sculpture. Cecil did not believe in coincidences.

He struggled over the warped, uneven foundation of the South Wing. He shut himself into his office and began to pour over H’s blueprints. Even a renowned celebrity artist had to wade through process and bureaucracy once in a while. He noticed scribbles in the margins, doodles of lanterns and ladders, and scrawlings in Greek. Curious, he pulled out his phone and opened the translation app.

“Light the lantern, beckon the spirits.”

He looked out the window at the cursed sculpture. The light at the peak. Wait a second, that light wasn’t in regulation! It was meant to deter aircraft, a distinct and intentionally flashing green and red is what it should be. This was a single, continuous yellow. It must be the key!

“Now, how the hell am I going to get to the top?” Cecil said under his breath as he heard the now all too familiar sound of a building collapsing in the distance. City Hall shook and groaned as the building continued to shift. Cecil ran to the South staircase, but as he was about to take his first step down, he had to fling his arms back to catch his balance. 

The staircase had moved! They all moved and continued to shift in haphazard directions. Great. Cecil began pacing, trying to find a way out. CRASH! The North facing window shattered as a large tree limb burst through. Shards of glass littered the cracked tile floor before him. He’ll have to call someone to clean that up, safely, later.

Cecil climbed out on the limb and scaled his way down the trunk, his feet now firmly on the ground. Cecil’s breath quickened and his heart raced. If only Penelope could have seen that.

The ladder! Penelope! Cecil opened his favorites on his phone, her name still the only member, and the line began to ring. No way Cecil would trust public transit as he usually did, not with everything that has happened this past week. He’d have to rely on something faster.

“Hello?”

“Penelope! Can you pick me up at City Hall? I know how to fix this!”

The clicking and clattering of hooves were heard on the asphalt, fast approaching. Rounding one of the perfectly squared street corners emerged a large, stark white llama with black patches of wool circling its eyes resembling sunglasses.

“Hurry, Elwood!” Penelope could be heard as she mushed the llama forward. As Elwood, with Penelope in tow, finished his approach she pulled back hard on the reigns as Elwood skidded himself and the wicker rickshaw carrying Penelope to a screeching halt. “Hop on!”

Cecil clambered onto the rickshaw and before he could fully swing his legs in, Penelope mushed Elwood on. “To the ladder right?” she asked without a hint of hesitation in her voice.

“That’s right,” Cecil replied as he pulled himself up to sit next to Penelope. He could smell her perfume, the same perfume she always wore. Lilacs.

“Good, I’ve always wanted to see an H. Ermés up close,” Penelope said as she beamed a smile. 

How is she always so confident? Even as the world was turning to shit.  “Artists,” Cecil mused under his breath, careful for Penelope not to hear. Elwood might have though, indicated by the llama’s dismissive snort in his direction.

“Cece meet Elwood, Elwood, Cece,” Penelope said. She focused ahead as she steered the llama, “Doesn’t he just remind you of that character in that movie you pretended to like?” She smirked at no one in particular.

Penelope and Elwood deftly navigated the ever-changing streets of Danlordo; she’d always been comfortable with managing change. “So you just need to climb to the top of this 300 foot ladder, blow out this mystic lantern, and everything returns to normal? Easy as that?” Penelope asked Cecil.

Easy as that?! Cecil steeled himself so he could reply cooly, “Yes, that’s it, then this nightmare will be over,” he clutched the side of the rickshaw, his knuckles turned white, as Elwood ran full speed ahead.

“But Cecil, you’re terrified of heights.”

Cecil continued to stare ahead, squinting his eyes and pretending not to hear Penelope.

The Ladder to Heaven loomed ahead of them, vultures could be seen circling near the top.

Penelope slowed Elwood to a stop and Cecil hopped out of the rickshaw. Cecil took a step towards the ladder, then turned to face Penelope. The two locked eyes, unsure if either of them would interrupt the silence. As Cecil opened his mouth to tell Penelope that he’s always lo-

“I better hurry back to my houseboat,” Penelope interrupted, she seemed almost startled,  “meet me there when you’re done? It’s in the same spot it's always been on the river.” There was a pause and Cecil was unsure if he should finish what he tried to tell her before being cut off, “And Cecil, be careful.” With that, she spun Elwood around and jetted towards the river, the rickshaw kicked up dirt and dust in her exodus.

Cecil faced the ladder, ready for his destiny. “Just…don’t look down.” Cecil took his first step up the ladder. The first of many.

Cecil made good time up the ladder, he estimated only about a hundred feet to go. To keep his mind off his perilous plight, he allowed himself to fantasize the hero’s welcome he’d receive when this was all over. Maybe a key to the city from the Mayor and, more importantly, renewed courage to tell Penelope how he felt about her. How he still loved her, how he’d always loved her. This warm thought was interrupted by a brilliant streak of cold-blue lightning and a crash of thunder. 

Only, the thunder did not sound from the heavens, it came from below. Against his better judgement, Cecil looked down to see where the rumbling came from. It was the whirlpool. And now the whirlpool was alive with lightning. Great, more chaos.

The act of looking down caused panic to creep up and take hold of Cecil. His resolve and courage was broken, his fear of heights kicked into overdrive. This is dumb, I shouldn’t be up here. A careful selection process could have found someone more qualified. I don’t want to die up here!

Cecil took a shaky, but careful step down as he began his descent. He’d failed this quest, but it was the right thing to do, he wasn’t the man for this.

That’s when he saw it. The large, clawed reptilian hand reached out from the whirlpool’s center. Another flash of lightning, followed by an otherworldly rumbling and reverberating screech. The haunting noise was coming from whatever that massive hand was attached to. Cecil’s eyes followed the river down towards the marina, the boats buoyed violently in the choppy water from this new disturbance. 

“Penelope!” Cecil shouted and without a moment’s doubt he raced up the ladder, faster than he’d ever gone.

At the top he stood on the ladder’s platform. There it was, the lantern. Simple in appearance, hanging on a solitary wooden post. The lantern swayed in the wind as more and more bolts of lightning streaked through the air. Then a more audible and deafening roar could be heard from below. Was it out? Is it too late?

Cecil ran to the lantern, the wind upsetting his balance as it whipped around his body. He hurriedly opened the lantern pane and with all his effort, below onto the flame like it was the most urgent birthday wish in the history of humanity.

He blew and blew, as the flame danced and mocked him. Cecil drew the deepest breath and filled his lungs with more air than he thought safe, surely his lungs would explode if he continued, then blew with the force of a hurricane. The flame was extinguished.

Cecil eyed the burnt wick, expecting more shenanigans, but nothing. Then he noticed the air around him was still, and he heard…nothing. The sky was sunny. He rushed to the edge of the platform and peered over, unafraid to do so. There was no monster, no whirlpool, the boats in the marine were still. Serene.

The North and South sides of the city still appeared their dichotic messes though, but Cecil knew that this could be overcome. With some robust and proper city works and planning. Order and chaos were finally balanced.

Epilogue

Cecil was in fact given a hero’s welcome. The disaster was squarely placed on the Mayor’s paper-strong shoulders, as his name was the only one attached to the ladder. This distrust cost the Mayor his re-election and local hero Cecil P. Lanner was subsequently elected as the City Mid’s new mayor.

It was unconventional for the mayor to reside in a houseboat instead of the Mayoral Mansion, but Cecil was as unconventional as they came. Besides, he wanted to be with the love of his life, Penelope, as much as they both could handle. And of course, their steadfast llama, Elwood.

Nearing the end of Cecil’s first term, the news broke that the world-famous artist, H. Ermés was to build a giant clock exhibit in Beijing. Cecil scrambled to warn the world of the true intentions of H. Ermés, but with all of the world’s memory seemingly wiped; there were no traces of H. Ermés involvement in the events that Mayor Lanner would rave about. Not even a hint of recollection from Penelope. “The Mad Mayor of Danlordo,” was the last headline written about Cecil, the day after his re-election loss.

Though he lost all credibility with the citizenry, at least he still had Penelope and Elwood’s love. Curiously enough, Danlordo would never see a mayor win re-election. Henceforth, an eternal streak of bad luck was cast on the Office.