(Not Even Like Steven)
By Buck Dodds
Even arched his neck and looked straight upwards until he struggled to breathe and nearly blacked out. Head straight, his wide eyes re-focused on the entrance of the building that disappeared into the clouds overhead. The moment to enter had finally arrived.
Even tightened his jaw and took a deep, reflective breath. He hated anything symmetrical. He never hung a picture straight. The word ‘even’ and everything associated with it was a razor-sharp talon stuck in his craw. He’d used the tired lie, “My parents were Estonian,” for years to explain his name. In reality, he was an orphan and had no clue.
Rather than altering his offensive moniker to Evan with an ‘A,’ he chose to resist. By the time he was old enough to change his label legally, he’d forged a life’s mission: to stand here, now, and crane his neck while he schemed his breach.
The only balm to soothe the stabbing inside was to be found in the interior of a triangular steel elevator rumored to have no even numbers. He wondered about its creator; some distant relative, perhaps.
Respite awaited him, but there was one final unanticipated hurdle.
All his careful planning failed to include the tax. Entry to the building was free for all, but the lift was behind an automated gate that required a ticket. Beyond that, goons.
Misguided instinct took over. Evan approached the gate, feigned having lost his ticket, and hopped over the bar as the elevator door opened in front of him. Four quick paces landed him on the inside of the door.
One of the guards reached for the mic button pinned to his collar and said, “Freeload in elevator.”
“Copy.”
“What is that… “
“Twelve this week. Over.”
The door closed. Silence ensued. A sudden, calming peace washed over him. Each rapid breath deepened. Unease lifted bit by bit, until it seemed all the tension he’d ever felt completely vanished.
He’d confirmed the lingering rumor. The buttons, all labeled with one-point-something, glowed on every wall in ascending order. Not a single digit reached two.
“How irrational,” Even surmised. “I love it.”
Within seconds, the decimals vanished. Numbers streamed continuously without repeating. Even felt he could spend hours in this calming space, watching every button change, but he knew he had to choose before the guards hauled him off.
Two buttons, void of numeric symbols, pulsed with glowing red backlight. One was a ‘T’ character with two legs that felt restrictive to Even; the other, a sideways figure eight, beckoned freedom. Even pushed the figure eight.
The metal room vibrated and Even had no idea what to do. Fifty-nine tense seconds later he hit the button again.
The door opened. His eyes widened. He stepped out without thought.
The door closed.
At last, Even felt something quite odd.