I live on the second floor of a towering apartment complex, in a small but well-maintained home with my family. We share the hallway bathrooms with the other tenants and have designated times for their use. Every morning, I take the elevator to the 103rd floor, where I work as a baker in the tower's bakery. Previously, I have tried my hand at various professions - police officer, insurance salesman, and even the priesthood - but I have found my true calling as a baker. The warmth of the ovens, the sense of community in sharing baked goods with the tower residents, and the joy of sending off neatly packaged bread to be distributed throughout all 400 floors of the tower all bring me great satisfaction. From the windows, I can see the surrounding countryside - fields, forests, hills, and rivers - and the peasants who work the land, whom I often imagine singing or stamping their feet to pass the time. I dream of visiting a peasant's hut and sharing their porridge and hops-y beer, but such a visit is not possible at present, as obtaining the necessary permit from the 300th floor travel office is a difficult task.
There are times when I become overwhelmed by a sense of gloom and spend my days writing to friends on other floors, detailing my various ailments - boils, a persistent cough, sore feet, bad teeth, and fainting spells. Although my parents believe these illnesses to be largely imaginary, I find them all too real. On weekends when I am not working, I sometimes indulge in drinking to excess, relishing the solitude it brings. I have even taken up writing as a hobby, though I must keep my work hidden from my mother's prying eyes and her tendency towards obsessive cleanliness and neatness.
I enjoy walking along the lobby's balustrade and observing the comings and goings of messengers, diplomats, and merchants from around the world. A theater troupe from Denmark recently visited and their play left a lasting impression on me, though I cannot explain exactly why.
I often struggle to find a balance between what I am capable of and what I desire, between my dreams and reality. On the wall of my room hangs a mix of my own autochromes and watercolors painted by my sister, who now works on one of the top floors of the tower in the ‘Observation Office’. Though I rarely see her now, her watercolors serve as a reminder of the close relationship we once shared.
At times, helicopters fly alarmingly close to my bedroom window, low and fast. My father tells me they are the modern-day equivalent of angels, but I am not so sure. I am now 33 years old and too old to blindly believe such myths. However, I do find wisdom in my father's words and cross myself whenever helicopters fly by as a protective measure.
Our front door is frequently visited by door-to-door salesmen who are desperate and sometimes even suicidal in their attempts to convince my family to sign up for their products or services, even if only for a short time. These men are not much different from beggars, and I worry that if I were to lose my job at the bakery, I might find myself in a similar position. The uncertainty of my employment and the double life I must lead as an employed man without much security is a constant source of discomfort for me. If I were to argue with my parents, I could easily be cast out and forced to wander the halls or sleep in the lobby like some of the men I went to high school with on the 5th and 6th floors.