{"id":2988,"date":"2023-04-30T03:01:41","date_gmt":"2023-04-30T03:01:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/?page_id=2988"},"modified":"2023-04-30T03:01:41","modified_gmt":"2023-04-30T03:01:41","slug":"a-city-of-hall-monitors-by-j-t-townley","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/a-city-of-hall-monitors-by-j-t-townley\/","title":{"rendered":"&#8220;A City of Hall Monitors&#8221; by J. T. Townley"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\">                                   1.\n\tThen they slam on the brakes and drag me out into the snow.  I slip and slide in my Italian loafers.  An icy wind cuts through my clothes and blows flurries down my neck.\n\t\u201cPerambulate inside, scofflaw.\u201d\n\t\u201cYou must un-lollygag.\u201d\n\t\u201cPrincipal Monitor dis-appreciates waiting.\u201d\n\tThey push me into an enormous lobby.  When they mentioned the principal, I was expecting a dingy, cramped office with stained carpet and too much furniture, but this place couldn\u2019t be more different.  The walls are made of frameless windows, and the ceiling can\u2019t be less than fifty feet up.  The air smells of lavender.  I whistle.  \u201cNice digs.\u201d\n\t\u201cShhh,\u201d say the Monitors.  \n\t\u201cSilence.\u201d\n\t\u201cZipper your lips.\u201d\n\tWe stop at an enormous, oblong reception desk, the only thing in the room.  It seems to float above the polished concrete floor.  A receptionist in a familiar crested blazer and gold armband greets us with a glare.  A brief conversation ensues, none of which I follow.  The vowels sound squashed.  The consonants click.  The Monitors usher me into a glass elevator, and we blast up to the top floor.\n\tThe doors open directly into a penthouse designed much like the lobby.  High ceilings, walls of glass, minimal d\u00e9cor.  I expect the hardwood floors to creak, but I hear nothing but a faint sound of blowing wind.  Despite all the windows, there\u2019s no view, just the gray swirls of snow clouds.\n\tThe Monitors announce my arrival, leading me into an adjoining room.  A fire blazes in a floating fireplace.  A tall woman with lots of dark hair perches on a chair that resembles stainless steel origami.  A guard at the door steps in front of us.  He\u2019s sporting the same outfit as the Monitors, though instead of a bowl cut, his hair\u2019s cropped short, and his muscles bulge beneath the crested blazer.  \u201cHer eminence,\u201d he declares, \u201cPrincipal Monitor Salka Eftirlitsa\u00f0ili.\u201d\n\tI step around the guard, padding over to where the beauty sits.  She has big brown eyes and porcelain skin.  I kiss her hand and say, \u201cEnchant\u00e9.\u201d\n\t\u201cHmmn,\u201d she says.  Then: \u201cMonitors, report.\u201d\n\tThey follow orders, recounting, for my benefit as much as their boss\u2019s, the twenty-odd infractions I\u2019ve committed in the twelve hours since I arrived.  It\u2019s all nonsense, of course.  Not the writs:  I\u2019ve got a pocketful of them.  It\u2019s the charges I take issue with\u2014what they call, at high volume, \u201cwhy-olations!\u201d\u2014from over-crinkled clothing to mouth stink, non-couth language to un-polite comportment.  \n\tI grin.  \u201cThey tell me I\u2019ve set a new record.\u201d\n\tThe Principal Monitor gives me a slow head-to-toe.  There\u2019s a glint in her eye.  She un-crosses, then re-crosses her legs, mulling something over.  \u201cLeave us,\u201d she commands.  \n\tThe Monitors goggle and grimace in protest, but her personal guard shows them to the elevator.  \n\n\n                                   2.\n\tThe Principal Monitor studies me in silence for a while.  Then she asks, \u201cDo you know who am I, Mr. Yak?\u201d\n\t\u201cIt\u2019s Jack,\u201d I say.  \u201cNo, but I can take a guess.\u201d\n\tShe gives me a studied moue.  \u201cWhy you are here?\u201d\n\t\u201cTruth is, I shouldn\u2019t be.\u201d\n\t\u201cYou claim non-guiltiness?\u201d\n\tI chuckle and poke a Gauloise between my lips.  \u201cHardly.  I was en route to Paris.  Emergency landing.  What\u2019s this place again?\u201d\n\t\u201cForstofa.\u201d\n\tI nod.  \u201cThe pilot wasn\u2019t specific, and I can\u2019t make sense of the signage.  Weather suggests North Atlantic somewhere.\u201d\n\tThe Principal Monitor gives me an inscrutable smile.  I glide over and ease onto a sofa near her.   We listen to the fire crackle and sputter.  \n\tSoon I light my cigarette with a strike-anywhere.  \u201cSmoking is very verboten,\u201d I say, exhaling blue smoke.  I pull a wad of citations from my pocket and splay them out on the steel and glass coffee table.  \u201cI\u2019ve got the writ to prove it.\u201d\n\tShe blinks and blinks again.  The snow clouds pile up against the windows, then tumble away.  I keep forgetting we\u2019re in the penthouse of a very tall building.  \n\t\u201cLibations,\u201d she announces.\n\tHer manservant materializes a minute later with a bottle and two small glasses on a polished silver tray.  He sets it on the coffee table, then vanishes.  The black label says Brenniv\u00edn.  The Principal Monitor pours.  We clink our glasses, then drink.  I hack on the anise-flavored jet fuel, struggling for breath.  \n\t\u201cWhat is that?\u201d I wheeze.\n\tShe eyes me over the lip of her glass.  \u201cBlack Death.\u201d\n\t\u201cSounds about right.\u201d  I pour us another.  \u201cThought booze was off-limits?\u201d\n\tWe clink again.\n\t\u201cIt is,\u201d she says.\n\n\n                                   3.\n\tAfter we lose our shirts, then have a dance-party singalong to the best of Bz\u00f6rk, I don\u2019t remember much.  I wake up with my head in a vise and a cement mixer churning in my gut.  I squint and blink and try to focus.  The light is dim.  The sheets are silk.  The bed\u2019s so soft it feels like I\u2019m floating.  I sit up, feet on the hardwoods, trying to get my head around the whole thing.  I rub my face and take a few deep breaths.  \u201cThis ain\u2019t Paris,\u201d I mutter, my mouth full of cotton.  \n\t\u201cG\u00f3\u00f0an dag, lover-man.\u201d\n\t\u201cAnd that ain\u2019t Claire.\u201d\n\t\u201cWho?\u201d\n\tI smirk despite the throb at my temples.  \u201cYour henchmen don\u2019t find me nearly so charming.\u201d\n\tThe Principal Monitor gives me sultry eyes.  As the sheets fall away, a smile tickles her lips.  Her porcelain body is beautiful.  \n\tI\u2019m stark naked, too.  I\u2019d look for my clothes, but my head hurts too much.\n\t\u201cYou now feel fragile?\u201d\n\tI rub my forehead.  \u201cThat stuff packs a wallop.\u201d\n\tShe watches me scanning the room.  \u201cYou will stay,\u201d she says.\n\tIt doesn\u2019t sound like a question.  I lie back against the feather pillows.  She wraps herself around me, promising breakfast in bed with coffee and mimosas.\n\t\u201cForget the O.J.,\u201d I say.  \u201cWhat we need\u2019s a good Dom Perignon or Krug Grande Cuv\u00e9e Brut.\u201d\n\t\u201cSay this to Gunnar.\u201d\n\tAs if summoned, the guard appears at the bedside.  I give him our order.  He\u2019s back in less than five minutes with champagne and coffee, fresh-baked bread and p\u00f6nnuk\u00f6kur.  I go straight for the bubbly, pouring us both a glass.\n\t\u201cHair of the dog,\u201d I say.\n\tA shadow of confusion flutters across her perfect face.  \u201cWe shall toast?\u201d\n\t\u201cWhy not?\u201d\n\t\u201cTo non-planned encounters.\u201d\n\tI grin through my hangover.  \u201cTo chance.\u201d\n\tWe clink and drink.  The champagne is crisp and dry.  After my third glass, I start to feel normal again.\n\t\u201cFor a nation of teetotalers, you sure have ready access to booze.\u201d\n\t\u201cPower gives privilege,\u201d she says.\n\t\u201cSuch as what else?\u201d\n\tShe pulls me under the covers and shows me.  When we\u2019re worn out and breathless, we lie there, sharing a Gauloise.  \n\t\u201cWe must address soon your non-transigences.\u201d\n\tI roll toward her and give her a wet kiss.  \u201cLet\u2019s put that on the back burner, okay?\u201d\n\n                                   4.\n\tThe Principal Monitor takes a shine to me.  It\u2019s not uncommon.  Claire feels the same way\u2014as did my wife, once upon a time.  But the Principal Monitor\u2019s head over heels in an almost desperate way.  Who can blame her?  All the Monitors are pudgy, androgynous types, and besides Gunnar, who\u2019s her younger brother, I haven\u2019t laid eyes on anyone not sporting a bowl cut.  The pickings are slim.  When I tell her I need to catch my onward flight to Paris, she gets dour and moody.  I decide to make the most of it.  Claire will understand.    \n\t\u201cNo need to sulka, Salka.\u201d\n\tShe gives me a look.  \u201cNo one may call me that.\u201d\n\t\u201cHow about PM then?\u201d I say.  \u201cPrincipal Monitor is a mouthful.\u201d\n\tShe mulls for a moment.  \u201cThat is not dis-allowed.\u201d\n\t\u201cI\u2019ll be your Associate Monitor,\u201d I say.  \u201cAM to your PM.\u201d\n\tHer face begins to glow as the meaning dawns on her.\n\t\u201cI can look after the Monitors\u2019 day-to-day for you.\u201d  I try not to look too eager.  \u201cWho needs the headache, right?\u201d\n\tShe fakes a pensive look, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear.  \u201cAs AM, you shall manage the Hall Monitors.\u201d\n\tI give her a mock-salute.  \u201cGreat idea, PM.\u201d\n\tWe chuckle in a self-congratulatory way.  Then she yells, \u201cLibations,\u201d Gunnar enters with a bottle of Black Death, and we\u2019re off to the races again.\n\n                                   5.\n\tThe Monitors aren\u2019t crazy about the situation.  I call an early morning meeting, assembling the whole lot of them in a gigantic office I\u2019ve commandeered for myself on the fifty-seventh floor.  They slouch in, disheveled, disbelieving.  They grimace and grind their teeth.\n\t\u201cYou, scofflaw,\u201d they say.\n\t\u201cClear at once your writs.\u201d\n\t\u201cThen un-enter from our fragile homeplace.\u201d\n\t\u201cThat\u2019s no way to address your superior,\u201d I say.  I can hardly restrain my glee.\n\tThey refuse to believe me, insisting on an immediate parlay with the PM.\n\t\u201cNo can do, ladies and germs.  She\u2019s otherwise occupied.  Affairs of the city-state.\u201d\n\tBut they give me all kinds of hell, so I page Gunnar.  He appears before I can set the receiver back in its cradle.  The Monitors stand up straight, shoulders back, expressions neutral.  Naturally, he confirms everything I\u2019ve said.\n\u201cThis is the new world order,\u201d I say.  \u201cGet used to it.\u201d\n\n                                   6.\n\tTo say that I set out to make the Monitors suffer wouldn\u2019t be overstating the case.  I\u2019m not the spiteful type, but this I simply can\u2019t resist.  They wrote me up for dozens of dumb little offenses, from public smoke-breathing to sauna over-nakedness in a hotel where I was the only guest.  After a dozen infractions, they escorted me to the Chalkboard Room of Terror and Repentance, where they forced me to write sentences such as, I will brush my teeth, I will be polite, I will not blow smoke rings in people\u2019s faces.  But the place bored me, so I broke every stick of chalk into tiny pieces.  They paced and made threats and shook red fists in my face.  \n\tBut now I have them by the short and curlies.  \u201cKarma\u2019s a bitch,\u201d I tell them.  They reach for their long, skinny pads and start scribbling:  Non-couth language.  I lean forward on the lectern and shower them with expletives.\n\tI\u2019m getting in touch with my vindictive side.  \n\n                                   7.\n\tSoon they come, one-by-one or in small groups, requesting an audience.  It\u2019s not like I\u2019m keeping regular hours.  The PM and I while the days away in bed, sipping Veuve-Cliquot and marveling at the endless snow swirling beyond the penthouse windows.  She mentions showing me around at some point, the geysers of Northland, the geysers of Southland, Westland\u2019s glorious frozen beaches, but it never happens.  Maybe it\u2019s my charm and the warmth of the floating fireplace.  Maybe it\u2019s the fact that the city-state is long and skinny and only a couple kilometers across at its widest, so there\u2019s not ever so much to see.  Instead, we sip bubbly, laugh, and burrow under the covers.\n\tWhen the Monitors come tap-tapping at my chamber door, I send Gunnar to run them off.  When they insist, I drag myself out of the PM\u2019s arms, throw on a plush terrycloth robe, and meet them on the fifty-seventh floor.  \n\tThree of them slump, dejected, on a bench in the hallway.  I unlock my office door without greeting them and go straight to my desk, where I take a seat, light a Gauloise, and pour myself a shot of Black Death.  It burns going down.  In the meantime, the Monitors file in, cowed, and stand in front of my desk.  I have to shoo them aside so I can get the remote control to operate the fireplace.  \u201cWell?\u201d I say.  \u201cYou dragged me out of bed.  What\u2019s so damn important?\u201d\n\tThey exchange pasty glances.  Their bowl cuts bob with the motion.  Their crested blazers need pressing.  \n\t\u201cWe wish to make apologies.\u201d\n\t\u201cFrom every Hall Monitor.\u201d\n\t\u201cWe express sorrow for making you inconvenient.\u201d\n\tI kick my feet up and blow smoke rings at their faces.  \u201cDon\u2019t like the taste of your own medicine, huh?\u201d\n\tThey study the shiny wood floors.  \n\tI chuckle, tapping my cigarette into a polished steel ashtray.  \u201cIs that it?\u201d I say.\n\t\u201cWe wanted also to congratulate you.\u201d\n\tI peel the corner of the Brenniv\u00edn label.  \u201cWhat for?\u201d\n\t\u201cA well-done leadership.\u201d\n\t\u201cPowerful work.\u201d\n\t\u201cFlaw-free accomplishment.\u201d\n\tI gaze at them through the blue smoke.  Outside, wind howls, snow blows, ice pelts the windows.  I shiver and turn the fire up to high, though sweat trickles down the Monitors\u2019 foreheads.  \u201cSurprised you\u2019re fans,\u201d I say.\n\t\u201cOh, j\u00e1.\u201d\n\t\u201cVery so.\u201d\n\t\u201cTremendous fanaticals.\u201d\n\tI nod and grin.  Their faces fill with pallid hope.  I finish my cigarette and grind it out in the ashtray.  \u201cOkay,\u201d I say, \u201cthanks for stopping by.\u201d\n\tA sudden flurry of muted conversation among them.  Now one of the Monitors withdraws a sleeve of papers from the inside pocket of his blazer.\n\t\u201cMay we do a gift, Mr. Yak?\u201d\n\t\u201cGo ahead,\u201d I say, \u201cdo away.\u201d\n\tHe steps forward and sets the papers down on my desk in front of me.  \u201cBecause your connection flight missed you.\u201d\n\t\u201cWe have made measures.\u201d\n\t\u201cEveryone chunked in.\u201d\n\tI study the packet.  It contains an itinerary and boarding pass.  Destination:  Paris Charles de Gaulle-\u00c9toile.  \u201cYou\u2019ve outdone yourselves, gents.\u201d\n\tThey share sly smiles, then file out of my office, tipping non-existent hats.  \u201cGood day.\u201d \u201cGood day.\u201d \u201cGood day.\u201d\n\n                                   8.\n\tImagine their surprise the next morning when I call an eight o\u2019clock meeting.  Expected me to be on the first flight out, no doubt.  And things only go downhill from there, far as they\u2019re concerned.  I institute a variety of Special Hours that no one seems to care for: Shoeless Seven O\u2019clock, Backwards-Walking One O\u2019clock. Also, Take a Car Battery to Work Day. Not that there\u2019s much grumbling, since that\u2019s not the Hall Monitor way. They pretend to be chipper, eager, ready and willing to do my bidding at a moment\u2019s notice.  They keep dropping by to see me, too, offering apologies and blandishments.  But I can see the resentment in their bloodshot eyes, hear it in their deepening voices, smell it on their unwashed uniforms.  \n  \n                                   9.\t\n\tThen, in the deep of night, a cadre of Hall Monitors slips into our bedchamber undetected.  The PM and I are buried, half-naked, beneath a heavy down duvet.  Next thing I know, I\u2019m being dragged out of bed, bound, gagged, and hooded, then spirited away into the night.  \n\tThe icy wind bites.  The snow crunches beneath their hurried footfalls.  They cram me into a vehicle that stinks of sweat, socks, and salted cod.  Either it\u2019s underpowered or overloaded or both because the getaway takes longer than expected.  We get bogged down in the snow.  They bicker until somebody opens the door and shoves a few of them out.  \n\tNow we\u2019re lurching down the icy road in the middle of the night.  It takes a few minutes for me to work the gag out of my mouth, spitting and spluttering beneath my hood.  Somebody swats me in the temple.  Laughter.  They open a bottle of Brenniv\u00edn and pass it around, singing off-key to the circus music rattling through the speakers.  \n\u201cWhere are you taking me?\u201d I insist.\n\tThey laugh and laugh, splashing the Black Death around.  Their conversation sounds manic.  Maybe it\u2019s all the cackling.\n\t\u201cYou\u2019re besmirching the Hall Monitor code of conduct,\u201d I say.  \u201cI\u2019ll have to make an example of you.\u201d\n\tThat shuts them up for a moment.  The tires swish along the snowy road.  The driver downshifts to ease around a bend.  \n\t\u201cWhy-olations!\u201d I cry, mocking them, \u201cwhy-olations!\u201d\n\t\u201cListen to a kettle who calls a pot black.\u201d\n\tI snicker.\n\t\u201cYou now go out of the frying pan into the fryer.\u201d\n\t\u201cThink you mean fire.\u201d\n\tTheir cackles grow louder and more sustained.  I wonder if the PM has sounded the alarm yet.\n\tAfter a while, they tell me these long, boring stories about the many geysers of Forstofa.  \n\t\u201cThey serve for final punishments,\u201d they say.\n\t\u201cUltimate wrist-slappings.\u201d\n\t\u201cWhen all else makes non-successful.\u201d\n\t\u201cA guided tour of your geysers?\u201d I say.  \u201cYou people really play rough.\u201d\n\tSomeone pours a couple shots worth of Black Death over my mask.  None of it trickles into my mouth, but at least it kills the stench of fish and feet.\n\tNow they roll the windows down, and frigid air pours in.\n\t\u201cGeyser of Perpetual Un-discretion,\u201d they holler.\n\t\u201cGeyser of Non-Forgiveness!\u201d\n\t\u201cGeyser of Never Return!\u201d\n\tA sulfur stink like rotten eggs mixed with something metallic.  A pop, whoosh, and splatter.  \n\tThe driver slams on the brakes, and we skid to a halt.  \u201cYou choose, Mr. Yak.  We will make your honors.\u201d\n\t\u201cHuh?\u201d\n\tThey grab my clothes and shake me this way and that.  \n\t\u201cWhich?\u201d\n\t\u201cDo a decision!\u201d\n\t\u201cEven greedy-eyed foreigners can one time boil only.\u201d\n\tSomebody must waste half a bottle of Brenniv\u00edn over my head.  The driver spins donuts, round and round and round and round.  Everyone\u2019s screaming and yelling at the top of their lungs.  I just hope we don\u2019t lose control and careen into one of those geysers.\n\tThe car slides to a stop.  Doors open, and Monitors tumble out.  Staggering footsteps in the snow.  Sounds of retching.\n\tMy head spins for a moment, but the icy wind brings me around.  I huddle and shiver.  We idle for longer than seems possible.\n\t\u201cWhat is this?\u201d I say.  \u201cAmateur hour?\u201d\n\tMuttered responses in the local lingo.\n\t\u201cCome on, people.  Pull yourselves together.\u201d\n\tMore disgusted mumbling.  But they squeeze back into the tiny car, and off we go.  \n\tMaybe fifteen minutes later, we glide to a stop.  They pile out and drag me into the freezing cold, and someone shoves me down into the snow.  Then panicked voices and slamming doors, the driver winding out the gears as they speed away.  \n\n\n                                   10.\n\tIt takes longer than you\u2019d expect to get myself upright.  They zip-tied my hands behind my back and my legs at the ankle.  Plus, the snow factor.  I almost make it a few times before my legs slip out from under me.  I\u2019m colder than I\u2019ve ever been in my life.  When the wind dies down, it starts snowing fat, wet flakes.  Although I have no sense of time, I realize hypothermia can\u2019t be too far away.  \n\tBut then a voice: \u201cMr. Yak?\u201d\n\tBoots crunching in the snow.  Someone half-carrying me inside.  When the hood comes off, it\u2019s Gunnar.  He\u2019s green around the gills, and he has a woozy look in his eyes.\n\t\u201cWhat happened to you?\u201d I say.\n\tAs he frees my wrists and ankles, he tries to piece it together.  He woke up on the floor, he explains, nauseous, head pounding, an acrid taste in his mouth.  Our bedroom door was open, so he looked in and noticed I was gone.  When he didn\u2019t find me in my office, he checked the security feed.  That\u2019s when he noticed a body outside in the snow.  \n\t\u201cThanks, Gunnar.  I owe you one.\u201d\t\n\n                                   11.\n\tThe security tape doesn\u2019t help much.  The perps all sport balaclavas.  Even Gunnar can\u2019t identify them.\n\n                                   12.\n\tWhen I roll out of bed the next day around noon, I recount the whole thing to the PM.  She coos and fusses and shows me what I mean to her.  Then I call an emergency meeting, pulling the Monitors off their beats.  Everyone\u2019s a Monitor, it\u2019s a city of Hall Monitors, so all their asses are in a sling.  \n\t\u201cThe guilty parties will make themselves known, or you\u2019ll all pay the price.\u201d\n\t\u201cPay?\u201d\n\t\u201cWhich price?\u201d\t\n\t\u201cYou will put garnish on our wages?\u201d\n\tI shake my head, then order them to the gym.  Gunnar brings me a coach\u2019s whistle, which I blow loud enough to burst eardrums on the Continent.  I force them to do pushups and sit-ups on that cold, dusty floor.  I have them run wind sprints up and down the court until their faces are red and they sweat through their crested blazers.  I make them run bleachers\u2014up, over, down, repeat\u2014until they lose their lunch.  A few keel over from heat exhaustion.  Most flop to the floor in pools of their own rancid sweat.\n\tStill, mum\u2019s the word.\n\tSo I bundle up, and we head out into the snow.  I hop into the PM\u2019s limo.  She joins me.  Gunnar slides behind the wheel.  I make a hot toddy, pull on a furry hat, and pop out through the sun roof.  \n\t\u201cListen up, asshats.  For the time being, you\u2019ve got one job, and that\u2019s to push this car.\u201d\n\tThey stand there, shivering, snot dribbling from their noses.\n\t\u201cI want to see thirty kph, got it?  So put your backs into it.\u201d\n\tWhen they clue in, the Monitors start pushing.  Their footing is bad in those wingtips.  They\u2019re soaked with sweat.  Still, they get us rolling, and their numbers are sufficient to generate some decent power.  We motor up the island and back down, then do it again.  Gunnar zigs and zags, just to give us some extra kilometers to cover.  \n\tYou\u2019d think the PM and I might get bored, but we make more hot toddies, then put up the privacy screen for a little alone time.  When I finally poke my head back out, the light has grown thick and dusky.  About half the Monitors have fallen by the wayside.  \n\t\u201cAnybody ready to talk?\u201d\n\tHuffing and puffing, gibberish insults, but not a confession one.\n\n                                   13.\n\tIt goes on like that for a couple days.  The Monitors aren\u2019t as weak-kneed as I imagined.  Yet as Claire might say, I\u2019ve got other cats to whip.  The PM\u2019s getting clingy, including me in her royal we, alluding to honeymoons and bedroom sets.  I\u2019ve already got one wife:  the last thing I need is another.\n\tSo I ratchet up the intensity.  More than half the Monitors still left wind up in the hospital, some with torn ligaments or slipped disks, others with frostbite or pneumonia.  Rumors circulate about Monitors fleeing to Reykjavik and London, Oslo and Copenhagen, most of them smuggled out on illicit fishing vessels.  A couple of them completely lose it, swan-diving into the Geyser of Eternal Detention.  It\u2019s all just scuttlebutt, but the fact is the Monitors\u2019 numbers are dwindling.  Somehow, though, they haven\u2019t turned on each other.  \n\tThey\u2019re tough nuts to crack.  \n\n                                   14.\n\tThis thing with the PM has been fun, but it\u2019s just about run its course.  This morning she asked me my opinion on new drapes.  With three-fourths of the Monitors out of commission, I hole up in my office.  The plane ticket the Monitors gave me is still valid.  I make sure the hallway\u2019s empty, then close the door and dial up Paris.\n\t\u201cAll\u00f4?\u201d\n\t\u201cHiya, sweetheart.\u201d\n\t\u201cC\u2019est qui \u00e0 l\u2019appareil?\u201d\n\t\u201cJack.\u201d\n\t\u201cQui?\u201d\n\tI force a laugh.  \u201cI deserve that.\u201d\n\t\u201cSalut, Jacques.  T\u2019es o\u00f9 l\u00e0?\u201d\n\t\u201cUnexpected delay.  Excuse-moi, ch\u00e9rie.\u201d\n\t\u201cYou come still?\u201d\n\t\u201cExpect me on the morning flight tomorrow.\u201d  I don\u2019t know why I say that.  It just comes out.\n\t\u201cBut finally,\u201d she says.\n\t\u201cCall you when I land.\u201d\n\t\u201cViens vite, Jacques.  Tu me manques.\u201d\n\t\u201cThe feeling\u2019s mutual, angel.\u201d\n\tSoon as we hang up, I\u2019m on the horn with the airline. \n\n                                   15.\n\tDon\u2019t ask me how she even finds out, but the PM goes completely berserk.  In the end, it\u2019s probably the Monitors\u2019 doing, tit for tat, quid pro quo.  What with the PM wailing and crying and throwing antique statuary at my head, I don\u2019t have a chance to conduct an independent investigation.  \n\t\u201cHow you could philanderize on me?\u201d  \n\t\u201cTake it easy,\u201d I say, sidling toward her.  \u201cWe don\u2019t want anybody to get hurt.\u201d\n\tShe picks up a slender steel figurine off a side table and hurls it at me.  \u201cWho this French floozy is?\u201d she screams.  \n\tI sidestep the well-aimed projectile.  I want to tell her the situation is more complicated than she\u2019s letting on.  Instead, I say, \u201cHow do you even know she\u2019s French?\u201d\n\t\u201cSalted codpiece brains!  Principal Monitor knows everything.\u201d\n\tI halve the distance between us.  She\u2019s sobbing into a silk scarf.  \u201cIf you already know everything, why are you so upset?\u201d\n\tThe PM backhands tears from her cheeks.  \u201cBecause everything I know!\u201d  She blows her nose into her scarf, then balls it up and chucks it into a polished steel trash can.  \n\tI step forward to embrace her.  The PM places her head on my shoulder, and I squeeze her to my chest.  She sniffles once or twice.  It\u2019s possible I\u2019ve salvaged the situation.  I\u2019ll say nice things, we\u2019ll have a couple drinks by firelight, then we\u2019ll hop into the sack.\n\t\u201cNow isn\u2019t that better?\u201d I say.\n\tThe PM leans back to stare me square in the face.  Her eyes are red and puffy, but at least the hysterics have run their course.  \u201cGet lost,\u201d she says.  And when I don\u2019t respond: \u201cThis is correct expression, j\u00e1?\u201d\n\t\u201cI don\u2019t know about correct.\u201d\n\tShe pushes me away with both hands.  \u201cIt now is time to get lost, Mr. Yak.\u201d\n\t\u201cDon\u2019t be too hasty, okay?  We can work this thing out.\u201d  I gaze at Gunnar standing in the corner\u2014\u201cLittle help here?\u201d\u2014but he won\u2019t even look at me.\n\tThe PM pads to her glass-and-steel desk and makes a call.  Less than a minute later, Hall Monitors burst through the door and wrench my arms behind me.  In nothing flat, they\u2019ve got my wrists zip-tied.  \n\t\u201cDo you realize what these maniacs have\u2014\u201d\n\t\u201cGoodbye, Mr. Yak.\u201d  Then to the Monitors: \u201cSend at once him on his way.\u201d\n\t\u201cWhich flight, Principal Monitor?\u201d\n\t\u201cExpress direct,\u201d she says.  \u201cLeaves now.\u201d\n\n                                   16.\n\tThe Monitors drag me out into the snow, then stuff me into a familiar-stinking econobox. Too many of them wedge in around me.  At least I\u2019m not gagged and hooded this time, though because of the zip-tie, my fingers are already numb.  \n\tThe car lurches out into the snow.  The Monitors seem giddy.  Something heavy and metallic hangs in the air.\n\t\u201cFinally getting rid of me, huh?\u201d\n\t\u201cAt long lasting.\u201d\n\t\u201cJ\u00e1.\u201d\n\t\u201cNot one moment overly soon.\u201d\n\t\u201cThe next flight to Paris leaves tomorrow,\u201d I say.  \u201cI\u2019ve got a seat on it.  You know that as well as I do.\u201d\n\t\u201cYou dream still of Paris, Mr. Yak?\u201d \n\tThat sends them into a laughing fit.  There\u2019s a maniacal edge to it.\n\t\u201cYou\u2019re not gonna make me spend the night in the airport?\u201d\n\tThey cackle hysterically.  \u201cStunted-Imagining Syndrome!\u201d they say.  \u201cLack-of-Vision Disease!\u201d they say.  \u201cPermanent Brain-Fartedness!\u201d they say.\n\tTheir mirth is catching.  I grin and chuckle and grin some more.  When our laughter fizzles, I say: \u201cOne of you gents wanna light me a smoke?\u201d\n\tThey glare at me as if I\u2019ve insulted their mothers.  The air grows warm and dank and reeks of fish funk.  I take shallow breaths and study the frozen landscape, wondering how much longer before we get to Forstofa International.\n\tThe car whispers through the fresh snow.  The Monitors blabber at high volume one minute, then fall into expectant silence.  The snow picks up until we\u2019re driving straight into a curtain of white.\n\t\u201cAny chance we missed the exit?\u201d I ask.\n\tBut they just ignore me.  \n\tAfter a while, the snow lets up, then peters out completely.  Not two minutes later, the car skids to a stop.  Without a word, the Monitors pile out, then drag me, feet-first, into the snow.  From where I lie, I can\u2019t see much but powder and Monitors and intense blue sky.  The air stinks of rotten eggs.\n\t\u201cThink you took a wrong turn, boys.\u201d\nBefore I know what\u2019s happening, they yank me from the ground and hoist me up onto their shoulders.  They\u2019re stronger than they look.\n\t\u201cNow that\u2019s more like it,\u201d I say.  \u201cBut where\u2019re we headed?\u201d\n\tThe sulfur stink grows thicker.  Popping and gurgling.  Wet heat rising beneath me.  Yet all I can see from here is the sky\u2019s azure dome.  Then an explosive gush of superheated water blasting thirty feet into the air.  All at once, I think I know what\u2019s coming.  It\u2019s even possible I deserve it.  \n\t\u201cGeyser of Permanent Expulsion!\u201d they yell.  Then they count off, \u201cEinn, tvaer, \u00fer\u00edr!\u201d, and heave-ho.  \n\tThrough the flood of adrenaline, all that\u2019s left is the sensation of floating\u2014of falling\u2014through that impossible blue.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n<div style=\"height:100px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><strong>J. T. Townley<\/strong> has published in Harvard Review, The Kenyon Review, The Threepenny Review, and many other magazines and journals. His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize (four times) and the Best of the Net Award.\u00a0 He teaches fiction writing at Willamette University.\u00a0 To learn more, visit jttownley.com.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>1. Then they slam on the brakes and drag me out into the snow. I slip and slide in my Italian loafers. An icy wind cuts through my clothes and blows flurries down my neck. \u201cPerambulate inside, scofflaw.\u201d \u201cYou must un-lollygag.\u201d \u201cPrincipal Monitor dis-appreciates waiting.\u201d They push me into an enormous lobby. When they mentioned &hellip; <\/p>\n<p class=\"link-more\"><a href=\"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/a-city-of-hall-monitors-by-j-t-townley\/\" class=\"more-link\">Continue reading<span class=\"screen-reader-text\"> &#8220;&#8220;A City of Hall Monitors&#8221; by J. T. Townley&#8221;<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2310,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_bbp_topic_count":0,"_bbp_reply_count":0,"_bbp_total_topic_count":0,"_bbp_total_reply_count":0,"_bbp_voice_count":0,"_bbp_anonymous_reply_count":0,"_bbp_topic_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_reply_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_forum_subforum_count":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2988","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2988","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2310"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2988"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2988\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2988"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}