The Fan Man by William Kotzwinkle

minute. And there is Rockefeller Center, man, stop the bus.
    Dingle .. . ding
…
.dingle.
    “Excuse me … coming through …”
    Bus jerks to a stop, satchel swings forward, strikes same man behind the knees and down he goes again, man, to the floor of the bus. “Sorry, man … excuse me… .”
    Leaping off the bus, man, and crossing the street, into the incredibly large lobby of Rockefeller Center, footsteps echoing, echoing. To the Information Booth, man.
    “Yes, sir, may I help you?”
    “Ace Messenger Service. I have a large umbrella for
The Tonight Show
. My instructions are to deliver it directly to the Director of Programming. It’s for the show tonight.”
    “Programming … that would be Mr. Reynolds, fourth floor.”
    And so forward goes Horse Badorties, man, to the executive elevator. Press number four button and up we go, man, up, up, up.
    Elevator opens onto long silent hallway. Here is a Men’s Room, man, I’d better just step inside and see that my appearance is suitable for this high-level conference, for which I had better brush my tufts of hair.
    Through the door, through another door, and into the shining spotless tiled head, man, and there is a mirror and there I am, man, oh no, man.
    Hair flying out, beard filled with twigs and stagnant lake weeds, my tie is on sideways and coming out of the sleeve of my jacket which has shrunk up to my elbows. The cuffs of my pants are up to my knees, man, and the entire ensemble is covered with Central Park muck and grime. The effect, man, is one of nightmare proportions. How can I discuss business in this condition? I look like I just fell down the elevator shaft. There is only one solution, man.
    Back into the hallway and walk along, man. Arrow on the wall and a sign saying

    Therefore, man, before I turn this corner, I must drop to my hands and knees, that’s it, man, and now I crawl along this corridor, toward the desk of that secretary up ahead. She sees me, man, she is getting up, looking astonished, and I am crawling forward, man, dragging my umbrella and satchel.
    Crawling along, man, toward her desk. She comes toward me, her face filled with concern. “Are you all right?”
    “… fell … down … elevator shaft…”
    “Oh my God!”
    “Floor above … door opened … accidentally … stepped through … I have an appointment … Mr. Reynolds … could you…”
    “I’ll call the doctor… an ambulance … . ”
    “Yes, please … I may be … seriously … herniated big toe … but first, please … I have to see Mr. Reynolds … utmost urgency … my appointment.”
    “What is your name, sir?”
    “Badorties … Maestro Badorties, Resident Director of the Fourth Street Music Academy … fell twenty-five, maybe fifty feet, landed in puddle of water which had collected on top of the elevator … narrow escape… .”
    “Mr. Reynolds
…
there is a Mr. Badorties out here
…
he fell down the elevator shaft
…
he has an appointment.”
    The immediate sound of scurrying feet, man, and the Director of Programming bursts out of his office, man, toward my prostrate form.
    “What happened … good god, Miss Hodgekiss, the man is badly hurt … call the doctor … and then call the superintendent. That damned elevator has been on the blink for a week. Yesterday a delivery man was trapped in there.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Mr. Reynolds … in my satchel… .”
    “Yes, what is it?”
    Director of Programming bending over, filled with concern, man, helping me open my soaking wet satchel, from which I am able to draw a single dry piece of music.
    “This is the music, Mr. Reynolds … which we will be singing on the show.”
    “Show?”
    “Didn’t my secretary … my appointment was for this afternoon.”
    “I don’t recall. …”
    “On the Lower East Side, Mr. Reynolds, in the slums, run-away teen-age chicks are singing church music … the concert is just two days away … I seem to have dislocated my head … Love Concert in Tompkins