Cue Ball’s Judgment: CWG 4

Kyle Burkett


A few weeks ago Dr. Carter came to a Guild meeting in the dungeon wearing her sequined witch’s hat and announced that four poetic big names were going to be giving a reading in Atlanta, and that she was organizing a group to travel there and bask in the glow of literary success. Naturally, we were all invited. So every last Guild member signed his/her name in the blood of the sacrificial rabbit. For some odd reason, I was getting less and less grossed out over this sort of thing. Maybe television is desensitizing me to violence. Wait. I don’t watch TV. Then it must have been the video games. Wait. I don’t play those either. Then it must be the classic literature. Yeah, I can see that.

Anyway, last week we were reminded of the trip and Cue Ball said he couldn’t go. Something about his new fiancÈe. The Guild hierarchy was livid. The nameless sergeant-at-arms shrieked in dismay, “To the Writers’ Block!”

“No,” James calmed her. “He told us beforehand. He didn’t just not show up. This crime only merits the elevator.”

I shuddered. The elevator in the Music/English building was a fate worse than the Writers’ Block that claimed Shorty. It stalled between floors on a regular basis, trapping innocent English students with freshman oboe players. I’ve seen it stay on the second floor for hours empty with the doors open, no matter how many people call it to other floors. This was Satan’s own lift, and now poor Cue Ball had to face it. Alone.

“I think twenty-four hours should do it, don’t you?” Brittany asked.

“One day it is.” James led Cue Ball to one of the many unlit shadowy places on the walls of the dungeon and pressed a previously unseen button. A section of the stone wall moved away, revealing the gaping maw of the accursed elevator. It seemed to belch forth Milton’s visible darkness and chill the room like an open window in a North Dakota winter. I glanced at Cue Ball’s eyes as he passed me. It was hard to see in the dark, but he seemed to be in some sort of trance. I hoped this lack of consciousness would extend for the duration of his day on the elevator. Once Cue Ball was on the elevator, James said, “You’re going down.” He pressed a button on the inside of the elevator and jumped out. I winced, imagining Cue Ball’s fate. No one else dared back out of the trip now.

The next day I saw Dr. Addison struggling to get an AV cart onto the elevator. Her problem lay in the fact that a pudgy bald man was lying on the floor of the elevator weeping. He was wearing a brown robe. “Sorry, Dr. Addison,” I said. “I think he’ll be on there a few more hours.” She gave me a strange look. Earning a strange look from a Transcendentalist Quaker is quite a feat, but it was understandable under the circumstances. Though I’d hate to think the Guild was getting in the way of some class watching the two-hour documentary on Melville.

I saw Cue Ball yesterday, still twitching. I don’t think he’s gotten over his experience with the elevator. He always takes the stairs now, even to go to the fourth floor. Poor guy. I don’t think he’ll ever be able to face another elevator.


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