Trevor and the Troll

It had been sitting there for over ten days. It had hardly moved since showing up on the previous Tuesday. Trevor had seen trolls a couple times before, but never in the city. They were solitary creatures that preferred the isolation they found sulking under bridges well off the beaten path. Most may have preferred such surroundings as few trolls could survive direct sunlight. Bad for the skin. Apparently this troll didn't have such an aversion. It almost seemed to be basking in the sunlight, and there was plenty to be had out on the ledge of the 24th floor.

When it first showed up Trevor wasn't really sure what to do. He called his landlord, who in turn told him to call the police, who then told him to call animal control, who flatly informed him that they didn't deal with anything bigger than an imp.

His next course of action was to find out everything he could about trolls. He checked wikipedia, the US Dept of Supernatural Affairs, blogs and websites. Everything he found told him conflicting things. Trolls are vegetarian. Trolls eat children. Trolls can't speak. Trolls speak Norwegian. Every source he tried told him something different.

Trevor ending up getting no work done that day as he spent all of it trying to figure out why a troll was on his ledge and how he could get rid of it. When he finally left for the day he spent exactly 11 hours and 41 minutes dealing with the troll and precisely 1 minute and 3 seconds doing his job.

Trevor figured, whatever the reasons were, the troll would surely be gone come morning. He was wrong. It still sat perched on the ledge, face tilted upwards to the rising sun, and what Trevor surmised was a grin on its hideous face. Trevor tried to ignore the beast, he knew he had a mounting pile of paperwork to get through. But, every time he turned his head to his desk, his mind would wander to the troll. Every sound he heard would cause him to swing about in his chair to see if it had moved. It didn't. At the end of the second day Trevor managed a pathetic 3 minutes and 47 seconds of work.

A plan was needed. Trevor didn't sleep much that night as he poured over a stack of books he had acquired from the library. When he went in to work with an idea and a bag full of groceries. During the course of the day he placed various food items out on the ledge. He started with a bag of lettuce and some tomatoes. Turns out trolls aren't vegetarian. Not willing to sacrifice a child, Trevor next laid out some raw steak, thinking that it would be close enough. Still nothing. Candy. Nope. Milk and honey. Nope, apparently that is for boggarts and brownies. Fish, apples, bread with jam, and crackers. Nope, nope, nope, and nope. At the end of day three Trevor only found himself $50 poorer and the owner of troll on his ledge.

For the first time in his life Trevor was thankful for the Friday meetings. He still thought about the troll as various vice presidents and project leaders babbled on about efficiency and team building, but at least he didn't have to see it. After three days he had seen enough that deformed visage to last an eternity. The single tusk that protruded upwards past the creatures bulbous, and constantly runny, nose. There was also the smell, trolls were not big on bathing it seemed. Even with the window closed the smell would seep its way into Trevor's cramped office, a noxious mix of wet socks, rotting eggs, and mold.

The weekend brought a temporary relief from Trevor's troll troubles. The more time he spent away from the office, the more he could focus his mind elsewhere. Come Monday morning the troll was almost all but forgotten. It must have moved on, if nothing else hunger would force it to seek out some other locale.

When Trevor walked into his office at half past nine on Monday morning he was shocked to see the troll. He was even more shocked the troll had shifted. Now, instead of it facing the rising sun the troll was looking right into his office. If Trevor was unnerved before, he was even more so now. He tried to work, but with his chair right in front of the window he was unable to do anything knowing that the troll was just inches away, watching him.

The next two hours were spent in vain trying to shuffle the furniture around in the tiny office. Trevor was boggled by how they had even managed to get his desk into the small room, figuring in the end that the office must have been built around it. He would have kept at it if his boss had yelled at him. When Trevor pointed out the troll, he was greeted with the suggestion that he should just push it off the ledge and get back to his damn job.

While he did want the troll gone, smashing it onto the pavement more than 20 floors before didn't seem right to Trevor. He also envisioned the troll grabbing him just as it slid off the ledge, pulling him to a grisly death. His mother would cry at his mangled remains, stuffed into a closed casket along with various bits of the troll that couldn't be sorted out. He would spend the rest of eternity stuck with the troll somewhere even smaller than his office.

Trevor spent the entire week trying to find different ways to get out of his office. He volunteered for every project he could so long as it meant time spent elsewhere. He even tried to set up shop in the conference room, but that was squashed early on by one of the project leaders needing some place private to "work" with his secretary. Trevor then cursed his rotten luck for ever getting his own office. Ten years ago when Alfred Chumsky took the express elevator to the lobby minus the elevator car, Trevor thought he had hit the jackpot. Sure the office was small, but it was his, his own private place to get away from everyone else, a place where he could work in peace.

It was Friday evening and Trevor found himself stuck at work after hours. Nearly two weeks of failing to get his work done had brought down the wrath of his boss. He had until Monday morning to get caught up or he was fired. The only upside was that there would be no one else around. The downside was that his boss had locked him in his office. The old man was at least kind enough to leave a pizza. When Trevor hinted that some beer would help him get through the long weekend he was greeted with a grunt and one less slice of pizza. Trevor knew it was a long shot, but he also knew that he had a bought of single malt tucked in the back of his filing cabinet.

Once the sun went down Trevor was relieved that the troll was much less visible. He settled in as best he could, trying to position himself in such a way that he could always keep one eye on the smudged glass where he knew that a hairy arm was only seconds away from pulling him out of the office. Apparently the fear of losing his job soon became a bigger threat to him than the troll, and Trevor began to plow through the pile of papers that cluttered his inbox.

It was just past midnight when Trevor decided to hit his little stash. He fumbled through the filing cabinet, clasping his hand around the welcoming glass of the scotch bottle. The bottle of Blue Label had been a graduation present. He always said he was saving it for a special occasion, but after nearly thirty years, such an idea seemed foolish. He cracked the seal and let the velvety libation breath. He was just to tilt back the bottle when he heard a tap tap on the window.

Trevor nearly hit his head on the ceiling as he bolted out his chair. He pounded, pulled, heaved, and cursed at the locked door. He screamed bloody murder until his lungs ached. He panicked until exhausted force him to the floor. As he sat sucking wind he heard another tap tap on the glass. Slowly Trevor rose back to his feet. His fingers crept up the wall, blindly searching for the switch. When the light flashed out Trevor could clearly see the troll, its clawed finger tapping on the worn glass of his window.

For almost two weeks Trevor had tried to get some kind of reaction from the troll. Now, he had one and it terrified him. He reached for the bottle of scotch, taking a quick belt to calm his nerves. As he placed the bottle back on his desk he watched the trolls eyes follow. Trevor picked the bottle back up, the troll watching him as he did. Trevor inched towards the window, the bottle held out in front of him. The trolls eyes went wide and that horrifying grin reappeared.

Trevor grabbed his coffee cup, unceremoniously dumping the cold liquid within onto the floor. With trembling hands he poured some scotch into the cup with "World's Greatest Mom" etched on the side. His heart nearly pounded out of his chest as he inched to the window. His breath came in quick puffs as he loosed the latch on the old wood window frame. As soon as the lock gave way the troll lifted the window open, causing poor Trevor to nearly tumble over his desk. A single scraggly arm snaked its way into the office, palmed up, waiting. Trevor forced his arm forwards, placing the cup into the hand that expected it. The troll withdrew its arm, cup attached.

The monster lifted the glass to its snot filled nose and snorted. Arching back its head it poured the finely crafted brew into its gaping maw. The troll closed it eyes, smiling again. It snorted once more and then let a content sigh gurgle from its lips. Opening its eyes it gazed at Trevor, who offered a weak smile on his pale face. the troll placed the now empty cup on the window sill, then turned and sat facing away from the office.

Monday morning when Trevor's boss came to set him free he was greeted by a strange site. Trevor lay sleeping, sprawled across his desk, an empty whisky bottle still clutched in his hands, and sitting outside his window were two trolls, both gazing up at the rising sun.