Whitestone Research

I went to our accountant, Travis’s office, to drop off stuff, which is my daily or every other daily.

Their office shares the same reception area with another. It’s called Whitestone Research. I have no idea what that means but for the last year and 8 months, it has been killing my cat with curiosity. Every time I’m in there I wonder about it. Every goddamn time, I walk into Travis’, pick up a check or drop off the envelope stuffed with bills or things I would rather pass on to more diligent people, and longingly stare into Whitestone Research.

If I’m waiting, I’m looking at the stack of business cards hanging on the wall of all the people that search said re: for Whitestone and I’ve even endeavored to take a few. I’m hoping that my taking the cards will remind me to do some research of my own and find out what Whitestone Research actually does. What are they researching and why do they need such a big office and why is there no one ever in there?

No one is ever in there. It’s quiet all the time, empty, though I have seen shadows moving about, heard a disembodied voice or two. To complete the vacant feeling, sitting alone is an empty desk, lone phone on top. It’s part of a big complex of desks where real humans must sit but this one is alone, abandoned. I’m only ever in the accountant’s office for no more than 5 minutes and that is how long I ponder this.

As I’m clomping down the stairs on the hard Mexican tile, I’m saying to myself, “What do they do? What is it? Why is no one ever in there? Find out, Molly. Find out when you get back to the office. Whitestone research, Whitestone research…”

Down the stairs, I’m repeating, “Whitestone research, Whitestone research.”

I’m getting in my car, “Whitestone research. Oh, There’s that hair thingy. Whitestone research.”

I’m driving back to the office only 6 blocks away. “Oh my god, it’s hot. Whitestone research.”

I’m driving with a mission. I have purpose. I’m holding on to that squirmy purpose as tightly as I can. I will not fail. “Whitestone research. –Oh! Cool! Aretha!– R.E.S.P.E.C.T. find out what it means to me, R.E.S.P.E.C.T. take out…pee…ly free. What the hell are the words to that song? I should look it up.”

3 blocks to go. “Get the hell out of my way! Jerk. Thinks he owns the whole damn road. Whitestone research. Ah, the office. Good. Great. I’m here.”

I’m running in. “Whitestone research.” Open the door. “Where did all this mail come from? Computer on? Check. Clicking on the browser. Open. Welcome. And….Search.”

Google: lyrics to Respect, Aretha Franklin.

“Oh. It’s, take out T.C.P… Wait. What the? That still doesn’t make any sense. Now. What was I doing?”