It had been eight or nine months, maybe a year, since the buttons had begun falling off Harry’s shirts. The first one didn’t surprise him, or even the second, although he couldn’t remember ever losing a button before. Mostly they came off in his hand, while he was dressing. Usually a cuff, sometimes a top or collar button. He saved them in a neat little row on the dresser until there were six or seven, then asked his wife to reset them on the shirts. His wife, a methodical housekeeper, assured him that the shirts were the same brand she’d been getting him for years, were not old, and that bleach, since they were not white, was not a factor. On his next birthday, she bought him several new shirts, and for a while the problem seemed to abate. But in recent weeks, the buttons had begun falling again, and here he stood this morning, pantless and furrowed of brow, pushing a fifth button into place at the end of the line of four already waiting on the dresser.

At breakfast, Harry mentioned the matter to his wife, and wondered again if it couldn’t be the soap. "It’s the same," she insisted. " I keep telling you it’s the same brand I’ve always used." Some new ingredient, he thought. Some rogue dirt-eating enzymes. Something they like in button thread. They get hooked, dirt’s not enough anymore. World’s full of things like that now, man-made accidents waiting to happen on every scale, microscopic to the cosmic. Science running amok. Losing Buttons? You’re Not Alone. Experts Cite Circumpolar Link…

Breakfast done, Harry pocketed the business section and went to the hall for an umbrella. He plunged his hand into a basket of old shoes, rummaging around for the stubby fold-up he knew was in there. As he yanked it out he felt a draft around his right wrist and knew without looking at the flapping cuff that he’d lost another button. He returned to the kitchen and ran Scotch tape around the cuff, pressing hard. At the front door, as he twisted the knob he monitored his tape job for signs of early failure, and, as he watched, the knob pulled free in his hand.

At the moment, of course, it didn't occur to him that an escalation was in progress. All he knew was that the guys in the van pool would only wait so long and that, at the moment, he couldn't get out of the house. He took the doorknob back into the kitchen and placed it purposefully at the end of the drainboard "where he could find it later." His wife looked up from doing the dishes with a "back so soon?" look on her face and he tweaked his mouth and one eyebrow to convey "you never know what's gonna happen next."

Though the side door was closer to the front of the house, the sliding back door was closer to where he was now. He hurried through the living room, swept aside the curtains and, fumbling a moment with the lock lever, grabbed the handle to sweep the door open. He immediately took several steps to the left as the door handle simply accompanied him, as if it had never been attached to the door. And indeed, when he inspected it and the door after getting his balance, the screws that should have been either in the handle or in the door were nowhere to be seen. He considered shoving it open with his hands on the glass, but Helen had windexed the enormous panes to invisibility just two days ago and he knew a certain spell of tranquility would be broken if anything marred this immaculate clarity too soon. He strode to the side door, re-pressing the tape which had come loose from his cuff again.

A few minutes later, in the van, pressing his handkerchief to the minimally but stubbornly bleeding cut on his forehead, he wondered if it wouldn't have been better to have stored the side door somewhere inside instead of leaning it against the outside of the house. The sky was darkening in the way that almost inevitably means rain.

A long, low whistle greeted Harry, "Lord! What happened to you? Come in too late from the pub ‘an your wife hit you with a pan?" questioned George, the driver. Harry just stared dumbly at the useless tape that was refusing to cooperate on his cuff. The others laughed and gave one another a mix of exaggerated winks and knowing glances.

Stepping out of the van at the office, Harry was surprised to realize that he was relieved to have arrived without incident. Of course he had let someone else open the van door…but he tried to excuse that with the mental reminder that the tape on his cuff might have popped off again if he had reached for the handle. Chuckling at his foolishness, he determined to make a fresh start of it and strode confidently out across the open plaza. Nearing the far side, he stumbled a moment and then with an abrupt jerk, both righted himself and spun ‘round. Eyes wide, a look of suppressed panic creeping onto his face, he stared at the complete leather sole laying there on the cobblestones.

Feeling awkward and embarrassed, Harry quickly retrieved the sole of his shoe from the cobblestone plaza floor. The shocked and bewildered look in his eyes caught the attention of his co-workers as they hurried past him. Sam Ruba from accounting stopped and put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. "Harry, are you all right? You’re as white as a ghost." Harry shook his head and mumbled under his breath then stuffed his shoe sole into his blazer pocket. Seconds later he picked it up off the ground again, snagging his finger on the flap of a pocket that had moments ago been completely attached to his blazer. His mind raced like the Tazmanian Devil trying to explain the peculiar coincidences of the morning. Was he on Candid Camera?! As he began to climb the stairs to the entrance of his building, he felt a very distinct draft on his lower parts. Sure as daylight, when he reached down nonchalantly to make sure what he thought had happened really DID happen, he could feel the window where his trousers now displayed his fruit of the looms. What a nightmare! He stood up as tall as he could, hoping his blazer would cover his smiling buns, and followed his co-workers inside.

Harry stood in his cubicle. He wondered when he'd awaken from this nightmare. It was bad enough that his trouser seams had failed, but now he realized he'd forgotten his briefcase. He knew it was laying on the edge of the sink next to the side door, but there was no way he could go get it now. But what to do about his fragmenting suit? Then he remembered a pair of jogging shorts he kept in the bottom drawer. He'd brought them to work months ago when he and George had tried to get in shape by going to the gym on their lunch hour. The routine had lasted a week, now they merely walked to Omlette Inn. Harry pulled open the drawer. He wasn't surprised when the handle remained in his hand. He dropped in on the floor and reached inside. Not only were the jogging shorts there, but there was a pair of cross training shoes too. Oh well, chalk it up to casual Friday, he muttered to himself. Quickly he slipped off the remaining pieces of his suit pants, what few there were. As he reached for the shorts he had the odd sensation he was in a nicely appointed meeting room next to a long polished table. He shook his head and looked up, no, it was just his cubicle. But as he looked, the padded cubicle wall in front of him fell over away from him. Poor Sandra Fennel in the next cubicle, leaped out of the way just in time and turned to yell at him. Instead she burst out laughing. Around the room cublicle walls fell away like dominos. And Harry was standing in the middle, half naked, holding his red running shorts.

With jogging shorts and shoes in place, Harry stomped over his cubicle wall, glaring at Sandra with one of those "if that's the way your going to be, I'll just jog right out of here" looks. As he stumbled across the office rubble he found that his brazen and aggressive attitude seemed to be affecting the mishaps that had been the bane of his morning. With a renewed vigor he looked over his shoulder at the office shambles and queer looks of his fellow workers. Harry hit the "down" button on the elevator and did a double take when nothing fell on the floor or came off in his hand. As the doors before him opened he looked side to side, put on a smug look and marched into the empty elevator. Picking himself up off the floor, he thought to himself: 'could of happened to anybody. Don't know why that gapping crack is there anyway'. With less confidence this time, Harry pressed the button marked "Park Avenue Level', and the elevator began to descend. As the doors opened he lurched forward to exit the mobile cubicle and crashed into what appeared to be a concrete wall. 'Must be the sub-basement' he thought. He hit the 'Park Avenue Level' button in quick succession with his fist and the doors closed abruptly. The elevator lurched into motion. However this time he noticed the descent was much more rapid. He began pounding on many of the upper floor buttons, but to his dismay the elevator continued down.

He woke up as the airplane levelled off. "Sorry about the bumps, folks. Should be clear sailing from here on in," said the Captain's voice. Flight attendants moved along the aisle, administering calm words and pillows.

Harry stared stupidly at the seat back in front of him, and at the woman sleeping beside him. He shook his head, remembering the dream. Sandra woke up, stretched and smiled, and took his hand. "Not having second thoughts, are you? Sorry you left Helen?"

"Of course not." He let go of her hand to rub back his hair, and looked out the window.

"Because it's a little late for that, kiddo."

Harry didn't answer. The first lights of a city moved into view below. Reaching into his pocket he fingered the coat button that had fallen off as he left home this morning.

"No," he said. "No second thoughts."

He leaned back and closed his eyes.