Tophouse

Genton’s was the biggest and oldest department store in Missoula, Montana.

It had opened in the 1920s, and barely made it through the depression after old Joe Genton built up two generations of good will by sinking about half of his daddy’s railroad fortune into keeping the doors open. He kept all the employees on the payroll at a time when it seemed like nobody in Missoula had steady work. It had stayed in the family, and while there were some lean years, (particularly when the Wal Mart Supercenter opened up down River Road in the ‘90s) but at the end of the day, only Genton’s had the Tophouse. Even slimeballs like Andy DeRosa, who bounced from job to job, and spent most nights on Reddit or 4Chan reading about delightful topics like prison violence or the “good parts” of white nationalism, could look forward to a trip to the Tophouse.

Located just underneath Genton’s clocktower, all the way up above the 9th floor, The Tophouse was the place to buy menswear in Western Montana. It had been a marketing coup for William Genton, Joe’s son, who’d created The Tophouse out of an unused storage space he used to frequent as a kid. While it was technically the 10th floor, The Tophouse was much smaller than the floor below it, and when the rest of the giant department store felt like too much, William had often taken refuge up there by himself. It made him feel like he was on the top of the world. It was a wonderful feeling for the boy, and when he took over the store, he realized that feeling was exactly how a man wanted to feel when he dressed his best. And the Tophouse was born. It wasn’t small, it was exclusive. And it worked.

If you lived in Missoula, “Tophouse” had even become part of the local slang. If someone was “Tophouse” they were dressed to the nines. Single and ready to mingle. Teenagers from as far east as Billings were known to hashtag their prom TikToks with #Tophouse, even if they’d never set foot in Missoula. Andy DeRosa had convinced Jessy Johnson to meet him in the Tophouse, at the top of the spiral staircase that led from the rest of the store, under a framed picture of a bed, accompanied by an arrow pointing down to indicate which way the bedding section was. She greeted him with a nervous smile. They’d gone on several dates months ago, and she’d only accepted his invite to help him pick out a suit knowing that they would be in public. “I have a job interview Tuesday,” he’d lied to her over text. “And I really want to look #Tophouse for it.”

Jessy’s anxiety at her meeting with Andy turned out to be more than justified, as shortly after being reunited, in one of the Tophouse dressing rooms, while wearing a new double-breasted suit he had no intention of purchasing, Andy stabbed her in the throat seven times. He counted aloud as he did it, “One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven.”

His jabs were short, tight and precise, a sharpened toothbrush shiv he’d made himself clenched tight under his right thumb, his wrist frozen at a 15 degree angle and his forearm drawing back and punching repeatedly, robotically, like the rapid pulsing of a sewing machine. While planning this revenge for a perceived humiliation he’d inflated in his own mind, Andy had imagined what his victim’s expression might look like, but as it was happening, everything was so immediate, he didn’t even really pay attention at all.

She made a little wheezing sound and her hands came up, but as the blood came, and there was a lot of it, she simply crumpled to the floor and it was all over her, and all over for her, all at once and forever after. All thirty four years of her life, in a staccato seven count, were all she would get, for ever and ever and ever. Above her, the clock tower started chiming noon. The first four or five of them was as far as she got. Andy glanced at himself in the mirror, faked a cocky smile, and after the 12th and final toll, he turned, and changed back into street clothes. He checked that the outside door sign of the dressing room still read “OCCUPIED,” made sure the salespeople weren’t looking, clicked the stopwatch in his pocket, and briskly walked from the dressing room.

35 minutes before Jessy’s life drained away in the Tophouse dressing room, Andy DeRosa had walked into the 9th street entrance of Genton’s department store and clicked the stopwatch he had brought for the occasion. He had a plan. The understated, iron-framed weather door was far less trafficked than the double doors that faced the parking lot to the west, or the big, splashy entrance on Main, the one with the giant revolving door flanked by window displays on either side that ran down the entire extended block. He’d checked into his gym at 11AM, and left his phone in a gym bag in a locker, on the off chance the authorities could track him with it. He knew it should take him exactly 9 minutes to get to the Tophouse.

He took a right at the fancy handbags, went up three short steps to the perfume section, and took a left, leaving the elevator banks on his right, but not taking them, as they were always operated by a uniformed elevator operator who might remember seeing him. He arrived at the first escalator and took it up to two. He walked straight through women’s shoes, past the personal stylists’ offices, and walked 50 yards to first of 7 classic wooden escalators, modeled after the ones at Macy’s in New York, and started up. A quick U turn at the top of each escalator led him to the next, until he finally arrived on the 9th floor. A straight shot through the bedding department to the south led to the spiral staircase up to the Tophouse to meet Jessy. He stood there now again, facing down this time, his bloodied right hand concealing the shiv in the front pocket of his hoodie. As he walked down the staircase, the blood rushed to his head, he got dizzy, and he thought he might pass out.

“Get it together, DeRosa” he hissed to himself and gingerly walked to an empty corner of the bedding section. Sitting on a bed, he took 30 seconds to catch his breath and calm his anxiety. He got up, pretending to browse bedroom sets before leaving, doing his best to appear as the casual weekend shopper that he had never been in his life.

“Andy! Andy DeRosa?”

Andy looked over his shoulder in shock. Who could he possibly know here?

“How long has it been!”

His eyes practically bulged out of his head as Coach Silva, his former high school football coach approached, hand extended, and before Andy knew it, he was stabbing him in the neck too. “One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven” he said aloud. The coach clutched his neck, blood jutting out from it, and Andy guided him onto a nearby queen-sized Aireloom Vitagenic CopperTech Silver Queen. It had a charming Rattan bedframe with LED speakers built into the headboard. Looking around quickly, and not seeing anyone, Andy threw a Primaloft Hi-Tuft Down Comforter over the body, and artfully concealed the corpse with throw pillows.

It was officially past time to get out of there.

He put the shiv back in the front pocket of his hoodie and headed for the escalators. Walking briskly past the rows of beds, he scanned the middle of the store for the down escalator which...wait, where was it? It wasn’t there. He glanced to his left, looking for the men’s restrooms which he knew were between the staircase to the Tophouse and the escalators. They weren't there. The King and Queen sized beds started changing into children’s beds. Still walking forward, he moved past a mannequin wearing a wedding gown.

What the fuck was he doing in the bridal section?

He turned on his heel and saw a sign on the wall: a stairwell? He walked towards it, through a double door, and found a single staircase, leading down. It was out of the way, and that would be fine, and might even lead him out of the store entirely? He was halfway down the steps when he collided with a security guard, who let out a yelp.

“WHOH! Where’s the fire big fell- ” said the guard.

“One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven” was out of Andy’s mouth before he knew it and the guard's body fell. Leaving the corpse in the stairwell, Andy burst through a heavy door with a giant number “8” written on it. He was in the middle of a busy food court. It was lunchtime.

Andy kept walking, glancing over his shoulder occasionally. He’d killed three people. That wasn’t THAT many, he thought. All he had to do was get back to the wooden escalators and...there they were! He power walked towards them. He was almost there….

Wait.

Shit.

These were the up escalators. One was coming up from 7 and right next to it, another going up to 9. Where were the down escalators? Andy stepped onto the up. Maybe once he was back on 9, he could get back in track from there and- that was when he heard the first scream.

“SOMEBODY! HELP!”

His "9 minutes out of the building" stopwatch strategy had officially failed. He banged a U-turn at the top of the wooden escalator on 9, and walked away from the screaming, which was getting more intense. The down escalator HAD to be this way. Weren’t they, like, connected to the up escalators somehow? He walked briskly, past customers with startled expressions, looking at their phones, and spotted the elevator banks on his right. He pressed the down button, and an elevator door immediately opened with a ding. He stepped into it, and was face-to-face with a pimply-face teenage boy, wearing a Genton’s elevator uniform that looked straight out of the 1930s.

“Good afternoon, sir, welcome to Genton’s. What floor please?”

“Buh..bottom floor please” Andy stammered.

“Sure thing mister” chimed the kid, before adding, “You get a chance to check out the Tophouse?”

“Uh...no” said Andy, then quickly added “What’s the Tophouse?” It was a ridiculous lie. Everybody knew the Tophouse. The kid twisted up his face in confusion, but the elevator dinged again, which diverted his attention. “Uh oh” said the kid, flashing a grin, “looks like you’re on the local!” The kid looked at Andy, hoping to get a smile for a joke he didn’t really even understand himself. He’d never been on a subway at all, much less a local one. The kid cranked the lever, and when the door opened on 8, Andy’s stomach turned over.

“Hello, Officers!” said the kid, greeting the three uniformed policemen who stepped on. “Welcome to Genton’s. What floor please?” “Oh, sorry,” said one of cops. “We’re going up.” He glanced at Andy before stepping off again. “Boy, it’s sure easy to get turned around in this place. Right pal?” Andy stared at his shoes. “Hey! Officers!” shouted the kid after them. “There’s a stairwell up to 9 straight across from here. Straight through the food court. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks” said the cops, who walked away. The door closed, and the elevator whirred downward. Andy’s head spun.

Ding!

“Lower level!” Said the kid, as the door opened, and Andy stepped out. “Housewares, kitchen accessories, and Sunglasses.” The door closed behind him.

Wait. Where was he? The basement level? Didn’t he tell the kid “one?” What had he said? Andy walked past rows of pots and pans. Would he ever get out of here?

“ATTENTION GENTON’S SHOPPERS”

It was the public address system. Andy was walking past a collection of Le Creuset cookware, in a variety of delightful colors. Everyone he saw was looking at their phones, with expressions of horror.

“DUE TO AN EMERGENCY SITUATION THAT IS STILL DEVELOPING, GENTON’S IS OFFICIALLY CLOSED.”

Andy walked past a display of air-fryers and waffle irons. The sounds of panic around him intensified.

“IF YOU SEE A WHITE MALE, WEARING A BLACK HOODED SWEATSHIRT, FIVE FOOT EIGHT, ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY POUNDS, DO NOT ENGAGE. HE IS ARMED AND DANGEROUS. PLEASE WALK, DO NOT RUN, TO THE NEAREST EXIT.”

“Good luck with that” thought Andy.

“YOU! GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!"

Andy kept walking. A colorful sign adorned the arch above his head. After the success of Tophouse, the small corner of the basement level that Andy had wandered into had also apparently been rebranded, but it hadn’t caught on.

“Welcome to Bottomhouse” it read.

“ON THE FLOOR! RIGHT NOW! OR I WILL SHOOT YOU! ”

Andy turned on the policemen, his right hand coming out of the pocket of his hoodie. “One-Two-Three-Four-Fi--” was as far as he got.

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