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September 19, 2005

The Night Clerk - Chapter 2

I've got some pot with me to support myself on tonight's mission that I've swiped from the circle of maniacs at 351, a bunch of retreats. They're all attending some exotic congress but they're enjoying better stuff at night while supplies last. In exchange for this tiny subtraction of veggies I'm filling their iPods by encoding a whole library of CDs on their portables. It is the boring job people hate to do, requires little human stress and music is needed as much if not more than wallpaper. In the end a little skunk burning by the gate while I'm chasing passers-by glowing in the dark is a tiny disturbance for which I'll forgive myself twice. My friends go in and out of 351 for refills, impending needs and to visit friends off location, all plugged in their white ear-buds and soul-fitting, like going for jogging. They can hear me and I assume they're never too deep into their private cloud or blitzed off their head too far. I appreciate their sense of consistency and maturity, head over heels with firm a sense of the network lying in close proximity. Smooth pushers in white suits a good investment.

I love people as much as I hate myself for being a spectator. But I guess that's the game at play, dispatching the keys and not getting enough private entertainment to care for.

The power went out last night in a breathless moment. A group of insomniac women uneasily gathered in the lobby asking for candlelight. I turned a battery-powered camping neon light on and hoping it wouldn't be long. Apologies and glasses of cognac were offered and accepted.

Playing Pinochle. Watching, trying to make sense and promising to study lawyer next time. I've got all kind of excuses. Walk away spinning round the block starring at my black shoes and thinking my girlfriend is lying in deep sleep, unconscious of troubles and dreaming that by morning it will be Sunday and she'll only be needed dead-walking the dog to the Starbucks on Vesey for cappuccino and croissants. Sometimes life is nothing more but waiting. But the waiting is not part of life. Go figure. Not now in the stinky cloud of fish restocking in the neighborhood. Empathy is more than required back onto these ladies, needed now more than ever. I walk back for a call to the power station help desk hoping our westerns rights get a fix before a refund is due. The boss may have to spend the next couple weeks responding to hundreds of enraged emails publicizing customer service gone horribly wrong or that the place is ghost-infested, which would be fun. They may love to invent a set of stories from the ages and a couple of close encounters to spice up the advertising.

When power comes back two hours later only four of the ladies are still playing. Some are raping the magnolias by pulling baby flowers off and sniffing them as if a good trail to a newfound lysergic experience, others oozing on the couches and some have left altogether for a safari around the block, comforted only by the sound of police cars roaming the area. One young, distressed at not being able to get emails, for which she had to recharge her 'book, was invited over to one of the friend's portables still running on cells (and encoding) and she was nice from there on. She explained that was running some tourists package auctioning and awaiting on client's confirmation. Truth is she's spying on someone's mail. A private eye and a liar calling for a spare battery pack.

Getting away at 3 a.m. I get a girl at the reception that's a regular:
“Welcome back, Laura. Where have you been?”
“Up, down and all around.”
“Lots of pictures?”
“Truckloads.”
“Always interested in news trends?”
“Yep, what you got? Uh, iPods? That's all? A bit short of taste my friend.”
“No, this is just their muzak. Room 352 for you, you'll have fun. By the way, Newsweek wants to talk to you.” I handed her a piece of fax paper as she unfolds it and inside the tiny purse. A short but ominous message: Spiked you. Van McCann. Call for appointment.
The tiny elevator groaned to 352 with its girly payload.
She called back around 5 barking at me and scaringly asking if I had anything to do on the evening next. An invitation to a place called Touraine was the matter. Now I'm thinking of herb salads and mushrooms poached in red wine. That will do me fine. Don't know about the rest. But she had an idea.

I hung up and suddenly the funny time lapses and washed out colors induced by the smoke are gone. Sunday morning sidewalks are turning gray, heavy and wet. Eyes are sticking onto the poles and staying there. Mushrooms start growing. Poles start swinging.

© Fortunato Caragliano

Posted by lck at September 19, 2005 05:45 PM