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January 21, 2006

The Night Clerk - Chapter 5

The crying game

Aperture is just right. I'm taking measurements of the landscape before running to work. Talking funny and looking funny, shy by the sudden glimpse of a luscious pair of twin legs getting on the bus. I bet from a distance for a prize meticulously taken care of and a head start. The Sony barks off with a loud unknown on the wire. At the other end a man is looking for a Sophie, which (unfortunately?) I don't know. Sophie? With two fingers on the flip he's crying single syllables off the speaker. The girl pays for a routine and sits down, hands on her knees firmly. Make my way back with the tune pounding, sick, awake and calm in the jungle, breath out and catch her on the eye-wire.

Finger-picking on the heels and off the bus. Is this where you live, Sophie? You and your copy machines? I work at the Ambrosia, down the block. Her soothing dark eyes speak of three legged stools, scattered Polaroids, napkins and crumbs in the sun, a casual eye musing for Paris every other day.

Can I buy you breakfast?
You're going to wear that funny hat and spin?
May I survive thru the night...
9 a.m. at The Wall, bring a tie.
A tie? What for?
I only date boys with ties, no questions.

The phone rang for the rest of the night. Unfair affair and the crying game. Who's there?

Have a tie to spare, John?
Talking to me?
I missed the crowd, pie-hole.
Who's getting married this time?
Friend of mine.
Got friends? Black tie far-out these days?
I'm all highway on the silk. Cheers.

Don't talk to anybody, lick away the dancing until it's go on the watch and wave to the Wall, a recessed spot by Metro, hiding by Regent's and the neon lamps. I'm not supposed to see what I see: she's at a table, crisscrossing in the black suit, mirror-shades to the overcast, a cream pullover and a smile, chin and jaws dipped into psychology.

I had coffee early on. I like your shades.
Sophie... Sophie, right?
What happened to your funny hat?
Traded in for a tie. More coffee?

I learned everything she could possibly tell about the place, the 1970's styled neon signs and their manufacturing process, the font faces in the menu, a list of drinks and the snow melting at 46F. I mumbled with myself that I never spotted her before and of the guy who loves my wire so much and how sleepy I was and of 404. So this is where you work.

You lost it. How exactly?
Do you want phone, room number, eye color or social security?
Ah! Hell, the tie would be enough.
John, forget it. I'll buy you one.
Is she one of ours?
Naa. One of ours?
Did she like your phone?
No, but she wanted a clamshell and I needed a new one anyway. Now you're questioning way past work ethics. I dunno if I want to talk to you.
404 was looking for you today.
I know. I'll touch base.

On the second day of the shooting season, rock bottom, away from buses and neon lights, it's 48F outside and the snow is starting to melt. I like my new phone. My girl loves it too. Once she asked about the old Sony. We were at the hotel having croissants and she was experimenting with cornrows style, which made her look as if she had been intentionally distressed to look older. Maybe that's why I told her that I lost it.

© Fortunato Caragliano. All rights reserved.

Posted by lck at January 21, 2006 08:42 PM