outside

Directions from the airport, including the location of each bus stop, were stored in voice mail. Unfortunately, that message was saved beyond acceptable limitations. Pushing the numbers into my cell anyway, holding it at arms-length and squinting to confirm contact like someone new to the technology: One new message (to save). The directions repeat themselves, fresh and clearer than before.

Back into the flow of traffic then with one near step. Keys are waiting under a low stack of grey print paper, just heavy enough for sliding with one foot/toes, with arm support. Right where they should be. It's strange, the impervious way buildings look from the outside and how easy it is to walk right in.

Through the door and into the kitchen; into the fridge; out with a bottle. A cotton towel wrapped around the neck dulls the sharp edges, but the deflating hiss is still audible. Sun coming down through the window makes the room bright but doesn't shine at eye level.

Leaning my back against the wall, my arm around my torso, one hand lifts administering medicine: A dry, American fermented wheat drink as un-prescribed sedative for the bruises of landing. Every thing for it's reason.

After lowering the bottle for recycling, resting (head back against textured tiles) time seems short. The front door opens again and she's smiling. Hellos and a hug closer to the door. Her voice is the way it sounded on the phone, because she's good at landing.

My bag slings over my shoulder. It came with my Shoei (a Japanese company started in the 50s, and not Finnish at all), which looks alien-esque; it's white which demands careful handling. Smooth around a hip, with substance, but it's getting worn out. I make mental notes of that, like saving email on someone else's computer. Unless steps are written into a planner (single occupant in the bag), nothing will happen.

I think so... I can set up at the table? You look good, you look thin?
Yes, thanks. If seven angry Colombian brothers knock, don't answer the door.
Ok. Wait- Seriously?
No. No hard feelings on that one.
Someday, you're going to have to share that story, please. I want to hear about it.
I have something to work on now, too. I'm going to drop you off at the law library. Here, you can use my ID.

When you get in the door, turn left, alright? Go up the stairs, to the left.

Surreptitiously slip off the lip stud, an appropriate seeming effort- The sort that helps suprisingly well. The stud promptly drops into my sweater somewhere, and mysteriously disapears. Suprised enough to be amused, right along the line of what I was looking for anyway.

Are you Ok?
But he couldn't help, because it wasn't there.

I couldn't find what I was looking for.

Is that what you were here for? Did you ask for help?

I got offered help. I wasn't here just to pry and keep you busy. I don't have the patience to look more. I'm going back North.

There aren't actually any faces in the room.

I could pretend I'm the girl who floated down the stairs, carried along in a sea of black chiffon and torn stockings. The wreck of a room paused below her. That was not me though, I was one of the watchers. When I wear black it's a substitute for sweatpants on a lazy day- An imitation of self-educated awareness, rather than an imitation of athleticism. I never learned to make a look work for me, so I go with the one that makes people expect something of me.

It was a large room, full of upended bicycles and tires spinning slowly. One wall appeared partially de-masoned and the staircase railing was missing a segment. The wood steps were very wide, though, so her decent came off as grand. Behind and beside the staircase, a computer lab was set up and I was buying a monitor. It wasn't what I'd expected, but the guy leading me back there was so engaging that reservations were... misplaced? The computers seemed very orderly to me, though the usual assortment of cables was probably as messy as the previous roomful of bikes. The girl's workspace (apparently herself) was the only one that seemed universally appealing- Neither of the men looked at her, I must have been confused.

It has a good, clear image? Can I see something other than green on black text?
It's set for text right now, you can adjust it. It's good, no problem with it.
Can you help me carry it?
Where are you going with it, exactly? If you don't want it, someone else is coming by in a minute to pick it up.

When I'm cold and lonely, the name of a man comes to mind. I used to chant his name to scare off shadows, I still try it; it's a crutch like repeating 'he took a duck in the face' or anything else. It's been 5 years since that litany was much comfort, but it's good for an eye roll at myself. It reminds me of mistakes- like never buying a presentable outfit for conventions, trusting advisors, or learning to speak and think at the same time. It's a name to say when I need help, even if I try to carry it myself.

I want it. Yes, I want it.

I don't really. The thing is awkward, ungainly, an unpleasant shade of complimentary plastic. In addition to that, the place makes me feel foolishly straight and an unpleasant combination of clean and worn. Nice things kept for bad reasons, lousy things kept for use without appeal.

Creaking on the stairs again, but no one there. Knocking on the front door, also, as I stand looking at the thing and almost wishing I could leave it there and just buy something with a simple price tag. The front door is heavy solid wood, an enamel green, not a cheap piece and not treated like one. Considering the disheveled state of the room, it almost stands out.

Listen- What are you doing.

I'm sorry, I'm just trying to ... (A rock star cranes his neck and stares at me with bored disdain as though I've soured his pallet as he walks in, through the other room, into the next). This didn't really fall into the work category.

Right. I'd ask you what kind of work but I have a lot to do here. Do you have a plan to get this thing going? (Another knock on the door, it opens a crack and at least it's a handsome familiar face this time)

Oh. You are saving my ass. I know, I don't have any tickets left with you, but thank you. (Really just making big eyes and leaning back against the balustrades, watching as he squares off to lift the glass fronted box off the ground without having to be asked. )

We're taking this out of here?

So I pay the dealer with a few bills cash folded, confirming our transaction with another moment of silent eye contact. He shoves me off with a jerk of his chin, pushing rather than nodding. So we cross the room of spinning spokes & wheels at a good clip and pull the green door open, and it's the same crazy route we crossed on the way in but now it's darker and colder outside and there is more weight behind me. The way to the sidewalk is a state of ridiculous misconstruction that we jog over, one after another, quick and serious. The door closes very politely (but it's still frightening somehow) behind.

Getting into the old beat up truck, there are 4 broad shouldered, strong
jawed, narrow hipped men smoking and blowing steam into the air.
Rough-housing.
Yodel aye (unlocking) hold that right there.
Friends of yours?
They're speaking German, aren't they? Isn't yodeling for the Swiss or
something? No.
They look like your type. Too athletic?
(Middle finger to side of nose, sliding machine into bed) You don't have to look tough right now, if you don't need to.

Getting out of the beat up old truck, crossing between large old houses, unlocking a side door and stepping down. It's raining a little, the 'all clear' kind of rain that almost lets you get something done if you don't mind the damp. Don't think about how long it takes to warm up again, or run in circles a few times to get the blood flowing.

You live in a basement?
Does it look like I live down here? No. I live upstairs now, it's nice. I do have a job? I just like dark, quiet spaces.
(Stomping and voices upstairs)
Sure.
People shout. The sounds'll get more familiar to you in a minute. I like to think I make a better argument than she does.
Do you? We haven't had a good argument in a while. (Raising hands to rough exposed rafters, webby, so the triceps bulge near the exposed bulb)
No. No strategy. No one argues back at me anymore, anyway, it's stupid, but I'm keeping the server down here. Hey, (snap snap) what have you been up to? Do you have a girlfriend these days? I mean, I wouldn't feel bad if you say yes or no.... (laughing, shrugging shoulders back down, pulling a cable tie around a spool and smoothing the edge).
Me? Um, no, I'm alone right now.
You always have your brother.
Twins, right. No, my brother's practically married right now.
Cool, I see. Lovely.
Yea, what are you doing? Where do you want that (pointing widely)? You know, I like it better when you wear skirts. Even that long one's ok, but they're better when-
Yea, image if I had a skirt on now? (eyebrow and shy face all together) I don't like the noise it makes, so we've got the cable running all the way down, see? I'll figure that out for myself though, or, actually I have someone who can help figure it out.
So what are you doing with it? You don't want to do this now? Let's go for a drive or something. Go upstairs? (turning towards the steps)
No, wait, I don't want to go for a ride right now. But can I get my arm around your neck for a second? I need a hug, alright? A hug? Thank you, thank you. I've got an appointment early tomorrow, I need to go take a cold shower.
Appointment? I'm practically a doctor now, did you know that?
(hand to already beat up forehead) I'm paying a girl to brush my hair. I'll call you when I have a plan? Or if I get a message or hear something.

Nov 20 2006
Back into the office, with a can of pickled beets (rough edge bent up in violation of the 100 mile diet, one finger curled against the wound it gave me) in one hand and a plastic prong fork poking out. Setting it down to make rosey rings on the white painted desk which is actually a door set on one side.
Slice the tape on the box set there with a little leatherman, and carefully fold the leaves back. Smile, because there is a pressed wildflower to set aside before lifting out the newspaper packing, and the collection of NIC cards.
Picking up the phone while unplugging the tower, which shuts off the music.
Hi. Yes, I do. (Bend and stretch to see the phone, 80's aerobics moves dating the high ponytail which flips. Reading the clock.)
2 am, your time.
Take advantage of you? Your girlfriend is prettier, sweeter, and tougher than I am. I would never try to take advantage of you. I'm just looking for advice, before I attempt this (while sliding the case open with twirling screwdriver, as taught).
Ha. Do you remember how I got that driver disk from you? (screwdriver falls on the ground from a failed attempt to spear it though the ponytail band like a knitting needle) I dyed my hair blond for that disk, and you never even saw it.
Yes, I remember the rain- beau table stuff (bit of a yawn). I don't believe in collecting everything (circle in the air with the utencil) in one container like that, it's too much.
You changed your mind again, now? Hell. Where are those theoretical(?) return values coming from, anyway? Couldn't you do something to prevent that from happening to begin with? Clever would be lovely but brute attack (knuckle scraping forehead). Ok.
Click click on the phone, dialing again while plugging the desktop back in.
Hi Pie.
No, that's alright, I was just saying hi. Love you too.
Perfect. The music starts as the phone goes back on the charge.

Nov 22, 2006
It's important to be comfortable, to be wearing the right things when working alone. Generally with hardware, more skin is best. Often seen paired with those ringer polos, I lean more toward smooth heftier weaves and bottons that go all the way down.
Throw a knit shawl around shoulders and open the door into the hall.
Dan? (no answer)
Close the door behind to keep the heat from pouring out into the white hall with doors.
Hear stomping and music (bagpipes?) behind the first, slowly open it. It's the kitchen, empty and dark with a cold oven.
Hear arguing (how can you watch this crap?!) and TV behind the next. It's the living room, the street lighting the curtain and the tangled paused projects on the table.
Laughing and rummaging behind the last door. It's the bathroom, brightly painted with glass bottles on the shelf. Flick the switch on and off to show the dry clawfoot.
All quiet.
At the end of the hall is the main room, windows over the street which is dim for so early in the evening. Everyone tucked away in their own rooms, doing the same exact things. The basement windows all bright, the ground floor windows all dark. Upper levels show a pattern of black, blue, and well lit, while the attic lights switch dull-y in apartments all along the block.
Curl up on the couch with the phone again. Hold it with the contact list in mind, the numbers never used and the missed calls, the saved messages. Crack it open and consider calling for voice mail- The ones that never required notepad and pen and are saved for tone, background noise, sometimes the exact words. Close it distastefully and find it being put down to one side in favor of the rain on the glass, tucking both hands into fabric for warmth and drawing slippered feet closer underneith.

Then get up without the wrap, pull a lumpy dress (from the sofa arm) over the slip and cinch the waist. Down the stairs.

Nov 27, 2006

Sitting in the MW Coffeehouse, looking through a window at Christmas lights stretching to compensate for the seedy Mini Grocery. Beautiful wood floors and pleasant noise as it gets late, hot tea in a wide mouthed mug.

The window isn't fogged, or steamed, it's flier plastered. Through them, see, there's a person moving past in the dark.

Without a double take (no blinking) the view of him should have been fairly clear but there's a sense of being jostled, of seeing through a crowd. From one step, can you recognize a stride?

Maybe some sound came out then, a gasp, that tends to happen.

Sling the Shoei off the stool, heading for the door. Already beginning to smile because the air is colder than expected and the excitement unreasonable, too unfounded, and too slow. It puffs out and through that- he's still walking within sight. The red neon sign for Tavern, as far away as it always seems.

Drifts of soggy leaves and trash pile in the middle of the sidewalk. Walk carefully, pedantically. Headlights, and the streetlights far apart but the shadow up ahead matching pace (in the gaps between lit steps).

Hey, for real?
Looks like it, huh.

Guys standing outside the Tavern make some noise in passing- The pace has gotten too fast. Slow down, consider having reached the expected destination but see the figure gain space. Take off, aware that it's getting darker, pulling the phone from over a shoulder.

It rings once, but looking up again there are flashing lights, the pulse of traffic has stopped, and the phone closes without thinking. He's gone, this time. Duck into the doorway, lean back against the wall and peer at the street. Call again, pulling the jacket's collar tighter.

You answered.
You called the right number this time (pause, her voice on the phone from the window directly above).
I'm right outside, actually.
Do you want to come up?
Yes, please.

Her hair, when she opens the door, is intricately parted.

Dec 4, 2006

I had this dream.
About people you shouldn't be dreaming about?
You know.

Sitting down the the stuffed chair, testing slightly.

Would you mind if I sit? There is something going on outside.
Is there?

Two fingers to the slat blinds, dark street and one bright eye.

I don't see anything.
What? I saw something.
(A look, not very interested)
I saw someone, too. But now I don't think it was who I thought it was. (hands settle palm upright on knees, like making the words there first) I thought it was someone I knew. Now I think it was someone else- The look back seemed... different. What indicators make you recognize a person?
Do you want tea, or something else?
I've had so much tea. I think I'd just like to sit with you, is that alright? (too many pauses between words, too slow for anything)
Just sit down.
So I sat and it was quiet for a while. Looking at the front-most painting on the easel and the pictures on the wall, trying not to stare while she got a mug from the glass fronted kitchen.
Who's this, in this picture? (waving at a framed young man)
That one? (she smiles a little) I just bought that somewhere.
I don't ask anymore, knowing she's staged and taken the photographs with writing scrawled across the bodies. Talking about art is a marginally-acquired skill, weak among the few very basic communication crutches so far but a favorite for effort. Just wait for her to sprawl down with one bend knee in front of a graphic novel.
So what do they say?
She looks at me again, clearly preparing to answer another question somehow. Voices from upstairs begin to echo down and she relaxes against a pillow, looking at me as she pulls a blanket toward her.
The last tenant was a cellist.
Upstairs?
She shrugs, and appallingly unprepared to prompt any further, I listen to the noise while curling into the chair. It's a inquisitive voice but pleased with it's own sound- The kind that wants to hear debate before inquiry and complaint before affection. Just a typical voice.

Dec 8, 2006

Do you want me to call you a taxi? It's dark, a long walk.
Oh. Right. I hear her voice more than I'm actually aware of getting up and letting myself out. That's the way her voice is, so that finding what she handed me on the way out still in my hand is almost paradoxically substantial. It's cold out, colder with anticipation of the distance alone. Knock the heels of the Doc Martens (once) while the dark wood entrance door swings open into a very dark street. Wiggle the toes, seal the zipper and cover the carotid with wool thrown tight around a shoulder. Look once over that shoulder as you head out, for all the good that will do. There are, actually, other places to be.

Or maybe I walked right into another day. Does it matter? Where and when all seem to line up oddly. It's a balance, and the struggle to get there is the payment later on when one door leads to the next. Not sad but logical. Practical but not warm. Perfect. Yes, we agree, perfect. Home is the most difficult route.

The most beautiful woman in the room greets me and it's too quick to be stunning.
Noir or Syrah, she asks.
Syrah, I tell her (thinking 'cross platform' for some reason), and she hands me a glass.
Such a lovely hostess, I say almost to myself, because it's a relief to be assisted into the room. She asks me to repeat myself, though, and immediately I'm paranoid. I've exhaled confused tension and the wrong words at her. Look around almost desperately.
She smiles and doesn't speak.

Dec 12, 2006

Don't they have people to fix this kind of problem?
We don't subscribe for IT help here, we just rent the space and the connection. This isn't going to be bad, anyway. We're going to toggle a switch, cycle some power, and everything will be running in a few minutes.
Ok. Ok, which one is ours?
The one that doesn't match the others, can't you tell? What are you looking at, anyway? Don't you recognize your own machine?
Alright, so ours is the one with the cables, and theirs are the streamlined ones.
Ours are better machines. Look, the switch is kind of pushed to the back.
So.
Nothing, I'm just going to reach back a ways for that part.
I bet these guys would help us strong arm this.
Do you really want to ask them? What would you say, exactly?
Ok. Should I reach over there and-
NO. Just keep your hands out, your body would get in my way. Just go over there and stay there till... Shit.
(Whole rack goes black)
You saw nothing.
(Whole rack lites back up)
Go stand by the door. Tell me if you see anyone coming.
(Stand by door without saying anything, tapping a nail on the knob and making a snarl on the back of the head with the other.
We just took that down, didn't we.
(A door slammed down the hall)
That's serious. Why are you calm.
It was happening anyway. That was the plan. This is running on the golden machine right now, it's on track.
I forgot, that machine was getting pulled anyway. Switch it, it'll be better than before this all started.
Unlikely. Actually this one will probably get yanked back to my basement and shoved in a corner. With a blanket over it if I have a party there.
We're fixing it up or not? I like that old stuff. Are you going to start replacing the bedrock with plastic molding or what.
This one was the first design, for showing the way the rest could be. They came out better, better burn tests and more appropriate connection cards. This one convinced everyone I could do the rest but I want to get it out of here soon. I didn't tell you to-
(Grab a laptop bag, now, and pick up his jacket for him, he's done)
What, that I could move away from the door? I'm still no use to you?
(Opening the door)
It's my turn to say that, and trust me, I'll enjoy it at least as much as you did. Let's go.
(Push the jacket against his chest and lean a little, smiling that crazy twinkle eyed endorphin smile. Get ignored for a glance back at the now twinkling red lights on the machine)
What are you waiting for. Go.