reductiondesign
03/28/06, 06:24 PM
Remember the time you said that if I ever had a problem, that I should come to you? Well, I'm coming.
Move back fifteen minutes. I'm standing in your doorway, avoiding the shards and slivers of broken glass that are spread out on the grey carpet. There's dialogue, but all I can hear is a deep, low buzz. The whole room is softly reverberating in the wake of the previous night. What used to be a memory is now an error message, synapses diluted by chemicals that I can't pronounce the names of, the kind with seventeen syllables that mean nothing to most people. Your screaming continues, and I'm walking out the door, leaving you behind me, still incessantly making nothing but noise. I make a left into the dimly-lit hallway of the hotel, passing countless doors, looking for the elevator. I'm walking past door 1587, 1585, 1583, left, down another hallway, right, towards a window, and the elevator's on the left. Four sets of two brushed steel doors, with mirrors surrounding them. A phone rests on a small marble table in front of the window, contrasting against the dark sky of Los Angeles. It's cloudy - no stars. Even the moon struggles to show through, making its best attempt to remind the world that the sun in on the other side of the planet. The moon is nothing but a reflection. I press the up button, which illuminates, and I wait for a few seconds, counting the number of floor tiles in the room. I get to thirty-six, and the steel doors open with a happy-sounding chime.
The elevator is small, about ten feet by twelve feet. Gold handrails, wood paneling and mirrors, and a light shining down from each of the ceiling tiles. I look at the array of buttons (forty levels to choose from) and press the '40' button and the 'close door' button at the same time. In older elevators, this will tell the computer to make an 'express trip' - that is, no stopping for other passengers. An uninterrupted, exclusive trip from point A to point B. The elevator hums as I travel about three hundred feet straight up before I feel myself slowing down. A chime, a light flashes, and the doors open. The room is exactly the same as the one on my floor. I walk into the hallway, searching for the exit sign that will take me to the stairs. After a few lefts, a right, and another left, I'm in the stairwell.
I start heading up, towards the roof, and I find the door. Locked. Luckily, I'm prepared. I reach for my pocket and pull out a blank key on a small, silver keyring, and a white towel I borrowed from the room service cart. I've already ground down the last slot on the blank key, and I insert the key into the lock. I hear a click, and my key is stuck on the last tumbler. Then, I thread the towel through the keyring, place my feet against the metal door, and get a good grip on the towel, wrapping it around my hands two or three times. Now, I jerk the towel away from the door as hard as I can, which pulls the key - along with the entire tumbler assembly - out of the door handle. The assembly crashes onto the floor, and I kick it down the stairs to the next story down. I place the towel and key back into my pocket, open the door carefully (the handle is now very loosely held in the door), and walk out onto the roof.
So I guess this is my goodbye. I'm standing on the edge of forty stories of windows and concrete. At around twelve feet a story, I'm nearly five hundred feet above the ground. And I'm looking straight down. You always said you'd be there, but I guess you weren't counting all the cards. I put one foot out over the darkness, and begin to lean away from the building. The wind begins to blow against me, so I lean slightly further out over the edge. Thoughts rush through my head, and I give in, leaning with all my weight away from the building. The windows turn into blurs, rushing by, nothing but vague shapes of businessmen on the phone, or a flicker of a television screen. It's like driving a car straight down, and right before the ride is over, I have one thought:
Remember the time you said that if I ever had a problem, that I should come to you? Well, I'm coming.
---
Leave a comment, and I'll leave you one back.
Move back fifteen minutes. I'm standing in your doorway, avoiding the shards and slivers of broken glass that are spread out on the grey carpet. There's dialogue, but all I can hear is a deep, low buzz. The whole room is softly reverberating in the wake of the previous night. What used to be a memory is now an error message, synapses diluted by chemicals that I can't pronounce the names of, the kind with seventeen syllables that mean nothing to most people. Your screaming continues, and I'm walking out the door, leaving you behind me, still incessantly making nothing but noise. I make a left into the dimly-lit hallway of the hotel, passing countless doors, looking for the elevator. I'm walking past door 1587, 1585, 1583, left, down another hallway, right, towards a window, and the elevator's on the left. Four sets of two brushed steel doors, with mirrors surrounding them. A phone rests on a small marble table in front of the window, contrasting against the dark sky of Los Angeles. It's cloudy - no stars. Even the moon struggles to show through, making its best attempt to remind the world that the sun in on the other side of the planet. The moon is nothing but a reflection. I press the up button, which illuminates, and I wait for a few seconds, counting the number of floor tiles in the room. I get to thirty-six, and the steel doors open with a happy-sounding chime.
The elevator is small, about ten feet by twelve feet. Gold handrails, wood paneling and mirrors, and a light shining down from each of the ceiling tiles. I look at the array of buttons (forty levels to choose from) and press the '40' button and the 'close door' button at the same time. In older elevators, this will tell the computer to make an 'express trip' - that is, no stopping for other passengers. An uninterrupted, exclusive trip from point A to point B. The elevator hums as I travel about three hundred feet straight up before I feel myself slowing down. A chime, a light flashes, and the doors open. The room is exactly the same as the one on my floor. I walk into the hallway, searching for the exit sign that will take me to the stairs. After a few lefts, a right, and another left, I'm in the stairwell.
I start heading up, towards the roof, and I find the door. Locked. Luckily, I'm prepared. I reach for my pocket and pull out a blank key on a small, silver keyring, and a white towel I borrowed from the room service cart. I've already ground down the last slot on the blank key, and I insert the key into the lock. I hear a click, and my key is stuck on the last tumbler. Then, I thread the towel through the keyring, place my feet against the metal door, and get a good grip on the towel, wrapping it around my hands two or three times. Now, I jerk the towel away from the door as hard as I can, which pulls the key - along with the entire tumbler assembly - out of the door handle. The assembly crashes onto the floor, and I kick it down the stairs to the next story down. I place the towel and key back into my pocket, open the door carefully (the handle is now very loosely held in the door), and walk out onto the roof.
So I guess this is my goodbye. I'm standing on the edge of forty stories of windows and concrete. At around twelve feet a story, I'm nearly five hundred feet above the ground. And I'm looking straight down. You always said you'd be there, but I guess you weren't counting all the cards. I put one foot out over the darkness, and begin to lean away from the building. The wind begins to blow against me, so I lean slightly further out over the edge. Thoughts rush through my head, and I give in, leaning with all my weight away from the building. The windows turn into blurs, rushing by, nothing but vague shapes of businessmen on the phone, or a flicker of a television screen. It's like driving a car straight down, and right before the ride is over, I have one thought:
Remember the time you said that if I ever had a problem, that I should come to you? Well, I'm coming.
---
Leave a comment, and I'll leave you one back.