Sleep No More- interlude

I'm sitting in a corner at the bar at the "McKittrick Hotel" which is a rest area of sorts, supposed to be stuck in the pre-depression era. There's a five-piece doing its best to operate a few big-band tunes and navigating well but still a little out of place. I've been walking and sweating in the dark for awhile, so it seemed de rigeur to get a shot of absinthe and sip, waiting for something else to happen. I tried telling the bartender we're all just ghostly sacks of meat in this absurd theater, but she wasn't buying it... or the drink.


Just before this, back up on the fifth floor, a lady in a red dress was eating some food, found a brass ring in it, wiped it with her napkin, and put it on my finger. She then launched into a lip-synched performance of a song about jaded dissatisfaction ("is this all there is to life/love.") Soon afterwards, I found the stairway back to the red velvet-covered lounge. The tall, slow-talking announcer-host comes up to me, puts his hand on my shoulder (I'm a little startled, was staring at my phone) and asks "how would you like to finish that shot and go on a little adventure?" I pocket my phone, slug the fluid, stand up and replied "absolutely". He leads me to a corner, looks at a porter who nods, and hides behind a curtain to discreetly use a radio headset; he's coordinating. The tall fellow looks at my shirt and says "what's hacky-sack?" Not willing to play a character I said "whatever you want it to be, buddy." He then pulls back a different curtain to reveal an elevator- not the same one I'd used before... and leads me inside.


He opens the door and pushes me out to a hallway, leaving me with another fellow, also tuxedoed; we're in a spotlight, standing aside an ancient wheelchair/gurney. . It's the kind that looks like a cross between a barber's chair, a folding wooden deal, and something from the torture room in "Brazil". There's a light mist of dry ice like everywhere else in this place, and I'm a little clammy. His hand was warm as he took mine and led me into the chair. The music got much louder, the lights went down, he eased back the chair so I was lying on my back, with that hand pressing down on my shoulder. He started to run, rolling the gurney along with at a pace that seemed a little hazardous for pitch black, and the interlude began...

Today's commute

I commuted today wearing a clown nose. Every time I started laughing I imagined my co-workers in Hawaiian shirts and a Brazilian wax. It's under a half hour, door-to-door, and somehow I heard less than three audible laughs. One of those was from the homeless fella sleeping next to the metrocard machine while I was waiting in line. WTH? Now I want to bring a dozen clown noses and another dozen Hawaiian shirts to family holiday parties. Not my family, mind you.