The elevators situated at either end of these long and seemingly photocopies hallways gives the erstwhile traveler pause. The first is just of the main lobby, where he has trekked in search of toothpaste and an accompanying brush.
The hygienic accouterments were located without incident and a conversation thus ensued. There were two young people at the front counter. The woman, maybe twenty or twenty-two, had a cheerful demeanor and as she directed the young man, who had been searching for a toothbrush, I noticed a weathered paperback laying open on the formica counter. Playing Sam Spade, I altered the orientation of it’s dog-eared pages so that at least some of the text might be discernible to my eye.
The subject matter, revealed in curious Caslon headings atop each page, was creative writing. “How interesting!” As I pondered this new development, I tried to make a silent assessment of the book’s owner, or at the very least, its reader. As she scurried from keyboard to flat screen display to cash drawer, one almost got the sense of a budding Jane Villanueva, from the popular Netflix series, “Jane the Virgin.”
“So, a writer are we?”
Her eyebrows arched mildly as she smiled before delivering her response.
“Oh yeah…I’m taking a creative writing class at Moorpark College. It’s really a blast!”
Searching my repository of available rejoinders, I could only offer,
“Yeah? How so?”
“Well,” she continued, “They give you a prompt to begin and you have to build a story around it.”
“I see. And if I may ask, what was your prompt?”
“All we were given is that the story has to involve someone being followed.”
“Hmmm….I pondered. Kind of like a detective yarn?”
“Yes! And the next thing you know, this idea of being followed actually opened up a lot of other possibilities.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh…yeah! In fact, after three or four false starts, I hit upon the idea of the follower being followed, if you know what I mean.”
I guess she could tell I was trying to connect the dots, but had no idea where they were coming from, or where they were going!
“As the story opens, we see this girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, kind of ordinary. Chuck Taylors and purple hair. You know.”
“That’s ordinary?”
“Well, in her circle, I guess. Anyway, she gets the sense somehow that someone is following her. And she has no idea why!”
Now I gravitate to slow, thoughtful head nods to keep the narrative flowing.
“So a lot of stuff happens and by the end of the story, the tables have been turned!”
I suppose my blank face functioned as a barometer of sorts.
“The followed becomes the follower!” she bellows, almost laughing at her own hilarious sense of humor.
Naturally, the rising cadence in her speech helped and I too raised my eyebrows before lobbing a return.
“Wow…Not bad! Kind of like literally ju-jitsu!”
Now she’s the one with the blank face and I sense that my corny references have missed their mark.
“I…uh, I mean…you know, in ju jitsu, I think the idea is to use your opponent’s strength to bring him – or her – down.”
“Oh!” she replied with way more volume than I would have thought necessary. “Yeah…ju jitsu. I get it.”
We stood in the lobby silently assessing one another. For her part, she was probably trying to figure out if I was a complete psycho or only a doddering old fool. I had no real role here. I was just trying to make conversation. And I see now that when someone uses an analogy or a metaphor that has all but withered on the vine, we have to find other ways to get the ball rolling.
“So,” I sauntered…Who might your favorite writers be?”
Her eyes lit up like fifty megawatt carbon arc lamps.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed breathlessly. I guess I’d have to nominate Ptricia Highsmith for that role!”
“Well, aren’t we very sinister and plain in our brown poplin raincoat?”
That at least, provoked a laugh. And spinners of yarns often find themselves given to bouts of hilarity and deviousness.
For some reason, I anticipated seeing her again, though, if truth be told, I couldn’t say why.
In fact, the very next night, she was at the front desk as I sauntered out into the cool, damp evening in search of salad. The boy was upstairs munching away and laughing at Jennifer Anniston on TV.
I stopped in my tracks. Did an about face and as the pneumatic front door opened gracefully of its own accord, I walked slowly back inside to face her.
“You’re being followed!” I said, as if in a whisper, before returning to the lumbering expanse of silver gray clouds outside.
seedeenow 