FEAR AND LOATHING ON MY LUNCH BREAK
Today for lunch I drove aimlessly around Seattle, stopped for gas, and then decided to grab a burger and run home. While waiting for my order at Kid Valley, a local burger chain, I was joined on my bench by an alterna-chick who introduced herself as Laura. She just started chatting. Seems she was from Connecticut orignally, and moved to Seattle for the overcast skies. Thus, she hated the scorching 63 degree day we're enjoying. She asked what I did for a living, and so I told her: I work at a place called
Artist Trust, which gives grants to artists. As it turns out, she's an oil painter. Well, she used to be an oil painter. Now she's in a band. Do we give money to bands?
We sure do, I said.
She pulled off her sunglasses. Her eyeliner was heavy and smudged. She had a mark over her left eye that looked like a bruise or a dried scab. As I looked her over, I noticed a lot of bruises and dried blood.
God, I have to tell my friend about this. We're staying at the Wallingford Inn [a hotel about five blocks away that hosts an average of one double homicide a month].
Do you think you could give me a ride up the hill, she asked. It's so hot.
Sure, I said good-naturedly, fantasizing about an alterna-chick threeway.
That's so nice, she said. My fish and chips should be right up.
The cashier called the next order. Angie!
I thought, wouldn't it be funny if that was her.
Laura ran up to grab her order. Okaaay...
On the way out to the car, she said, my boyfriend is a bass player. You've probably heard of him. I didn't ask his name.
She talked the whole way, as I tried to figured out how to get to the hotel, which was situated practically on an exit from Interstate 99, thus very hard to approach from the the wrong direction. She asked no questions, even as I drove aimlessly toward what could well have been a dump for all she knew.
Finally, we found our way there. You should just park in front of my room, she said.
There was a fire truck in front, so I parked around the back.
Do you smoke crack, Laura asked me.
No, I said, and I was suddenly very proud of myself.
Are you a cop, she asked.
No, I said, starting to feel a little ashamed.
You don't look like a cop. You don't act like a cop. Are you cop?
I should have asked you that first, I guess.
It's not going to get you into trouble to talk about crack to a cop.
Are you a cop?
No, I said. Just a writer.
I helped her carry her groceries to her room. An ambulance joined the fire truck in front. She pounded on the door of room 28. No answer. She pounded again.
Ray! she pleaded.
Oh fuck, I thought. She's going to ask if she can come to my place.
Thank god, the door opened. I didn't see the guy -- I was looking at the squalor, so I only caught a glance at a tatooed upper arm as the guy disappeared, down the foyer and into the bathroom. Was he wearing a towel?
I brought my friend Dave, she said. He's going to give us a trust fund.
Don't let him in! Ray yelled.
I looked around. Pipes and garbage were everywhere. My place is a mess, too. But there's a difference in spirit.
I should probably get out of here, I said, thinking I was very likely to get mugged for the $60 in my wallet. Do you want to write down my work's web site address?
Ray, do you have a pen, she called?
Don't come in here! Ray responded.
I have a pen, I said. She took down my work's web site, phone number, and my name: Miguel. Then I left.
I should have gotten a photo. Next time I hang out with a crack girl, for sure.
