The End of the World

People are crazy.  Case in point:

A disshelved-looking guy comes to the hotel front desk with no money and no credit card.  He shows me a bank deposit receipt for over one thousand dollars and asks if he can use that in lieu of payment.  (Um, how does a bank receipt get the hotel paid?)  I informed him that that was not an acceptable form of payment.

Guy: “Look, this is serious.  I’m a contract worker for the Department of Defense.  You don’t even want to know the things I’m working on.  This is World War III.”  [He indicates a stack of wrinkly papers in his hand.]  “I’ve got information in here on nuclear devices that could destabilize entire cities.  This is not a joke.”

I am successful in managing eye contact throughout this little speech and then politely reply, “Let me get my manager.”  I go in the back and talk to the manager, who is about to leave for the night.  The conversation goes a little something like this:

Me: “There’s a crazy homeless guy who wants a room but wants to pay with a deposit slip.”
Her: “He can’t do that.”
Me: “That’s what I told him.  Did I mention that he’s crazy?”
Her: “I got it.”

I call Security to come stand by the desk while she tells him to scram, only not as polite.  I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that if that man actually was employed by the Department of Defense he, A.) wouldn’t be spouting off stuff about nuclear devices and World War III in a busy hotel lobby, and B.) Would have been provided with some means of paying for his room.  But nice try, you psycho.

Ah, Chicago.

In more Teri-related news, I’m still reading.  I’m three-quarters through “Eldest,” finished two more of Paige’s vampire-romance series, and just cracked open “Gravity’s Rainbow” by Thomas Pynchon.  It’s proven a little slow to get into, but that man can sure stretch out a sentence.  He has entire paragraphs (and not little pansy paragraphs either) that contain a solitary sentence.  Ever play that writing game where you pass around a paper on which everyone adds one or two sentences, as a group making a complete story?  Pynchon would win that game every time. I’m sure people hated playing it with him (he cheats).

I feel I should quote a passage of the book for you to get a true understanding.  In reference to the rain:
“No, this is not a disentanglement from, but a progressive knotting into–they go in under archways, secret entrances of rotted concrete that only looked like loops of an underpass . . . certain trestles of blackened wood have moved slowly overhead, and the smells begun of coal from days far to the past, smells of naphtha winters, of Sundays when no traffic came through, of the coral-like and mysteriously vital growth, around the blind curves and out the lonely spurs, a sour smell of rolling-stock absence, of maturing rust, developing through those emptying days brilliant and deep, especially at dawn, with blue shadows to seal its passage, to try to bring events to Absolute Zero . . . and it is poorer the deeper they go . . . ruinous secret cities of poor, places whose names he has never heard . . . the walls break down, the roofs get fewer and so do the chances for light.”

You may not understand everything this sentence is saying (I don’t), but I think we can all agree that it is indeed a mother of a sentence.

4 thoughts on “The End of the World

    • I don't know about Tim, but count me in! I was gonna send you an email today and see if you wanted to hang out on Sunday.
      Can I bring anything? What time should I/we show up?

      • well that all depends. I have my show tomorrow night and have to leave at 4 and then will be back at around 11. So lunch time??

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