NEEDLING

HOME IN BED

Underneath my sheets and covers. Forgot the book I’m reading at work. Nothing left to do but to sit here and see if nothing wants to come out of my head. Time to grab the dictionary out of the box where I stored it a few weeks ago.

Skinny kid healthy kid in nice hip clothes, about twenty five years or a couple more came in to the hotel today. First thing he said was.
“Vous parlez Anglais,” with an accent bigger than Trafalgar square and eyes big with the hope I’d say yes. So I said.
“I speak English, yes.”
“Oh, good, you see, I’m looking for my girlfriend,” he went on with a slight British accent. I hadn’t figured him for an American on account of his clothes.
“She told me she was staying in a hotel next to X.”
“Well,” I responded, “you’re not next to X. X is about five ten minutes north of here walking distance. You’re right next to Y.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not far away.”
“You see, I don’t know what hotel she’s staying at. She just told me she was staying in a place in front of X. Her name’s Myers.”
“Sorry, buddy. I don’t have anybody by that name.”
This is when he brings his hand up to the counter and opens it. Stuck to his palm, as if it’d been there a while, is a passport size color photograph of a twenty something blond girl.
“Sorry, buddy,” I said smiling trying not to laugh. But I felt like I was in some bad B movie. This guy was too desperate looking, like his girlfriend, if she was his girlfriend at all, hadn’t given him the correct hotel address on purpose.
“She said the hotel was somewhere between X and M.”
Then I really laughed.
“Look, buddy, if that’s what she said, you’ve got some work ahead of you.”
To make my point, I got off my fat ass, walked around the front desk towards the big map of Paris we have on our wall next to the front door. As I did so, I stepped next to him and got a good whiff of his breath. At least three pints. Small sweat beads building up on top his forehead next to his hairline.
“You see, that’s where we’re at. Y.” I pointed at the map. “X is but a few minutes walking distance.” I pointed again. “But M… that’s over here.” I made a big circle on a good chunk of the map. “It’s a neighborhood, not a specific place like X and Y, which, let me remind you, are here and here.” I pointed with my finger. “That means M covers a large area. I’d say that between X and the edge of M, in a one way direction, if you don’t criss cross around the streets and neighborhoods that is asking in every two bit joint, then you might keep your search down to about two hundred hotels. If you’re lucky. Probably more.”
“....”
He looked defeated. I felt bad for him. But it was comical too, and I felt even
worse for thinking all this funny. Specially the tiny picture of a blond girl. Was this guy stalking this girl and had lost her trail? Did this girl really tell him such vague and ridiculous directions? If she did, was she that scatter brained? Or just plain mean? Or maybe this was a test like: if you can find me on this little bit of information, then you’re my man. If you can’t find me by sun up, it’s over between us.
I felt horrible for this fellow and yet I couldn’t stop laughing. He looked like a lost puppy dog lost in a big bad world looking for his mother who had dropped him off in the middle of the forest to get rid of him. He just couldn’t accept that fact and he had to find her at any cost. I felt horrible for him.
“You got a lot of work in front you.”
“Alright… thanks, man.”
And he left. I hope he can afford to go to some bar and drink the night away. It won’t solve anything… but it'll be better than this.