London - Part 5

5. The British Museum.

I was not too difficult to find my way back to the British Museum. I entered from the back and donated a pound. The museum was strange. They didn’t hide the fact that they were remodeling. Debris was everywhere and lots of exhibits had artifacts replaced by signs that said, “Temporarily removed”.

I saw bits of the Parthenon and the Rosetta Stone and then my stomach started to growl. I dashed to the cafe, which was quite fancy and paid five pounds for a smoked salmon sandwich and a glass of “lemon squash.” The cafeteria was packed and I had to sit next to a man whom, when I asked if the seat was empty, quickly put his wallet into his pocket and look in the other direction.

The lunch felt good but did not really make me full. I continued through the museum. The medieval English stuff bored me but I eventually found the Hall of Egyptian Funeral Art. I had never seen so many mummies in one place. They were all over. Still I didn’t really have any desire to look at them so I left the museum.

War and Peace II

Crash. Glass. Brick. Note. Cries. Anger. Grumbles. Determination. Telephone. Ring. Ring. Ring. Crash. Glass. Brick. Note. Anger. Fear. Perseverance. Police. Ring. Ring. Ring. Crash. Glass. Brick. Note. Anger. Fear. Desperation. Newspaper. Ring. Ring. Ring. Boxes. Moving Van.

London - Part 4

4. The Second Day

I awoke at a reasonable time. 11 I think, cleaned my room and washed my hair in the sink again. The night before I went to bed starving but I felt only sickish in the morning. I set out for the British museum and found it quickly, before I had expected. I couldn’t bring myself to go in yet so I walked past, telling myself I was searching for breakfast. Still I was too nervous to actually go into any place. I walked in a huge circle passing every café. Too expensive or too crowded I tell myself. At last I turned back towards what I thought was the British Museum and got enough courage to buy a coke, 60p. Prices seem so cheap until you think about them, and then they seem expensive.

I walked on, drinking my coke, expecting to see the British Museum but no luck. Soon I was in the West End. Staring at the Les Miserables theatre I almost got hit by a car. I stepped back too far and just missed getting hit by another. The streets got busier but I restrained panic. I turned down a less busy street and almost walked into a bum. He asked for a few pence and I gave him twenty. “You should be more careful walking alone” he told me. I thanked him but forgot to ask his name.

I walked some more following some Arabs and ended up on Oxford Street. There had been a parade earlier and the street was as packed as Times Square. I put may hand into my wallet pocket and thrust myself into the crowd. I trusted the compass in my nose and headed across Oxford Street in the direction I thought was north. Streets were deserted which made me even more nervous. It was follow the crowd and get pick-pocketed or walk down an alley and get mugged. I found a newsstand advertising phone cards and bought one for ten pounds along with an orangeade drink that was gross and good in alternate sips.

I stopped in a stairwell and nervously pulled out my A-Z. I was afraid to be seen with it. I glanced and tried to orient myself. I put it away and walked down Bond Street, then New Bond Street at last arriving at Grosvenor Square Park. I sat on a bench. Memorized the way back to the Museum with the A-Z, relaxed and had a cigarette. I felt strangely comfortable here. The park was beautiful and British looking but for some reason I felt welcome. Days later on a train I would look up Grosvenor Square park in a book and learn that it was called America in London. Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin had lived nearby. I understood.

After the quick rest I made my way back down Oxford Street. An old lady was yelling for me to get my “Pokemon Bubbles” there were kids all over pulling off Pikachu’s head and blowing bubbles out of his innards. I considered her offer but decided against it.

I saw a phone booth, turned off and called home. It worked well. I didn’t tell my Mom about spending the night in the airport. She seemed disappointed that I hadn’t seen any sights yet. I told her I was having a good time as I stared at a photo plastered to the phone booth wall of the biggest nipples I had ever seen.

Something from 2000

The key ring made that key ring sound. That sound that sounds like change when bums are walking down the street. The gate clicked. Then it was city silence. The air was thin and cooled the nostrils for the first time since winter. It was that kind of air that feels oxygen saturated, or at least what she would have expected oxygen-saturated air to feel like.

There were three windows with lights on, making the objects in the courtyard golden and nicely contrasted with the deep blue crayon shadows. Cats peered down at her like statues. In that way that statues can peer. Her ears were filled with the hums and buzzes of the inner workings of her body. The sound that blood makes when it runs through vesicles—especially those that are close to the ears.

Tits tits tits tits tits tits tits went her thoughts as she stepped quietly across the pavement. The mantra of the unoccupied mind merged with thhhhhhhhhhhh a sound similar to that coming from the radiators in her apartment—the radiators that were expelling all of the moisture that accumulated during the summer. Only she was not yet close enough to hear them.

If someone were watching her from one of the darkened windows above, he may have thought that at that moment, the two round-globed lamps lit her as if she were on stage. The purer cleaner light of the lamps making highlights, the reflected gold from the windows mid-tones and the blue of the ambient light, wherever that came from making shadows far nearer to perfect than the ones she had drawn on with makeup some time earlier.

The glass on the door that led into the foyer was cool when she put the palm of her hand against it. She put it there to push open the door and the door opened and she entered the small tile floored room. It smelled like dust and Murphy’s Oil Soap. They key ring repeated its sound.

The stairwell carried the greasy spirits of the nineteen twenties—and mixed itself with the odors of everyone’s dinner. The ancient carpet crinkled under her feet, but it was so used to being crinkled that you would only notice if you were small enough and not distracted by the creaking of the stairs.

She had left her door unlocked and stepped through the barrier of the outside smells—the community smells—into the smell of her apartment: a mixture of smoke and pan-fried meats. She hung her coat on the hook on the inside of the door in the front closet, it folded elegantly and went to sleep, for it had just been through a long exciting night in a coat check room.

Although her dress was light and creamy, her skin was warm to the touch, if anyone had been there to touch her. Her face was flushed as her body got used to the warmth of a heated living space. She walked slowly and flat-footed through the living room and the dining room and the hallway and into her bedroom.

Three pulls on ribbons and the dress fluttered to the ground without touching her. She stepped over it and under a nightgown made of the same material and it fell over her shoulders then hips then knees then toes at last brushing against the top of her perfect feet.

She walked around to the far side of the bed and lifted up the covers and rolled over against the man that was already there. She pressed herself against his back. He was naked and warm.

Where have you been, oh wife, oh wife? Her thoughts asked her. To the theatre alone, my love, another level of thoughts answered back. But why alone, oh wife, oh wife. She paused and thought. Because there was room for only one.

And did you not stray or break your vow?
I did, but once, and in my thoughts.

“But now I’m home,” she said out loud.

Her husband rolled over and put his hand across her shoulder. And they both slept long into the morning.

London - Part 3

1. London In the Morning

Then time, at last moved quickly. I was delirious and confused and blissful because an ordeal was over. I stumble around the corner and into the Tube station. I wait in a long line, tell the man in the booth where I want to go and he hands me a token. The next hour and a half seems like a blur of streets and past advice. I haven’t even noticed that cars drive on the left. It seems like they just drive everywhere. Unlike what I expected, London is not New York. There is no order and there is room to breathe. It is both cleaner and dirtier than New York and after a period of being pleasantly lost, I find Campbell house.

It is 9:30, check in at 12 but I ached so I sat down, ate some cookie and then made my way to the door. There was an intercom that you press and sign that said, “Clearly announce your arrival and someone will let you in.” I stood for a while trying to think up what to say. Some one lets me in before I have to debase myself by talking. The lady says I can check in as son as the room is cleaned so I sit in the TV room and read Q magazine.

Someone comes eventually and I get my key and put down my stuff, set the alarm and collapse on the bed. I awake eight hours later. I wash my hair in the sink and get dressed and set out to find food, a magazine and a calling card. There is more wandering but less lost. It is eight o'clock and everything is closed. I buy Time Out in a posh little grocery store and look for food. I find myself in a district of expensive trendy restaurants. Nothing looks right. I get courage from desperation and I enter a friendly looking kebab shop. It is good I think but hard to eat so I throw half away. A man walks by yelling to himself and asks me where Courtford Street is. I tell him I don’t know and he screams “What do you fucking mean you don’t fucking know? Why did you come to this fucking country?”

I come back and nap before embarking to find a phone to call home. I feel guilty, certain that they are worried. No phones take change outside. The phone booths all smell of piss and are plastered with pictures of naked ladies. I go back to the house and ask. When I find the phone it is surprisingly easy to use. I leave a quick message and feel better. On my way back to bed someone in the common room talks to me. There is a group of about ten, all from MSU. It feels good to talk to Americans, shamefully good. They are friendly and fun and encouraging.

I have more hope for social prospects while I am here. After a while some Irish students come and strike up conversation whilst drinking vodka and iced tea. We discuss stereotypes and impressions. Someone actually says, “fanny-pack”. It is fascinating, though I have the impression that this conversation will be repeated countless times before I get back.

I Love You Yes

I.
“I love you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I do.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes.”

II.
They arrived outside at six-thirty in the morning. They spread their blanket on the wet grass, set the cooler precisely in the middle, and then perched under separate umbrellas. They stayed under the umbrellas all day even when the blanket was soaked. She read a book. He had his headphones. At noon they took the prepared lunch out of the cooler and ate it. She knitted a scarf. He did the calculus problems for the next six weeks. They took the prepared dinner out of the cooler and ate it. They dumped out the cooler. They put the wet blanket into a garbage bag. They stood in line. When the time came, they went inside. They got a spot by the stage. The music started. She drank three beers. He smoked a joint. The encore began. He spoke:
“I love this band.”
“Yes.”

III.
The bottle of dish soap advertised that it moisturized the hands while you washed. That is why she bought it. That is why she did the dishes last. She did them after vacuuming the carpet, after dusting the entertainment center, after frying the potatoes, after clearing the table.

When they were in bed she touched his chest with her moisturized hands.
“I love you,” she said.
“Yes.”

IV.
He had returned from the store with a rubber bone for Rufus. Rufus snatched the bone, squeezed himself behind the refrigerator where he chewed it until it became a foamy mass of plastic chunks, and then fell asleep.
The man pulled the refrigerator away from the wall. He scooped the struggling dog in his arms and carried the dog up the stairs and put him into the tub where he scrubbed the dog with special dog shampoo.

“I love you,” he said, rubbing the dog with a special dog towel. “I do. I do.” He set the dog down in his special dog basket. “Do you love me? Do you? Do you?”

The dog went back to sleep. The man thought the dog looked angelic while it was sleeping. “Are you an angel?” he said. “Here to watch over me and protect me?” He looked at Rufus one moment longer and said one word:
“Yes.”

V.
It was the last day of school. He was the last student in the room. The others were in the hall laughing and throwing their textbooks. He stood next to her desk. She looked at him. He looked back.
“Good bye,” he said.
“Good bye,” she replied.

He stood there.

“Grandma?” he said. She was not his Grandmother. “No. I mean Miss Rogers.”
“Yes?”

“I wanted to give you a goodbye hug.” She hugged him. “I love you,” he said. He took a step back. He put his backpack on both shoulders. He stood in the doorway. “Will you miss me?”
“Yes.”

VI.
She put the box of bulletins down on the table, just next to the cassette tapes and the Styrofoam cups. The people in the sanctuary were still singing. She could smell copier toner coming from the box. She blew some coffee breath over it. She volunteered for three things by writing her name on three pieces of paper. She checked her purse to make sure she had brought enough singles. She had. She picked up the bag with the coffee cake, went inside, and sat down in her seat: third row, aisle.

The man at the front was shouting. She watched his mouth. He shouted some more. She heard him say something. “Do you love Jesus?” Everyone in the room shouted at the same time:
“Yes.”

London Part 2

2. Gatwick

Gatwick is bizarre. It smells like smoke and I try to figure out who is English by the way they look. I follow the black man who sat in front of me on the plane. He looks familiar. He is safety but he steps on a conveyor and disappears. I am now on my own. There is an instant of panic when I feel like I can’t speak this language but I walk it off.

I pick the most congenial looking passport officer. He’s friendly but it’s a hassle. He wants a letter and I show him several. None of them are what he wants but he lets me go anyway. My bag is already off the conveyor. I walk through the doorway marked “Nothing to declare.” And to my surprise I am in the airport lobby. Without talking to anyone, without my bag being searched. I feel guilty.

I have walked into the ulcer I have been creating for the last month. My courage is gone. I think of all the better decisions I could have made but as punishment for not making them I spend the night in the airport.
What now seems like an adventure seemed like Hell at the time.

I find a bench and sit but I feel conspicuous. There are too many people so I go upstairs to the Mall. The benches are bigger here. Less people. So I sit but every time I get comfortable someone comes to mop under the bench. As it turns ten I am trying desperately to avoid the cleaning crew. I wander in circles trying to find the right spot

I finally get the courage to get some money—and panic when the ATM gives my card back. I can’t breathe. But the sign changes and the money comes out. It’s backward here. I look over my shoulder but I can’t find the rabbit anywhere.

I find a man sleeping and sit near but not too close. Finally I can read The Third Man but I can’t concentrate. I reread a page about every ten minutes. The shops close and more people come to sit down. I hope they are camping for the night. Some go to sleep. They are my imaginary companions and I can read a little better. People walk by periodically, late for their flights. Kids play video games. I am dead bored but I think I can make it. My head constantly calculates time zones. It is eleven in England and Six in Detroit but it feels like neither. At least I’m comfortable

Then these men walk by and smile at me. They look like taxi drivers or doormen but they have machine guns.
More sitting and reading and worrying. I look at the clock every two minutes. Whenever the hour changes I have to do more math. I get to chapter ten and see the machine gun men talking to boys at the other end of the benches. I panic again.

The boys pull out IDs and boarding passes. The machine gun men look unconvinced. I want to leave but don’t want to call attention to myself. Eventually the machine gun men leave. An old man who was sleeping asks a lot of questions but I can’t hear them. I stare at a page for ten minutes and then move downstairs.

There are more people here and it feels a little better. Lots of people are sleeping. I hope they are all spending the night. I take a seat across from a sleeping girl and I can read better. I try not to look at the machine gun men as they pass. At 1:00 I finish The Third Man. It has only been four hours—eleven more until my check-in time. I sit and do nothing for the rest of the night. I read a little but it doesn’t make time pass. I try to convince myself that it is ok to sleep buy I’m too scared. Around three, I close my eyes. There is no mental drifting. I count yoga breaths. Suddenly this seventeen-year-old girl pounces on the space next to me and lies down. I make room for her. A few minutes later she speaks. “How long you reckon you’ll be here?” I think she wants me to leave so she can have my spot but she just wants me to wake her at quarter to six. I accept. Around four, things start to change. Stores open again and flights arrive. Slowly, it gets busier. 5:45 finally arrives and the girl is tough to awaken. I have to shout “Hey you wake up” and she does. I feel like a Yank.

I spend the next hour between sitting and wandering. The airport gets really crowded. I force myself to sit until 7:00. Then I board the Gatwick express. I spend my first British money on the ticket. I’m afraid to look at the strange handful of bills and change I get in return.

I sit next to a couple from The States who talk about Egypt. And the train starts. My hellish first impression melts away. England seems so familiar and so foreign at the same time. The countryside recalls a movie but I cant think which one. I can’t help nodding off every ten seconds and seamlessly the country becomes London.

Palm Sunday

A purple bicycle, a girl’s bike with plastic streamers on the handle grips and glitter in the seat, was chained to a tree at the corner of Lancashire Street and Gainsborough drive. Both the tree and the bicycle stood in a flowerbed that, at this time, was swollen with marigolds, irises, pansies and an ivy that had begun to weave itself into the bicycle’s chain.

Stephen Hicks was mowing a lawn. The lawnmower’s hums added a more interesting bass to the generic performance of the Bach concerto playing on his headphones, but Stephen was looking rather than listening. He was looking at the men standing in the marigolds.

There were two of them in suits, one brown, and one grey. The man in the grey suit was kneeling in front of the bike with the hacksaw while the other stood above him offering directions.

“No,” said the man in the brown suit. “You have to pull back on the saw a few times to make a groove and then you go back and forth”

“Does it have to be backwards Mr. Brown?” asked the man in the grey suit. “It would be easier for me to make the groove by going forwards.

“Hey!” shouted Stephen. “What are you doing?”

Both men stood up and bowed. The man who had been called Mr. Brown walked over and put his arm on Stephen’s shoulder.

“Hello friend,” said Mr. Brown. “I am Mr. Brown, and this is my friend Mr. Grey, we are going to take this bike because the Lord has need of it.”

"He will send it back, immediately of course," said Mr. Grey.

Stephen Hicks did not know what to say. After all, it was not his bicycle, and he'd never seen it there before.

"Could you try not to step on the marigolds," he said.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Brown and then Mr. Grey after him. They lifted their feet carefully off of the flowers, many of which were already flattened by the lightly grooved soles of their dress shoes.

* * *
The Lord came riding down Grand River Avenue, on a purple girls bicycle. The plastic streamers flowed in the wind. The glitter in the seat reflected the glorious sun. And when we saw him coming we took off our jackets and laid flowers in his path.

London Part 1 - Saturday July 22, 2000

1. Airplanes.

Airplanes and airports at least in the moment of hindsight are surreal. Window seats showed me wings and the patchwork of human development contrasted with the divine landscape of clouds viewed from above.

The first plane is short and satisfying, babies and businessmen. It was early and everyone, even the flight attendants, were subdued. The excitement was numbed. Although most of the time I felt like I was eight years old again. Orange juice and a cinnamon roll seemed like nursery school snacks and I was light—in awe of New Jersey and how many baseball diamonds. The landing was rough—Pure physics of going very fast and trying to stop. Noisy and painful as an amusement park.

Newark was so smooth. A modern monorail to a circular terminal. So many girls from Kentucky and the British family with the disappointed boy (The metal detector never beeped from him). The blonde Europeans with the blonde toddler and the wispy haired euro-infant who probably couldn’t focus to see he was in America. The Kentucky ladies smiled and cooed and I wondered what it is like to be eight months old.

The second plane was more of a spectacle. There were Dividers and hallways. Below, mostly ocean. So frightening to see just clouds and blue as if you are upside down or in between two skies. But when the movie comes on I have to close my shutters and I am in a tube or a Pringles can that is not really moving, and look, there is a movie. The same thing on three separate screens. It’s crap. She has cancer and dies and he learns that money is less important than love. But she dies. So he’s off the hook. There is no sacrifice for his revelation.

The stewardesses constantly pass out strange foreign objects. I am startled when I discover that I am holding a heated moist towelette. I have no idea what to do with it. The man in front of me puts it on his face and I do the same. And then I notice no one else is putting it on his or her face so I stop. What if that guys is just weird? What if I am just weird?

I drink way too much Dr. Pepper but only gather the courage to go to the bathroom once. I plan it so that the carts are on the other side of the plane. I will be quick and not make a scene but there are so many signs to read and symbols to figure out. When I try to open the door I hit the cart, startling the stewardesses and myself. How embarrassing.

It seems like the stewardess brings things just to me. A chocolate chip cookie--my survival food. I put it into my backpack and I live off of it. There is still a piece left.

Then I sleep a little anyway. I refuse to watch “You’ve Got Mail” but sometimes I try to analyze the editing. I don’t learn anything.

When the movie is over the screen shows flight information: maps, distances, temperatures, and times. I stare at it. Each time it changes, I’m hundreds of miles closer.

I open my screen and England appears under the wing. Even from up here you can tell it’s another country. New jersey was pools and all squares and houses and baseball. This is a jigsaw puzzle or a stained glass window of abstract art. Everything looks like it might be a castle and there are actually sheep.

I watch the sunset and the suddenly there is a runway. The landing is uneventful I kept waiting for the roughness, the pull but it was just land and stop. I am in England.

When it snows

When it snows the sky is as white as the ground and only her red brick building seems to have any color.

She just didn't know how to talk to people, otherwise she was a great hair dresser. She didn't understand why people had to talk while they were getting their hair cut. It wasn't like they tried to talk either. They just expected her to have interesting things to say. Personally, when she was having her hair cut, she liked it to be silent. That's how she could be sure that the person was concentrating.

But that's why they fired her. That's what she had to say to her mom at dinner that night. Dinner was ready when she came inside, the farmland ham all warm and pink, the potatoes chalky and falling apart. It was food that normally would make her feel warm inside, leaving trails of health-bringing energy in her esophagus, but today it was like spooning food into an empty drum.

She had to tell her mother because her mother could see that something had changed. Maybe it was because she had shoveled the sidewalk without being asked. She had to go through the closets for nearly twenty minutes before she found her snow boots. She hoped that doing some honest physical work would make cutting hair seem like a frivolous profession. That she could atone for going to beauty school as a loophole to the "college degree" clause in grandma's will. But the cold air just made her flushed and pink like the ham.

Head Hunters

1-3-2001

To start, I was glad for Harry Potter, the English accent that has taken over the voices in my head was comforting and I made the drive to Oakbrook Terrace flawlessly. Once there, however, I felt lost, I had only an address and no visual picture of where I was going... I went to the wrong building and almost slipped on the slick marble. Feeling stupid I got back in my car and found the right parking garage and parked. I missed the elevator so I waited.

When I got off of the elevator a man was standing there. "What was the floor you were just on?" He asked me. I was startled. I mumbled, backed up and tried hard to say, "What was the question?" The second time I understood. "Two" I said. "Two? And not three?" "Yes two." He disappeared around the corner.
I found the elevators inside. I pushed the number 13 and shuddered. The last job was on the 13th floor. I shifted my weight back and forth to get the full rush of riding an elevator. It was fast. The doors opened and I stood in front of a giant letter U with an elongated C encircling it like a halo. It was the right logo, I had looked up the website the night before. I was in the right place

As I later would discover I was lucky that there was someone at the desk. "Can I help you?" she asked, and I wondered if anyone could. "I have a ten o clock appointment with Lauren" I said, glancing at the clock above her. 10:10. "Have you filled out one of our forms before?" she said her eyes telling me that the whole appointment formality was a scam. "No." I said and she explained the forms to me and I pretended to pay attention. I took the forms and sat down. She hurried away.
I started with the checklist, thousands of computer terms I sifted through, most of them I had heard of but the rating system was not thought-out well. The categories were "1. School, 2. Junior, 3. Average. 4. Above average and 5. Expert." There was also a space for the number of years. I made up my own system and checked off all of my knowledge depending on if it was stuff I liked to do or not. I flipped back to the resume section filling out what I could, feeling stupid for not bringing reference addresses with me.

A woman came in and stood around a while. She asked a young Indian man if anyone had been at the desk in a while. He said no and she rang the bell. A fat woman came out and gave her the forms. The other lobbyists handed in their clipboards and she left. They were called out one by one and I took extra time on my forms. I finished but no one was at the desk. I didn't want to ring the bell or talk to the fat lady so I just sat and listened.
I could hear people shouting in the other room but not what they were saying, and I realized that below it all there was a familiar sound. I couldn't place it at first it seemed like a hum but it comforted me. I tried to focus in on it. The hum changed and I found I knew what the next sound would be, then I remembered it, the singing started but I couldn't hear it well. I sang in my head instead. It progressed and I tried to keep up, veering off rhythm. Then for some reason the talking died down and I heard the first clear words. "And when I go there I go there with you"

The bell-ringing girl put her clipboard on the desk. I got up and placed mine exactly in line with hers. "Good idea" I said. She nodded. Finally the fat lady came in and took the clipboards. She came back a few seconds later and said "he'll be with you in a minute, and so will she". The other girl got a man I thought, wondering if I should have put the name Laurie n the box marked "recruiter. A good-looking young man came into the room and looked me in the eye. "Ian" he said and I got up he told me his name but I didn't hear it. He asked how I found the place and I said fine but it was hard to tell which building. He smiled sort of emptily and said, "Yes, they aren't marked well."

So we sat down and he explained the open office philosophy as if it was this amazing thing and explained that after he looked through my form if I could just give him 20 or 30 minutes he would go and talk to his colleagues and try and get some leads and maybe even a phone interview. I was kind of confused but I said it sounded fine. He went through my form and my resume and I felt proud of my accomplishments. He seemed to respond favorably to things I said and I felt like I answered questions pretty well. Although I felt really stupid every time I saw a section I hadn't filled out. I wanted badly to make excuses but I restrained myself.
He finished with the form and told me some more formalities and then asked if I had 20 or 30 minutes once more. Sure I said, that will be fine. And I sat in the lobby. Two lobby ladies were talking about kids and how bad the drive was. One didn't like her drive to work and she wanted something closer. The other had just graduated after 6 years of school and raising kids. She kept saying she couldn't find work because she had a degree in Information Systems Management and not computer science and she didn't have any experience. I felt bad-- and young. Recruiters came in and talked to people, they said company names and asked about late shifts nodded a lot and then said goodbye. My guy came back in asked me if he had written the address to the Children's Village website correctly. He forgot an S and he left. I thought about going in to tell him that most of the site was mine but there was some bad new stuff that I didn't do. He came back in and said the address didn't work. I looked at what he had written down and said it was right. That it worked last night. He shook his head and walked away. I picked up a Newsweek and read the cartoons. One of them said something about a dotcom. Then I remembered. I told him the site was a dotorg but it was a dotcom, I almost got up to tell him but I thought better of it

A young woman came in with an old woman to tell a chubby young man about some crap data entry job at Motorola and he pretended to be excited, mentioning several times he would take anything, smirking to conceal his desperation. The old lady stood behind the desk a moment trying to look official and a young woman came in from behind a frosted glass door that I had been watching for reflections of my guy. " My guy" I thought, I don't remember his name. The young woman was wearing a trench coat and sneakers and she looked pissed off. "What is it this time?" the old lady asked. "I' don't feel well” said the young one. The old lady gave her a nasty look. "Sit down and I'll deal with you in a minute and she did.

I pulled my guy's card out of my pocket and found his name. Brent. I looked up and the sick girl was gone. Maybe she snuck out. Brent came back with a list. I told him about the .com and he smiled and wrote it down. The list had cool names like Black Dog and Planet Interactive. They sounded promising. He asked if I had two more minutes and I said yes. He came back two minutes later and said some banter about checking with colleagues and making presentations and then said it was lunch time and to call him on Friday if I didn't hear from him first. So I packed up and said good luck to the chubby guy who reminded me that I put my envelope under my chair. I thanked him a little too much but I was grateful. I pulled on my hood and hit the elevator button got on an up elevator by accident but I had where the streets have no name in my head.

And I was back to Harry Potter, I cheered out loud when he won the quidditch match and I kept shouting at the radio as the suspense built. I got on the wrong freeway and had to get off at the other end of the city. I drove slowly and calmly engrossed in the plot, cheering for Harry, being worried about him. And then I was home, for the first time I took Harry in with me, I lay on the floor and listened until it was the end. Harry was looking forward to the best summer ever. So was I.