The Honest Truth

We’re on a mission for spacecakes. A brownie, cooked with that wonderful substance that’s nice and legal in the Netherlands (sorry, mom, when in Rome?).

Andrea, a friend of mine from high school now living in Germany, and I decided to take a trip to Rotterdam, a city in the Netherlands with the second largest port in the world (next to Shanghai).

The streets are bustling with music, the sounds of people pouring out onto patios and the stares of men that burn holes in your back when you walk by. It feels sexy and aggressive.

Rotterdam’s a weird place. Very spread out, with a mix of industrial buildings and picturesque cobble stone streets. Ruth’s experience there was going to a party in a converted warehouse. The guidebook says there’s clubs in converted grain silos and pharmacies. This is fusion people.

During the day we took a water taxi from the port to Hotel New York, a beautiful hotel on the city’s waterfront. The history of the sight is it was the former headquarters of Holland-Amerika Lijn, an organization for Europeans in the late 17thto mid 18th century that ran boats out of Rotterdam’s for people emigrating to New York. The building was sold in 1984, but remained empty for ten years before the hotel was built.

Andrea and I walked inside the hotel, where posh looking Dutch people and foreigners read the New Yorker at big wooden tables while sipping beer, before settling on some chairs by the water. Then we walked over a bridge back to the city centre to find a hostel.

After going for dinner (and getting containers at a nearby icecream shop to package leftovers, a concept Europeans don’t understand) we were ready for dessert of the space variety.

The guy at the front desk of our hostel showed us where we could get spacecakes on the map after telling me I didn’t have to whisper the word because “that stuff is legal here.”

We missioned to the other end of Rotterdam, passing many “coffee shops” along the way where they sell truffles (magic mushrooms) and weed. When we got the intersection, we couldn’t find the place, the name of which the hostel man neglected to give us.

We stared around confusedly, looking for the place we imagined in our minds: a quaint diner with our waitress serving us brownies on a silver platter with a knowingwink. Apparently, this didn’t exist.

A man pointed us in the direction of a place called Reefer, two to three streets up. It was hard to miss, with the word lit up in yellow lights flickering like they could go out at any moment.

Inside were a couple men behind a smoky bar, and more men behind a door in another room with pool tables.

“Space cakes?” we asked innocently to one of the men behind the bar.

“No,” laughed the man. “We don’t sell space cakes, they’re illegal.”

He explained to us that when pot is in food, it falls under different laws because it isn’t considered a smoking product.

After a 40 minute walk, and the anticipation of being high, we hesitantly decided to settle for a joint. The guy brought out different sized baggies and we asked if there was anything pre-rolled.

He brought out a joint long as my hand and the thickness of two fingers at one end.

“Two?” he asked.

Andrea and I could only laugh.

“One’s fine,” I said.

We walked out of the shop with our fatty and set out to find a picturesque spot to smoke it. A carload of guys pulled up and mockingly asked us if we knew where to get pot, said something we couldn’t understand, and laughed at Andrea when she took their question sincerely.

This was only the beginning of harassment from men via car. In Rotterdam, a common passtime for men is piling in a car, cruising the streets, and yelling at girls from the window or following them menacingly with your eyes.

Our tactic was to ignore, but that was made hard when a guy jumped out of his car to get our attention by chasing us.

“Are there no girls in this fucking city?” yelled Andrea. “What the fuck is going on?”

I know why they call it RotterSLAM. Every guy wants to get SLAMMED.

Inside the bars people were fine. Apparently guys prefer yelling from their cars than over a drink. This was fine by me, and after smoking our joint in a park, Andrea and I found a cute spot called Hemingway’s, filled with regulars listening to some guy wailing a radiohead cover. It was preferable to the street.

On our way home, we were again followed for three streets by a car full of guys who went as far as to reverse and block us when we tried to cross the street to avoid them.  As we dashed into our hostel they made a sharp u-turn and just missed my leg.

Maybe it’s better we never found those space cakes. Walking the streets of Rotterslam is a trip in itself.

As promised, a recap on Alexi’s last night: Bought 10 beers for 9 euros and went to the park by the Maastricht river. Tons of little groups of people congregate on the grass. One man provided the entertainment by singing American music from his ipod so loudly it provoked a younger guy to bust out his lighter. Reminded me of being by the Ottawa river, just with more people and booze.

After downing some beers we had sushi. Yes! Sushi in Maastricht. The sashimi was really good. The maki, a little less so.

After sushi went to the apartment of Alex and Ruth’s Dutch friends. The two girls, Inika and Marie-Helene were preparing for the graduating art presentation at the college of design. They worked in a room with a door facing the patio where us non-students sat making a tower of empty beer bottles and drinking red wine. It was very romantic. A hot Maastricht night. Art students working on their projects, and us, enjoying the other worldliness of it all.

The next morning I went to Germany.An hour on the bus from Maas and I’m in a sweet little town called Aachen. Known for its churches, it’s big plaza in the centre, and being founded by Charlemagne, the King of Franks, in the 800s.

There are a couple of main differences between Aachen and Maastricht: In Germany, most people don’t speak English and things are cheaper.  Both towns have many churches, and big plazas where people sit for a long time consuming various things.

Upon arriving I walk till I find the nearest schnitzel and coffee and sit down to eat and people watch. I don’t go deep enough into the city because I’m STARVING and realize later there is better food at better prices a quick walk away. Caught in the tourist trap.

But, hey, fried meat is fried meet. The plaza is beautiful, and I take pictures of street performers with white faces who rather than being clown-like, are smoking cigarettes or napping.

People all over sit at the hundreds of chairs, smoking and drinking beer. There’s a beautiful church near a square with German flags.

I learnt that payphones are “old technology” and that Germans are friendlier than their reputation. After a lovely glass of wine on a street off the main plaza, I made my way back towards the train.

Tomorrow, my friend Andrea and I go to Rotterdam to SLAM out. Also, hopefully soon I can upload my own pictures, but since I forgot the chord, enjoy the freedom of the internet.

Two Dutch couples sit on chairs facing the street, sipping on wine. Their chairs are straw, their expressions serious. In Maastricht, people watching is more important than dining.

There’s restaurant’s everywhere in this place. Some of them are six-star Michelin, but some are just bad. Ruth and her boyfriend Alex have been living here for then months though, and know where they party’s at.

Apparently there’s good indonesian food, because there are many Asian immigrants. Ruth says the sushi isn’t bad either. It reminds me of eating sushi at a Cuban resort, though. What you really should be having, if Cuban food.

Turns out, Dutch food’s a little weird. We settledon what looked like a classic Dutch pub because most restaurants are closed on the Monday. There is a lot of meat here in Maastricht. We order a platter of cold cuts to share with bread, and I order some scampi in wine sauce with salad to follow.

The beer is insane. The big group of Dutch people beside us must’ve had at least ten rounds in little pints. I have a light beer with a sortof nutty flavour. There should be wine labels for the beer: nutty on the nose, a hint of rasberry, pairs well with meat.

My shrimp are good. Alex’s spare ribs look dry, and Ruth’s pork is covered in a creamy gorgonzola sauce. They say that’s typical fare here. Nothing tastes amazing, but there’s always fries, meat and tomatoes. Fine by me.

Around us looks like Gotham city. The buildings are tall, streets are narrow, and it feels like there’s a mist hanging over the city. There’s something medieval about being here. Like bats could descend on us at any moment.

As for people watching, I’m too engulfed in conversation with old friends to take in the Dutch people passing by. Besides, our chairs were turned towards each other, rather than in a row facing the street. I took in the sounds, though. That hard dutch sound that gets louder with each beer. Those words that sound like they might be English, just a little different. goede nacht. good night.

We downed a couple more pints before stumbling down the cobble streets to the apartment. As we leave, Ruth tells me to look behind. One of the Dutch couples still sit at the table, their stern expressions not letting up despite the wine, staring straight ahead.

*Stayed tuned tomorrow for Alex’s last night in the deutschland. PARTY.

Maastricht. Here I am. I missed a night of sleep because on the flight to London they make the plane dark when you get on at 6 p.m., and then draw up the blinds to serve breakfast at 12 a.m. In London, it’s morning. Rise and shine.

Heathrow airport was hell. Full of signs that seem like they must be meant to throw you off. A practical joke that’s not funny to any traveller. I almost missed my connecting flight to Amsterdam after waiting in an unnecessary line, pinched through the gate, and still had to ride on a shuttle to get me to the airport. Heathrow is ridiculously huge and complicated.

Crashed for an hour and woke up in Amsterdam. Luggage went missing, which was expected considering I almost didn’t make the flight, but I kept my head high and got on a train.

I love trains. I can justifiably space out, not have to worry about what direction I’m going or getting into an accident. I know I’m going somewhere, but someone else is in charge.

Three hours later, I’m off the train and running towards Ruth, my friend living in Maastricht. We crack a joke and just like riding a bike, we’re speaking that old language we developed living together in university. Ruth’s in Maastricht working for the European Journalism Centre, living with her boyfriend who’s doing his masters in European studies at the University. We tell each other we look the same.

We walk out onto cobble stone streets. Every sign looks like it’s for Ikea. Helvetica and simple pictures. There’s shops and restaurants littering the streets. Expensive ones. It’s a huge boutique town. There’s a big river that seperates the city, and we walk over the bridge. I joke it’s the brooklyn bridge, and point to one beside it that must be the Manhattan.

We pass pastry shops, shoe shops, cafes. People are everywhere, basking in the heat. Enjoying a smoke or a beer. Chimes are going off. It’s a religious town with lots of older, rich people. The preserved jewel of the Netherlands.

We get to Ruth’s apartment ontop of two cafes. It’s adorable. Simple. Ikea-like. White and reds. She has big windows sun pours into and it’s humid as hell.

Ruth’s back to work, and I’m trying to track my luggage. In a couple hours, we’ll meet for wine. For now, I need some sleep.

http://www.theweek.com/article/index/92141/The_last_word_Im_no_decider

Shit. I’m running late. Should I take the bus? I don’t know when it comes or where it will drop me off. It’s too late to walk. Should’ve got up earlier. Ah, my bike. Yes, I’ll take my bike.

I grab by bike from the hallway and awkwardly thurst it through the doors. I have to make it to the US consulate for 9a.m. After five months of collecting papers, I’m finally applying for dual citizenship.

I’m feeling pretty smug about the whole thing. Friends who want to work in the States admire me. Some have proposed marriage.  I’m also a little nervous.  My roommate brought up the possibility of an American history quiz.

I take the elevator to the 9th floor and ring the buzzer beside the door.  A guy answers the intercom and I tell him I have an appointment.

He asks me if I have an affidavit. Check. I whip out my envelopes, all organized and labelled and start giving him documents. “Do you have your passort application?” I furiously leaf through the papers. Shit. I knew I’d forget something. I look at him apologetically and he hands me another sheet. I sit down to fill it out and suddenly whatever IQ I had starts to shrivel up. I start asking the man at the desk, who has a moustache, bald head and wears an official looking uniform, the stupidest questions. I leaf through the documents, confused. “Where do I sign,” I say, even though the line is clearly marked. “What day is it today?” I ask,  and he points to the calendar above his desk that has the date circled in red.

Finally, after he scratches out my social security number which I’ve mistaken for a social insurance number  and given me a map of where to purchase an envelope, which I forgot to bring even though it’s underlined and bolded on the form, I sit down and wait to be called.

I’m reading my book, going over how scatterbrained and stupid I was when a father and daughter walk in. She’s applying for dual citizenship. The girl seems organized, and her father standing beside her gives her a sense of validity I don’t have. I feel like a mess and look over at my coat strewn on the chair beside me with my mittens attached to strings sticking out. Why do I have to take up so much space? It takes them less than half the time it took me to get through the metal detector and into the waiting room.

We sit on the plastic blue chairs waiting for the lady from behind the plastic twall o call our names. I bury my face in the book and listen to their chit chat.  I’m called up to hand in my forms, and minutes later, called back up again. “I remember you Miss Chapin,” says a woman with a Hispanic accent. I do recognize her, from the time I came in to ask questions a month ago. “I told you, you need to give a Halifax address.” It’s true, but in my lessened IQ state I mistook mailing address for place I was born. Whoops. She’s not impressed and swiftly takes the white out stick to correct my mistakes.

I want to tell her being a student or recent graduate that makes filling out these forms really hard. Our lives are transient.  I move every year, and when I’m not moving, I’m thinking about moving. When somebody asks me my postal code it’s hard to distinguish that house on South Park from the one on South St. The easiest thing is to put down my parents address, the only thing constant in my life.

I sit back down and wait for an “officer” to “ask me a “few questions.” I feel the need for community, so I put my book down and start shooting quick glances at the father and daughter, to let them know I’m ready to engage. By this point another man is sitting there, but the family seems easier to penetrate.

“You getting your passport?” I say to the girl.

“Yes,” she says, smiling sympathetically to show she understands my struggle. I ask if she’s under 18–which makes the process a lot easier. She says no, and our bond tightens. Her dad is a jovial seaman with a worn face. He starts going on about how it’s easier to get passed the border of Nicaragua than into the US consulate. We laugh and I dramatically talk about the hassle of applying for this passport.

The other guy,  chips in with some wisecrack about all the red tape around this process. Misery loves company. We become an instant community of people frusterated with bureaucracy just trying to get our fucking passports to the land of the free.

“Miss Chapin,” says a new, sterner woman from behind the glass.

I put my book down and walk up. This is the real deal.

She tells me all my documents in order, except for the fact that my fathers passport is from 1972. “Does he have a more current one?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling blood rush to my head. Since I got here, the man at the desk and the first woman behind the plastic wall had both asked if I had a more recent passport.  Why didn’t I think of that? Why didn’t my dad think of that?

She says she can’t process my case until she gets proof he was a US citizen when I was born. Otherwise, there’s no way to prove he still wanted to be a US citizen when he became Canadian. Flashbacks keep coming up about conversations with my father. “I don’t know if I’m still a citizen,” he saying, nonchalantly. At the time, it didn’t matter. He had all the documents. Now I want to strangle him and say “You don’t KNOW if you’re a FUCKING citizen?” AHHHHHH.

Instead I stand infront of the plastic wall and try to act cool. I know the community is behind me rolling their eyes at the bureaucracy.

She says she’ll  leave the case open and I have 90 days to send in a more recent passport. I tell her there’s another problem: I won’t be in Halifax in 90 days. “Well why did you apply here then? You could’ve waited till you were back in ottawa and done it with your father.” I was so mad.

“When I went to Ottawa they said come here,” I stumbled to explain. “This was the only time I could get an appointment. I thought this would take to weeks.” I thought it would be easy. I wasn’t mad at her. I was mad at myself. Really, why didn’t I think of that? It would’ve made much more sense to just do this all in Ottawa when my dad was with me. Why hadn’t he thought of this? Why hadn’t he checked some of this himself? Why hadn’t he got me fucking citizenship when I was 18 and didn’t need these documents.

After finding out if I transferred my case to Ottawa I wouldn’t get my $100 deposit back I felt good I had charged it to his credit card.

I shoved the documents back in the envelope, defeated. I turned around and the guy by himself said to me “More hoops to jump through eh?” Then the father and daughter made some comment designed to make me feel better about the absurdity of the system.  I rattled off some shit about how whenever I call they tell me I need something different and you can never really be prepared.

Truth was,  I felt no hard feelings towards the woman behind the glass.  I was mad at myself for looking over such an obvious thing. Mad at my dad for not seeing it either and not being there when I applied to explain himself.

People are constantly irritated by the government’s bureaucracy.  Those stupid forms they make you fill out that seemed designed to trip you out. But are they really that complicated? Maybe they’re intimated because they make us feel insecure about our own lives. I still don’t know the postal code of my current apartment. I’m moving a month, and never took the time to learn it. I find reading directions irritating, and often skip over them missing key info. I rush too much, and often forget something that means I spend time re-doing things or re-tracing my steps. These are things I’m insecure about, and with the formality of the US consulate, they were all brought out.

Maybe I should get better at paying attention, at keeping my wallet organized and reading instructions.  I laugh at people I know who are cautious and keep everything in place. It seems anal, but when it comes to government forms, I’m sure they plough through with ease.

When I left the US consulate I was crying, not laughing. Crying because my father and I had failed to check such an obvious question and I was called out on it.  Crying because though there’s a lot to hate about the government, this one wasn’t there fault. Sometimes, hating bureaucracy is an excuse for our own laziness.

Monday Morning.
On the bus.
Violent rain outside.
Kind that attacks you sideways and never lets up.
Guy sitting across from me is decked out in bright yellow rain gear with reflective tape.
Must be a crossing guard.
Old, big man.
Looks like he wants conversation.
Next stop.
Another old man wearing yellow slickers comes on, sits beside the crossing guard.
This man is shorter.
Not so big.
The men greet each other by name.
“You should be at home pouring over a cup of coffee,” says the big man to small one.
His voice lacks volume control.
They banter, then short man turns to young lady beside him.
“How’re you doing dear?”
“Okay,” she says, shyly.
I pull the stop and get off the bus.
“Thank you,” I say.
The driver says “Uh-huh.”
Off the bus.
Monday morning.

Running shoes in the hall. Red bucket beside them at the bottom of the stairs. It’s Friday, and Floutora’s coming to clean the house.

I was sitting at the kitchen table when she busted in, a sweaty mess of a big woman with greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. But her face had a glow to it, the kind that comes from having a strong soul, the kind the most middle-class people don’t have. She wore pink sweatpants that showed every bulge in her stomach and a brown t-shirt.

“I don’t think I will clean today,” she said, looking at me for approval in a thick Armenian accent. “It doesn’t look too dirty, and I’m very tired.”

I’m house sitting for my boss. We have the same boss. I work for my boss in an office while Floutara cleans her house.

 “Um,” I say, unsure. “Did Pam say that?”

 I felt conflicted, her cheque was tacked onto the board and my boss told me to bring down the vacuum for cleaning. On the other hand, this woman looked exhausted and I was willing to give her any break she could get.

“Yes, yes, don’t worry,” she tells me. “Pam says I can just come next week. It’s the boy who makes the mess anyway.”

Floutora may not have wanted to clean, but she did want to vent. She’d been up the night before with her five-month old baby, and hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

She leaned against the granite counter top, and told me her history.

Seven years ago Floutora immigrated to Canada when a civil war broke out. She knew she wanted to raise a family and thought Canada would be the place to do it. She’s been working here illegally since, and just got her visa.

Back in Armania she designed men’s clothes. She moved to Germany to work for a company and learn the language. When she moved to Canada she couldn’t speak a word of English but managed to get a job as a cleaner. “But such is life,” she says. 

She started cleaning houses, but it was only temporary. Just enough to support herself and send a little back to her mother. She never found other work, and now she’s got a baby to take care of and needs the income more than ever. “Baby’s are precious but everything changes,” she tells me. “It’s not just for you anymore.”

She doesn’t like cleaning. “Look at me. I’m fat and I’m on my foot all day. I put on all this weight when I came to Canada. These winters, there’s nothing else to do but eat.” Ehen she gets home she’s so exhausted that all she can do is flop on the couch.

Floutora’s also upset about her pay, and rightfully so. It takes her three hours to clean a house, top to bottom and whatever other surprises are waiting for her (dirty fridge, dirty stove). She gets $55. On the other hand, the job is flexible and the families she works for let her take time off in the summers to visit her mom in Armania. Still, they won’t raise her pay.

She misses family. This is what’s important to her and she wants her daughter to be surrounded by community. Her best friend lives in Greece, her mom in Armania, her aunts in Italy. “It is so far,” she says.

Floutora prefers Europe to Canada, or at least Halifax. “In Europe, they enjoy things more,” she says. “My aunts work hard. But not like this. They enjoy life more and take time with things.”

When she finds out I’m leaving she says, “good.” “There is nothing to do here. When you have a day off, what is there to do? The streets are dead. At least in big city like Toronto there is something to do.”

Floutora doesn’t have much free time anyway. She hasn’t washed her hair in a week. She has a partner who is not the father of the baby and he doesn’t have a job. “Such is life,” she says again. I want to reach out and hug every sweaty pound of her.

“I’m sorry, I interrupt your work,” she says, looking at my computer, and becoming self-conscious of her story telling.

“It’s ok,” I tell her. I’m enjoying this.

There’s some bustling at the door, and Floutora goes to check it out. It’s the parents of the homeowners who’ve come to take their dog to the cottage for the weekend.

“Anyway,” she says, getting a little flustered. “I should be going. You are very cute. Thanks for talking to me.”

She leaves, and so does the sweaty smell that comes with her, but that undying spirit that keeps cleaning houses to support her five month old and mother will stay with me. Such is life. 

I was on the plane back to Halifax and I heard these people talking behind me. The lady had a loud drawl and smacked her lips between words. The guy was a chatterer, one of those story telling types that could go on forever. They were old friends, both over 60. They had just come back from a business trip she accompanied him on to Ottawa. He was a sweet looking old man, with kind eyes and a nice smile. She was a short-haired woman, with a sharp goldish blazer who looked great for her age. At first I thought, ‘This is going to be fucking annoying.’ But once I tuned into the chatter, it was the sweetest conversation between old friends:
“I hope you had a good trip,” the guy said humbly. “I knew you would be melancholy but that’s why I wanted you to come.”
“I lost my whole family,” said the woman, shakily. “Four deaths is too much.” She starts to cry.
“We’re best friends,” says the man after a pause. “I’m so glad you came with me.”
“We’re soulmates,” she says, and then, getting some energy back into her voice. “Maybe we go to price club tomorrow?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies.
“I see God’s light when I look out the window,” the woman says, getting distracted. “It always haunts me.”
Then they talk about taking a trip to Las Vegas, and the other people they want to invite.
“Who needs acquaintances when you have friends?” she says.
“I hope you had a good trip,” he says again after a silence, in the most genuine voice.
“I did. I did. It was a lovely trip, just what I needed,” she tells him. “I’m just so sad.”

All Larry wants to do is sleep. The guy beside him, who wreaks of Listerine, won’t let him. The two men sit in chairs as weathered as their faces, with their backs to the library window. Infront of them, people read studiously, trying to hide their discomfort.

Larry’s thinning black hair is slicked back in stringy pieces. His friend wears a black toque, and an oversized red coat that matches the colour of his face.

Larry’s expression is a mix of regret for whatever he’s done earlier that day and relief to escape the winter cold. He sits with his chin down and his neck bobs him in and out of sleep.

His friend sits antsily, reading a magazine about women’s health and mumbling to the roomful of people pretending not to listen. His wisdom comes out watered down with booze.

“I’m 56 years old. Been crazy since the day I was born,” he says, looking up from the magazine. “I ain’t dead yet. I ain’t even got arthritis. I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

He continues to read the magazine for a few more minutes while periodically mumbling “Shannanigans” and shaking his head.

“What time is it Larry?” he says, looking over at his sleeping friend.  
“25 past two,” says Larry, barely opening his eyes.
“We have some time then.”
“Yup,” says Larry, disinterested.
“Three hours,” says his friend and pauses for a moment. “I’m sorry I got you fucked up,” he says sincerely. “You look tired Larry.”

Larry doesn’t respond. His friend looks down at the magazine again and starts mumbling something about microbiology. The librarian putting away DVDs on the shelf beside him looks too shy to say anything.

“It’s okay Larry,” he says. “I knew in a warm place you would fall asleep. You just doze. You don’t want to go to sleep Larry.”
“Yes, I do,” says Larry, quietly.
“You know what the alternative is?” says his friend. “Fucking tramps come and get you from the cop shop.”

Larry doesn’t look up or open his eyes.  
“Larry’s going to sleep,” says his friend dedicidely to the room after a long pause. Then he turns to Larry. “You gotta stay awake.” He pauses again. “Larry,” he says, laughing a little. “Stay on top of the situation. I’m not one to brag but like, I feel like that too sometimes but I can’t because, you know, I can’t get into it…”

Larry rests his cheek on his fist. His friend keeps mumbling until he cuts off his own ramble with a long burp, followed by a series of hiccups.

Then he catches his breath: “You’re in a crossfire. You don’t know what is and what ain’t. It’s sort of confusing,” he says, looking over to see if Larry’s listening. “Larry,” he says, laughing. “Sitting there all cross-eyed and bow legged. I got a book here that would just startle you. I mean it would startle you. It’s about the habitual, like something that went on and went on and they say about that.”

He stops and laughs. Then he puts the book down on a nearby table. “I ain’t dead yet. I ain’t dead yet. I’m getting there but I ain’t dead yet. Swigger swagger. I gotta do what I gotta do and then I’m going to die. We’re all going to die sooner or later. Ain’t going to get you nothing. It is what it is.”

He looks over and notices Larry as if for the first time. “Larry,” he says, amused. “What’re you doing? sleeping?” He pauses but Larry doesn’t respond. “Wanna go get a bite down by that thinga-majigger? I can’t do that free stuff. I can’t get into it. I just exist.” Still nothing. “Larry, Larry. Larry’s gone,” he says to the room. “Larry’s still Larry but he’s there when he wants to be. He may be sagging but he’s still Larry. Larry my brother.”

Other than the turning of pages, the room is silent. “If I could save time in a bottle…” he says, trailing off. “Is there a cook in the kitchen? Cause I need something to eat. Chicken? I don’t care. Whatever, I’ll eat it. Even salad as long as it’s a good salad. You know, like not as much greens as vegetables.”

He pauses and starts on a new tangent. Larry’s still trying to sleep. “I don’t care if they’re bank robbers or whatever,” he says. “As long as they stick together. I’m a bird of a feather, stick together. That’s what I like.”

He pulls up his chair beside Larry. “You wanna go?” he says.
“No” says Larry, nodding out of sleep.
“You don’t want to go have a drink?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m going, I’ll be back in a couple half hours.” He sits for a few more minutes.
“You look so tired,” he says.
“Ya, I don’t sleep properly.”
“Are you okay? Are you sure?”
“Ya, I’ll be over here,”
“I’m going out to check things out.”
“Be careful.”
“Thanks for the hat, Larry.”
“No problem.”
“Keeps my head warm.”
“Hmmm.”

Instead of leaving, Larry’s friend grabs another magazine, and moves his chair back. He reads for a couple minutes, and then falls asleep himself. His head is cocked to the same side as Larry’s and his mouth is twitching.

The friends sleep for twenty minutes with magazines open on their laps, before a man from the library walks over.
“You can’t be sleeping here,” he says. “If you don’t wake up they’ll come up and take you away. Stay awake, or I’ll have to call the police. The choice is up to you. Stay awake or that’s what will happen.”

Larry sits up boltright, like he’s just been caught dozing in class, and starts flipping through his magazine.

His friend lets out a long sigh, and mumbles something incomprehensible back to the library man.

They sit quietly like scolded children, staring straight ahead with glassy eyes. “Larry?” says his friend, predictably breaking the silence. “Want a drink Larry?” Larry doesn’t say anything and his friend stands up and walks out.
 
Larry sits there silently, staring through his magazine. A couple minutes pass, and a young man with a full head of hair sits in the chair beside him. The young man reads quietly, and Larry closes his eyes for some hard-earned sleep.