I am not sure what this means, but I feel that it may have begun…
I awoke in the pre-dawn hours this morning and found them in my apartment.
There were three of them in my room, all dressed in white, going through my cupboards and drawers.
On the chair, in the corner beside the window, sat one. The blind one I ran into in the lobby the night Bruce went missing. He sat quietly, cane between his knees, hands folded across the top. He looked directly at me and smiled.
I reached to switch on the bedside lamp, but he softly shook his head and put his right index finger to his lips.
From the living room I heard furniture moving, cupboard doors being opened, items being shifted. Presently a fourth one came into the bedroom and put his lips to the blind one’s ear. I heard soft mumbling, but no audible words reached me.
He nodded and stood up. Again he put his index finger to his lips and with the others, quietly left the room, like ghosts before the dawn.
It was then that I moved – hit the light switch, bolted from the bed and ran into the living room.
They were gone. The living room looked as it always did. Everything in its right place.
I now know that I need to find Bruce!
The office restroom smells like a hospital.
It makes me nauseous
It has that silence about it too, that sombre gloominess that pervades the hospital admissions department and lobby
Sterile tiles. White.
I keep finding myself coming back to wash my hands. I stand in the silence and watch the water wash over my fingers and palms.
I don’t know why.
I am convinced I saw Bruce yesterday afternoon.
I had just doffed my hat at a man I thought to be Nicholas Cage, when I saw him (Bruce, not Mr Cage) exiting Sammy J’s Hong Kong Restaurant (Speedy Service Guaranteed) with a bag of take away in his left hand.
I called out to him and waved, but as I did so, the Cage look-alike told me to sod off.
And that, I am afraid, can not go unpunished.
So I kicked him squarely in the shins with my scuffed John Lobbs and bolted into the afternoon foot traffic that this city never seems to shake.
Of course Cage is a pratt and could only follow me for less than half a block before he gave up the chase, but he caused me to lose sight of Bruce.
Ultimately, all this serves to do, is reinforce my utter dislike for Nicholas Cage.
Sod off indeed! Moron!
Through everything; the sex, the drugs, the booze, liquor, the bad films, Bobby Brown painting Evil Eyes on the living room walls, I have learned one thing from Ms Houston’s pre-Grammy death.
And that is – Hotel rooms kill people, more specifically and more often, they kill celebrities.
It is for this reason that I have decided that I will no longer stay in hotels.
The last thing I want is to be found by some ungainly and foreign chambermaid, spread eagle’d on the double bed, naked as the day I was born, with a pair of worn underpants wound around my neck (I am not saying that poor Whitney went this way, but be that as it may…).
It just seems to me that too many celebrities go into hotel rooms, do drugs, make phone calls, entertain characters of dubious morals and then are found the next morning by the help, dead and naked.
And nobody knows what happened in between, especially the visitors of dubious morals. So the logical conclusion is that the hotel room was somehow involved. There is the common link, the hotel room did it.
At least Marilyn Monroe had the sense to go at home.
Now that’s class for you.