I've learned the new site well enough to write again and still achieve all the patrol objectives, but it still takes every ounce of self-control I posses to refrain from sending a message that runs thusly:
"Dear Boss
Whatever I did, I'm sorry.
I can change, just please take me back! (to Dell)"
Perhaps I simply dislike change, but it seems the only benefit to this new site is the classical music playing on the loudspeaker.
In a few areas there are alarms that go off constantly while you patrol them; my partner says you get used to them, a process I call "aggravated hearing loss".
So far I've evicted 7 vagrants, found one pile of human fececs, and yelled, "No, I don't have a heart! I'm on duty!"
It smells of plastic and a life-size picture of a lady gives me a heart-attack every four minutes. I'm so short on sleep I think my hair is giving me a headache.
There are a dozen tiny delights, nestled for the dedicated observer, though. The incredibly lush greenery, verdant leaves and coral-hued blossoms, are real and lovingly tended by a flock of young women that look like flowers themselves, and cradle the leaves like baby birds. The old fashioned street lamp tucked ina corner, shining merrily, aching for a man in a trench to sing in the rain. Where Dell was like an infant child, sometimes crying and needy, but soft and loving, here is more like a high maintenance girlfriend, expensive and contrived, shrill and grating, but also full of breathtaking beauty. Probably a girlfriend all messed up on coke, though, since she's banged up inside and frequently smells of human urine. Since I spend several hours a night roaming her innards, does that make me a lesbian? Since my partner doesn't (at all), what does that make him?
Sixty-odd floors a night (walking); my legs should be sick, but really it's my stomach. This place doesn't love me, I can feel it. Dell and I loved each other, she talked to me, I cared for her. I am ashamed to say, I stay at the place for the money. Perhaps it can feel that, does not love me because it knows I will leave, here to go, as they say. I apologize to her, lay my hand on the granite stonework; they're warm, I think she understands.
I also think if my partner mentions his girlfriend on more time, I may jeopardize my police career.
A new song is playing, it's an organ piece, and all I can think is, "songs to wear a flowing, skimpy nightdress to".
Every time I crouch and then stand up I want to pass out because of the heat, but I know the building and I are getting along now; she lets me open her doors with one hang, a feat that thrills me more than it should.
Someone is growing a plant in a folger's can.
To properly experience this building, lie on your back on hot cement, with your feet on a cement wall, wrap your hands around some fresh plants, and listen to the sound of church bells. (the church bells come from not only the music, but also because if you tap your fingernails on the ever present handrails in the depths of the service tunnels, they sound exactly like huge bells)
I'm happy again?
No comments:
Post a Comment