LA

We took a coach to LA.

The bus pulled into a parking lot attached to the hotel; we only had to be outside, breathing the (perhaps poisoned) LA air for about 50 meters before we would be able to enter the relative safety of whatever Hampton Inn-esque institution we were to be housed in. I had wiled away most of the ride—either reading or napping or chilling or just listening to music—just generally tuned out. As such, I was a touch drowsy or otherwise unaware when the bus parked and we were all shuttled off. It was somewhat dark too; we arrived around seven or eight. I stepped off and was immediately greeted with a strong scent of feces; a quick glance confirms the veracity of the sense and source in a fell, foul swoop. I, like everyone else, hurried my pace and followed the long line of students tripping around the parking lot corner, presumably in the direction of nasal safety and homely comfort.

The hotel is under renovation: DO NOT ENTER, signs say, protecting areas which none but the idly and unnecessarily curious would want to enter anyway—lumber scent floated over like cheap aftershave. I was on the 10th floor and was too harried to hurry up stairs, so I punched the decade in and up we went, unhurriedly. The hotel seemed fine, even at this somewhat bad time to visit, relatively small and mostly clean. The day died without fanfare or funeral.

We had learnt yesterday that breakfast was complimentary (and was probably the last meal we could get before the flight) so I woke up at the forsaken hour of seven or so to obtain whatever medley breakfast this half-open hotel would scrounge up. The lift was empty when I entered, and again crawled—a taste of France already as the lift was ready to faire la grève. After one eternity, the lift halted at the eighth floor and introduced a middle-aged, slightly nervy looking man who seemed like he desperately needed this complimentary breakfast. We both waited as the elevator shuddered awake then shuttered its mouth. We stopped another eternity later at floor six.

Now here at floor six were three people, who seemed surprised to see that the call button worked, and that the lift was actually here. They shuffled in right after though, occupying the left half of the lift with full control of the buttons. The hungry man and I moved ourselves to the right side as the trio streamed in, and I caught him staring at them as I was doing so too. The reason was simple: one of the three men was holding a gas tank the size of his torso and about 4 inches in diameter tight to his chest, underneath the fold of his cheap zipper jacket. It was bright blue, and pretty big, so it hardly seemed like it could be a fire extinguisher. Further, it lacked a nozzle, instead having some kind of brass attachment as a cap. The man couldn’t have held it less surreptitiously, and the three of them semi-whispering in their half of the elevator did nothing to damp my curiosity and slight raising of hackles. Needless to say, none of them had hardhats or high-viz vests, lacking anything within spitting distance of the attire requisitioned by construction workers I’ve always seen.

One of the three stooges fat fingered floor five, before rectifying and smashing four—three floors down—an eon, in elevator time. They chattered, occasionally out of English, but never loud enough for me to fully follow along—nor quiet enough for me to not strain my ears to catch the end of a sentence or two. The gas man was a bit nervous it seemed.

(Gas Man) Are we doing this?

(Polecat) Yes we’ve gotten here… do it.

(Gas Man) Are you sure though?…

(assorted unintelligible conversation)

(3rd Umpire) Chill bro… it’s okay.

(Gas Man) …

(slowly dying out, still unintelligible dialogues)

After a spot of awkward silence when Gas Man looked to be slightly sulky crossed with anxious, the elevator dinged and the three musketeers disembarked. They only made it three or four paces out before 3rd Umpire looked left and right, then stopped the other two…

(3rd Umpire) This is the wrong floor

(Polecat) You right

…and they looped back in to the still waiting elevator. My despondent lift-mate seemed to have been relieved to see these three mysterious men depart, and was not prepared to see them swivel on the heel and saunter in again. He now looked like he needed a few Advils before that breakfast.

We made it to four without any conversation or mishaps, and the three men left the lift quickly. Polecat made sure it was the right floor, and the triplet checked left and right independently, then swapped. Silently, they turned left in unison as the elevator doors closed on their receding silhouettes. Hangry and I shared a quick look as we filled out the elevator once more: me on the Beatles-sans-Ringo side, and him on the side we had both hunkered in. We both tensed a little when we finally slid into the lobby and the elevator practically growled. He disappeared; I was told to collect my breakfast from the front desk. I waited in a line full of hungry college students to receive a paper bag with a plastic water, an apple, a small yogurt, and not much else.

I munched on the apple as I waited for my untrusty steed to descend once more, and nearly polished it off as I entered the steel cage. It was empty on the way up; I couldn’t help myself and punched four as well as ten. I stepped out, much like Huey, Dewey, and Louie on fifth, and turned to the left. There lay naught but boring hotel hallway, with a green emergency exit sign bleating at the end, pointing to some stairs. They were long gone, and left no traces—no blue giant bottle sitting on the floor, unattended or otherwise. No three men. I could hear the doors start to groan.

What a wonderful city of angels.