The store for the other lawyer was a fib in a once well caught skip between one scene and another. A shot to be forgotten, a second frame to enter with no sense of and leave as absently as if it had been missed. And here instead a hazard in the right vicinity and a scarcity of anything else get in the way with a better idea.
A building that was two shoeboxes, whitewashed to be mistaken for brick. Different sizes, parent’s and child’s, or brothers with anterior backstories who were only almost twins.
Off the cusp of a highway, it was nothing but motorcycles. And now all the space between a spout and a mouth.
What was more like a side door is nearer, off the elder structure, and through its lean-to shadow a cat on a concrete floor. Languishing, cool, the concrete, cooler than all the golden dust. The cat too, though less so, if just came in from the sun.
To sleep in relief. Or relief’s gleaming speckled sheen.
To be better seen. No shadow, all calico, that can be an omen out left.
Sun’s stronger out here, shadow’s weaker.
They just run on different levers.
“He’ll be there in a moment”. It was something of a waiting room. No other option. Had that right kind of old airport grace. And then he was a head, the one who’d spoken, or the one to be there in a moment, floating out from behind a frosted glass panel on the door that leads to the other room, the smaller shoebox. Already been ajar, or a poor place for conversations. And then a floating hand, and in that hand a baseball bat. And a wire-sutured blur behind the door’s frosted glass to imply it all floating off the same person. To imply heading on elsewhere, in another direction, better than lingering in a waiting room with nothing to do but smell stale indeterminate use. There's something of a law office, sort of, too generic to not have some legally certified professional purpose. What else to do here but linger in all the genericism. And lean at the right ajarness to insinuate a gilt depiction of the word “attorney” embossed atop the glass and wires and the frost. Not exactly old airport grace. Older typeface, ticker tips from a Brother in a family business, spilt over sly gin. That made it more or less believable, depending on preference. Works with the bat, actually.
“One of you Teodoro?” A workable question, whether or not it ought to be. “I like this actually. Come in guys.” He was still holding the bat but his expression softened from whatever it could only have been when the bat was at arch angle. After speaking his cheeks were in his teeth to account for any unprotected flesh. Adjacented to protect his head, which was not smiling so much as resigned to a sense of giving up that in certain optimists is really relief. Certain realists too, who can only be optimists if they got to the reality that weighs on them.
The office, unless the waiting room is part of the office in which case what is the office, was nothing. The office was for a lawyer who doesn’t exist and their coterie of clients who envy them. For another reset functionary. Either way he coulda never played baseball. Either way when the door turned open he turned out to be alone. Either way the bat was the biggest insinuation this was a mistake. Either way the bat is the biggest insinuation he is worth meeting. In person. Not over some sense of a speaker.
Another functionary between fittings, found too early to actually exist. The shoes aren’t gone, there’s no trace of safety paper. The feel of a folding table. Nothing’s been shipped yet and yet if the box has been pilfered he still sits in fulfillment behind a desk stolen from sea wood. It breathes rot and salt, though there's some smell of cardboard cologne left about the room a few days prior. "Stole it from my uncle." He still holds the bat, bleeds pine tar on his shirtshoulder. "Old guy owned a lumbering company, couldn't help buying into the preservation of old boats, tried importing-exporting when the fire left him out of anything but the insurance money and a new fear of dry land, and this desk, which I ended up with when the internet happened and he figured we should only have to lose the stuff with already next to no value like our shirts and the domain name he let me register and I let him forget about. Nobody wanted it so I still use it, as punishment. Now he's senile and I've got a desk worth more than the term life policy I'd like if I had kids but sell the blasted thing and I get cut out of a will which I'm still not convinced won't be hand-delivered to me by the creditors. And for all I know that persistent pair of lungs I used to call my uncle doesn't even remember my name. His lawyer does though, and he's way smarter than me, aside from being with my uncle on betting against the internet. But that's why he still minding mad old guys and I've got three laptops and a desk I can't get rid of." Amid this he tapped the bat's handle nub on a poker mat on that desk that's lacking any laptops. He did not say where his laptops are, or if they are professional. And deposited the bat out of sight. A fan in a background was becoming increasingly obvious. It had always been there. There was no fan, nothing moved, extension cords batoned down the hatches, it was a threadbare and hazardous carpet. Extension cords kept the modems running. Running to no purpose. Not one visible. Except there was nothing else to light the room. Not counting the sun, all over the office, there are no curtains, office including the waiting room.
"Why did I tell you all that?" He huffed, a funny huff. Bit his lip, blinded his eyes in a window. Tried to look demure, reminisced on men. Tried to look desperate, reminisce on men. There's still a bat behind the desk. Unless it rolled under it. That could be where at least one of the laptops is. Unless they're giving purpose to what must be a galley of drawers. Or charging, on the floor, giving purpose to another one of the extension cords, and another, and another, maybe with another modem or two too. Maybe both of them elsewhere, with the fan, with the bathroom. He didn't appear to have a bathroom either. Could be encoded in the waiting room. To be polite. To keep abreast unwanted occupants. He'd have one too, next to the fan. The fan's in it. If there was a fan. Someone's using it. If there was a bathroom. That's why the fan's running.
"They were hoping you could take some pictures. Went so far as to mail me this". From below deck was a paper package with no return written and the sending address torn off so the memory eye could get a better view. It was the best way to be sure there'd be less about him to forget. "Thought it a safe way to get some sense of the place. Can't trust digital, boy do they know that much. Just bring it back to me and I'll deal with it. They love their go-betweens. It's a little ironic, but I just like to be included. No need for any of the house. Everyone has those already." In a folder. That hadn't been opened. "She showed them to you already, those print outs, nothing hidden left to find for yourself. They said you'd be there first. Makes sense. Wife after all." The rest of the paper was stiff and safe and useless. "Oh right," he reminded no one, "digital", the modems agreed, going by the fans. "That was why I was telling you about the desk, because trust me I don't think I'm that interesting. The point was the lawyer, all the lawyers, and what we get stuck with, and what it's worth." He looked at his left wrist. It was his third time doing it. Where he'd wear a watch. He was not wearing a watch. His wrist is pale, save for a small thin hint of fading green. His wrist matches his hand freckles, save for a small thin hint of fading green. His whole body might be equally pale, the rest of his arms are under white sleeves. White as much as that pine doesn't decide to bleed. It's still on his shoulder, where the bat isn't, it's still on his wrist where nothing is. Already under the table, the bat, that is. Where his feet are too. He's not wearing shoes. His feet don't have freckles. They would not. Unless he spends enough time in the sand. The sand of what beach? There's sand elsewhere. Under what unburning sun? The cat found one. He's not calico either way. Couldn't be. Could be, maybe. Still an omen. Which? "and I'll bet they've all not stopped talking about how nobody knows who actually gets what because I mean they're going on and on about it and especially when it means outside the house they don't know where's what or what's what and now they got all this effort to sort out the details and the places and locations because that's the kinda thing the law cares so much about and now here we are gotta get it out of the way so we can get to everyone keeping what they're keeping and getting what they're getting. And that's why I need to get these pictures back something next to asap because once they see the gold, and the golb, they can get on with it. Like I was saying you can't trust digital. Like I was saying if they let me speculate, and they don't, my bet would be that that's where the will is. Uploaded somewhere safe forever where nobody can get to it. So that's why they got the camera, to know what can be known about the rest of it. In a place that's thankfully a little less safe."
On second inspection the paper has the same feel as a lunch bag. That is how brown feels. Colors don't have feelings and where is the stamp. With his address. Where's the glue. With the stamp. Do these things come with built in film rolls? "All the film is already loaded. Don't need to worry about that at all just bring it back and I can get it developed. They told me you are no more a local than that camera, which once you peel off the rest of the wrapping they put it in to keep it safe in the mail you'll see was not made in China but did get manufactured much closer to the coast than we are now. Makes sense that they'd, or some collection of them, would buy local. But that's just my guess none of my business really all I know is that once you bring it back I can get it developed and then we'll have some actual proof of something at least so we know what to go on." It sounds like the bat is rolling. Under the fan. Under the table. Under his feet. At least one of them. Where are his shoes? With the stamp. And the laptops. And the bathroom. And the fan. Not with the baseball bat. That's under his desk. That's a safer place to keep answers, where you can feel them. Under your feet. With a baseball bat. Can't trust digital. Can't trust digital. "They said as well she needs any receipts you get for getting there. Not sure about around here they didn't get too worked up about that but wanted to be sure you get reimbursed for that since it's going to be more of a hike of a ride. I'd have to say, again, not as the guy who is just a detail sorter in all of this, and not an especially smart on at that if you go by this desk I'd love to offer to sell you but am stuck with for so many reasons outside of how much it weighs goddamn I'm still paying off the cost of getting it in here," He is so glad he has this desk. Imagine all he does with it. Or don't. Specters and succubi. Odds he's got a tissue box in one of all those must be there drawers. Everyone's got a tissue box in one of their drawers. As the lord intended. "that in addition to being functionally a dumbwaiter with a desk that might as well be full of dumbbells" quite the load in there "I am as local as they come, far more local than he was, that he's the one among us who actually got to own some property notwithstanding," fuck that. "I do have to recommend if you've got some time after I get this back and then she gets her receipts and the rest and everyone else gets whatever else that's none of my business you go for a hike while you are here, one of a kind experience. Hell," he gave another window another once over, thinking about women, trying to be honest. Thinking about women, trying to be wise. "don't be afraid to swing by one of the peaks before you send in those receipts. See if you can sandwich some leisure into the cost of doing business. I'm not gonna pretend I'm her lawyer. Don't think she's got one. You should. A lawyer's good. Like a dumbwaiter. We get our job done and don't get any ideas. Heh. All my ideas are off the clock." With his laptop. And his shoes. And his laptop. And the stamp. And his laptop. And the fan. Not the tissue box. Odd. There is no clock. He's still not wearing a watch. He still might not ever wear a watch. He is so pale everywhere. Except the freckles, and the green. That accentuate the paste. Of what is visible. Which implies even more for what is invisible. Not at the sauna, where even the yakuza have to cover their tattoos. Not at the sauna, that's an onsen. It's not Japan. It's still not a sauna. No it isn't. It's an office. So he still needs to cover his tattoos. If he has them. There's a rose on his ankle. That's odd. That's fascist. That's communist. Unless it's there to cover up a freckle. Would that be racist? Could be. Depends on who can hear. Depends on who is speaking. Depends on how it's said. Depends on why it's done. It doesn't matter, the rest. Just the last. There are no honest answers. Not from the dumbwaiter. But from the one who winches it. They lose their tongue if they talk. But when they're off the clock. Probably let their tattoos do the talking. Not at the onsen. It's still not an onsen. That would explain the shoes. Not at the onsen, because of the tattoos. But it's not an onsen. It's an office. But an office without a clock. A lawyer without a watch. A man with a baseball bat. And a desk that could be heavy with tissues. And a camera built of film reels and tissue paper. That he's really got to get back. Prior to the reimbursements. Which are not a payment. Does not seem to be his problem. He is just the dumbwaiter. Winding himself up and up and up to the attic where the servants quarters are. The servants quarters are in the basement. Not where there's enough flooding. There is no flooding, there's not even water. There must be a bathroom. The quarters would still be in the basement, nobody cares if it's illegal, or is lethal. Wouldn't get to not care if there wasn't a basement, which there isn't. Not a basement here. And this is not a basement. This is an office, which is a shoebox. Two shoeboxes. One is a waiting room. Still part of the office. Depends on how you look at it. Depends more on how you define it. Really could go either way. On the clock it's not all an office. Now it's off the clock. So it doesn't really matter. The camera matters. If it does. If he gets it back. He should. He's yakuza. He isn't. He has tattoos. He has a tattoo. Unless he hides them with his freckles. He should get out more. He claims to hike. He claims to be dumb. He claims we can't trust digital. He does have a baseball bat. So he'll get the camera back. But that's really because he has their ear. He claims to. And that's a good enough reason to listen to him. They cut the checks. Do they? Might. And that's a good enough reason to listen to him. More fun if he were yakuza. Not true. More fun if it was Japan. Could be true. But it's not Japan.
It's not an office either.
It's concrete.
No longer in the shade.
No longer with a cat. Got too cold, got too hungry.
Got back to chasing the shade.
Got back to chasing water. Good luck, when it's all been baked into stiffening the cement.
And the pavement, past the concrete.
And the dust, that really has no water.
Again a highway on ahead. Too quiet to be motorcycles. Not sounding like a cat.
Again a highway empty of everything. A dead sense of the windswept. Waiting for the breach to end and let enter yet another more meant to be scene.