Outside
in the lobby, the arrow on the dial above the elevator finished its descent
from 6 to 1. With a tinny little ding, the doors slid open and the lift’s sole
occupant tiptoed out onto the balding carpet. It took no detective skill at all
to work out that this was the stranger that had got everyone so riled. I lit up
a cigarette and watched him slide by.
The
first thing I noticed about him was that he seemed top-heavy, like a greyhound
walking on its hind legs, all chest and spindles. He moved strangely, as if he
was a helium-filled balloon, counterweighted just enough to keep him hovering
at floor level: his expensive shoes seemed necessary only to push him along the
mouldering pile. He was wearing a heavy coat over a suit with a cravat, and his
hair was the definition of bouffant:
like 1980s Lionel Ritchie on overdrive. He gazed at the world through
heavily-smoked lenses that made me think of Roy Orbison.
As
I watched, he wafted over to the side of the foyer where a display of brochures
wilted while awaiting the unlikely opportunity to inform tourists. Next to this
was a faded map of the town and the stranger busied himself examining it. I
noticed that he kept his fingertips nested together and his hands hovered
permanently under his chin like a praying mantis: they moved out deliberately a
few times to dab at the map, checking certain locales. I made a long-distance
note to check those positions on the chart once he was done. Next, the fellow
bustled through the leaflets, selecting and disregarding them according to some
private agenda. I slid up alongside him.
‘I
wouldn’t trust the information in these,’ I said, ‘they’re all pretty much out
of date.’
He
swivelled around to face me, like he was mounted on gimbals. His head cocked
bird-like to one side taking me in.
‘What
you want,’ I continued, ‘is more of a local guide, instead of a dusty piece of
paper.’ I smiled encouragingly, waving away the cigarette smoke.
The
head twitched again looking at the brochures then darted back at me. ‘I - was
wondering if this town had a - museum?’ he said.
His
voice was very strange, like it was being propelled by lungfuls of fluid; but I
know how that usually sounds and this was different, more high-pitched and
regular, with a weird buzzing overtone. As well, I could have sworn that his
head lit up in discrete patches, like bits of it were bioluminescent inside... I
blinked my eyes and put that down to the whiskey I’d been knocking back.
‘Museum?
Sure,’ I said shaking my head to clear it a little, ‘but it’s closed after
hours. I could pick you up first thing tomorrow and show you where it is, if
you’d like? It’s a little tricky to find...’
The
little guy scanned the pamphlet rack once more, then nodded his assent. I grinned
around my cigarette and extended my hand to grab his and shake it.
‘Swell,’
I said, ‘it’s a date. ‘Name’s Benson Waite; I’ll see you here at 9.00am.’
He
recovered his hand quickly, obviously not enjoying the sudden intimacy of a
handshake. I could see why too: holding his paw was like grabbing a soft leather
pouch with a couple of straight-edge rulers inside. He paddled his two-tone
shoes and tip-toed back to the lift, pausing a couple of times to stare back at
me. I gave him a little wave as he disappeared inside and slid away upwards to
his room.
I
stared at my hand. Curiouser and curiouser, I thought...
To Be Continued...
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