Basement of Wolves by Daniel Cox

Author:Daniel Cox
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Gay & Lesbian, Fiction
ISBN: 9781551524474
Publisher: Arsenal Pulp Press
Published: 2012-02-24T05:00:00+00:00

8.

This morning, I decide to have breakfast in the café reserved for hotel guests on the mezzanine. It’s a potentially stupid move on my part, but I take a gamble on the fact that people never see what’s directly in front of them. We’re trained to be biased against the obvious, so it might actually be the perfect cover. Nobody expects to see me here.

The café is a large room with twenty or so tables and a typical food spread: coffee in large thermoses, a cappuccino machine that brews but doesn’t foam, croissants and Danishes, four types of cereal that shoot out of dispensers when you turn the plastic knob, a bagel and toast set-up, juices, and yogurt. There’s a cheese and fruit platter that looks a day old, so I don’t touch it. I stick to coffee and oranges, because I’m not terribly hungry. The TV is set to ESPN, which is fine. I can totally handle colour-commentary gripes about the Knicks and Lakers. What I cannot handle is seeing anything about me.

Thankfully, nobody recognizes me. The other breakfast diners appear to be tourists in familial clumps. Tall kids with their tall parents in Beauty and the Beast T-shirts yammering about Disneyland. Middle-aged couples who don’t have much to say to each other, taking pictures of the little glass jam pots. Hey, some people are easy to please. Not my problem. There are businessmen going over meeting agendas, four laptops to a table, emailing documents to each other in all seriousness. I don’t think anyone minds that I’m wearing a trillium-white terrycloth bathrobe with a blue Sheraton crest on the right breast, or that I have a dab of toothpaste on my face that I accidentally lick with every sip of orange juice, giving me thrills of mint julep. I’m invisible. This is my hotel. I should throw everybody the fuck out.

At least I have the chance to read in peace. I’m happy I thought to bring some scripts with me when I left the house. The rest can go to hell, but I love a good piece of writing. It’s the story in its purest form, before it gets lost in the machine. I like to thumb the pages and scan the slug lines for interesting entry points. Why start from the beginning? If it’s a good screenplay, it will be circular like a Mobius strip. The beginning will connect to the end will connect to the beginning. The middle is a waypoint where you can take a break and decide which way to go. I received a script by courier a few weeks ago, Lars von Trier type stuff, all lugubrious, with slanted light that leads you into darkness. You know what I mean. It was about a vampire winemaker who slowly introduces blood into the vintage. Characters become immortal one after the other, sipping from huge vats and fucking each other into eternity. Wonderful. I was in love with it. On top of that, I realized the film could save me from my troubles.

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