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A veritable specimen of the typedredged up from an overnight soak in thin blue ink, soul stained by misfortune, failure, defeat. To return to the Dolphin Hotel means facing up to a shadow of the past. It has been all I could do these four years to rid myself of that chill, dim shadow. The kind of a guy, by the looks of him, for whom nothing goes right. Gazing at the rain, I consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. For the hotel is, as I've suggested, as much circumstance as place, a state of being in the guise of a hotel. That is, of course, so long as you're not asking the impossible. I said I'd been laying back but was ready to take stuff on. Though not particularly interesting jobs, mostly filler for PR newsletters and company brochures. I met people in the business and had lunch with them. We live in an advanced capitalist society, after all. If I don't like it, I can move to Bangladesh or Sudan. I got called to do bits and pieces for regular magazines. I started doing interviews, minor legwork reportage. He tapped the tabletop with his fingers, and the flame of the candle shuddered. When I still had my office, I did my share of editing and writing, and I'd gotten to know a few professionals in the field. Speaking conservatively, I'd say half the material I wrote was meaningless, of no conceivable use to anyone. But I did the work, mechanically, without thinking. Waste is the name of the game, its greatest virtue. But really, the work wasn't much of an improvement over PR newsletters. Sad hotels existed everywhere, to be sure, but the Dolphin was in a class of its own. Even with the sign and the brass plaque at the entrance, it scarcely looked Which actually was not far from the truth. But I ask, would anyone want to stay in such a hotel? A club for members only; persons of less-than-impeccable standing not welcome. She did carry a little notebook, but that was scrawled in an indecipherable code. Hookers may have names, but they inhabit a world that doesn't need I hardly knew a thing about her. Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this condition, this state of affairs in which I feature. If I strain my ears, I can hear the slow, cautious sequence of play take place, like droplets in an intricate water puzzle falling, step upon step, one after the other. That's when I hear someone softly, almost imperceptibly, weeping. Confusion piled on confusion until the saturation point was reached, destined in the not-too-distant future to be swallowed in the vortex of time. A pathetic place, woebegone as a three-legged black dog drenched in December rain. A far cry from its name (to me, the Dolphin sobriquet suggested a pristine white-sugar candy of a resort hotel on the Aegean Sea), if not for the sign hung out front, you'd never have known the building was a hotel. She'd been in the employ of an exclusive call girl club. During regular business hours she was a part-time proofreader at a small publishing house; she was also an ear model. She had no train pass, no driver's license, no credit cards.



I'd write the story up, he'd supply the photos, for a total of five pages. And the same can be said for collecting garbage and shoveling snow. I met a strange man, found myself caught up in some extraordinary developments. I never went out during the day, except to make the absolute minimum purchases necessary to survive. I hardly even drank; I wasn't in a drinking frame of mind. Which meant she'd split up with that friend of mine she'd gone off with when we divorced. The guy wasn't so great a jazz guitarist and he wasn't so great a person either. I checked into the Dolphin Hotel with a woman I was living with. There were a couple of characters milling around the lobby, but who knows if they were staying there? In the whole time we were there, I don't know if we saw another paying customer. You could predict what they'd answer before you asked the question.


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