A Crime Scene

I just got back from Seattle. I've been running scenes from Antonioni's Zabriskie Point through my head. I just watched Alice in Wonderland. My dates are incorrect, but I started with these impressions. A couple of days ago, I was in the Hyatt for a pre-wedding, so I have the HYATT on the brain. This is just your typical crime-scene, minus the details. This character, JANE, doesn't know shit. She has a terrible memory (like me) and she's pretty absent-minded (like me). Does that make this auto-biographical? I doubt it, unless it somehow plays out in my future. I give homage to the local bars (SF) The Attic and The Phone-book in this sketch. Hope you enjoy it, although its pretty slippery. It's hot off the press, something that I just rambled about, without a particular direction in mind.

There was an explosion. It was 1982 in Walt Disney's Alice in Wonderland and Alice fell down a rabbit hole. The many commodities flying about looked just like the tornado in the scene of Dorothy spinning about with her house, her bed, and her little dog, too from 1954 in the Wizard of Oz. There was an explosion. It was 1972 and the house on the desert hill blew to smithereens to the soundtrack of Pink Floyd wailing on guitars and we watched, just like Daria, as the Wonderbread blew out of the refrigerator and different bits and pieces flew apart for different rooms of the house. Everything floated, mid-air once again, except for the girl, who was only day-dreaming. Day-dreams, sleep-induced fevers of explosions that send the commodities of the house spinning about, and giving three girls a few moments of uncontrolled, utter freedom. Here's my applause for the day-dreams of Daria, Dorothy, and Alice.

I'm sitting in a hotel room. It is not mine, I'm just visiting. The clock on the night-stand has large, legible numbers that read 4:50 am. I am not sober and neither is he. I suppose he has a perfectly suitable name, but I can't remember what it is. For the last hour I've been calling him Jim. He arrived at 1:37 am to the last bar I was at, having just arrived from Washington D.C. and he promptly invited me, Jones, and Parker here to watch TV. We are all watching info-mercials. He is not tired, Jones is not tired, Parker is not tired, because they are all on east-coast time. I am on west-coast time and I am barely able to keep my eyes open, although I'm discovering new nuances to the way the 1-800 number flashes before my eyes, just before putting the mechanics of the self-cleaning kitty-litter box into simple terms, EZ terms, so that I will want to BUY it. The lights go out.

This is the HYATT, Jim says. This is the HYATT, this should not be happening. They should have back-up GENERATORS for the LIGHTS.

Now worries, Parker says. I've got a light. He reveals a long-handled flash-light.

Now where did you get that light? I ask, baffled.

I'm a cop, Parker says.

No shit? I ask.

Not a shit in the toilet. Parker says.

Jones and Jim thank Parker for the light, before each finding subtle excuses to use the bathroom. Jim mysteriously grabs something, a thing that I was not previously aware of, from his duffle bag and he retreats to the bathroom. We hear several flushes. Jones goes in next. We hear several more flushes.

What's going on BOYS. Asks Parker.

What's going on, I wonder. I don't want to know. I've got to go. I say, sheepishly.

You're not going anywhere, Parker says. You're a witness.

A witness to what? I ask.

You heard them flushing, he says.

I am not a witness. I say. I do not choose to be a witness. Joe and Jones are looking at me suspiciously. I want the lights to go back on. I want to SEE the situation unfold before me. I want to KNOW what's going on. I've lost control.

Jones pulls out a gun. Jones fires a shot, aiming at Parker. The window is shatter-proof, but soon, its like the sky is falling.

I'm on west-coast time, I say. I've got to get going.

You're not going anywhere, Jones says, grabbing me and tying my wrists together behind my back.

The lights turn back on. I fall to sleep. In the morning I'm signing papers. There is no evidence except for my evidence and five new police officers are piecing together my 'story'. I don't have a story, I say. They look at me with stern faces. You don't have a story? They ask. No. I say. I don't have a story.

They want me to tell a story. So I begin. I was at the bar. I was at the Attic. WAIT. They say. What Attic? The bar, I say. It's called the Attic. Then I went to the Phone-booth, I say. Who did you call, they ask. I didn't call anyone, I say. Its another bar, I say. Go back, they say. No, its really quite simple. Two bars. I went to two bars. One is called the Attic and the other is called the Phonebooth. Then I went to the bathroom. I said. Is that another bar? the Jackass police asks me. No! I say. I had to 'releive' myself. My bladder was full, I said. Alright, let's cut to the chase, one of the men says. When did you go to the HYATT.

I don't remember. I say. It was sometime between 1:37 and 4:50am.
Go back, they say. What happened at 1:37?
I went to the bathroom. I said. And then suddenly you were in the HYATT? One of them asks, chewing gum. And boy, he's chewing. He's got quite a jaw.

No. I say. There was a brief explosion. I went into a dream. It was like a daydream. It looked a lot like a bunch of other explosions involving innocent women, life-chancing explosions, surreal explosions. It was like I was in a movie. And then all of a sudden, I was stuck on the end of the bed, next to Jones, Parker and Jim. We were watching infomercials.

So how did you get THIS in your pocket? One of them asks, holding up a plastic baggy. It's holding a gun. That's not mine. I say. That's Parker's.

Listen, they say. This is EVIDENCE. And furthermore, we don't have a Jones, we don't have a Jim, and we don't have a Parker. We have YOU. A Jane. Now, we found you on the railing, holding this in your pocket. You were tied to the railing. We need to know what happened, because as far as we can tell, it was something IMPORTANT.

Sure, sure. I say. It was probably important. I hear Pink Floyd in the distance. They were probably important, too. I see road-signs to Death Valley outside the window. Is this VEGAS, or what?