A/N: WOW ! I have not updated in FOREVER ! I don't even know if anyone reads my stuff anymore, but I have been working on different kinds of writing lately and thought I would just put this out there as a short one shot...hope you enjoy ! Please review and let me know what you think of it ! (:
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Eleven Sixty Seven: ONE SHOT
There stands a man. Handsome, intriguing, thirty five; a successful business investor. But a lonely one; we can tell this by the way he carries himself, as if longing for some one to be next to him, but realizing time and time again that no one is there. After contemplating the drizzling sky, he steps out into the smog and stuffy yet fresh air that is Chicago. The drops from the sky softly run along the brim of his hat, but do not bother his strong shoulders. His hair is perfectly styled even after the flight and his "freshly shaven" look radiates perfection.
Off in the distance, street lights flash; the after-math of the night's power outage, and a lone car drives across the over pass. The streets are abandoned, for how many other would be arriving at the airport now, hours before dawn? Not many, but he seems to prefer it this way. He longs for company but draws himself away from any situations that would provide such opportunities.
Still alone, always alone, he hails a taxi and is dissatisfied with the service today; a car should have been waiting for him already. The man looks down at his watch and wonders where she could be. And speaking of her, a call disturbs his efforts to hail a cab, and she seems to have perfect timing as usual. He answers her in a frustrated tone but she simply tells him to turn around. The man reluctantly thanks her, and as he does so, he sees his previously longed for waiting car. His eyes roll up to the dull clouds as he smoothly slides into the car and his phone finds solace in a coat pocket as usual. He finds himself impressed once again not only with her taste in fashion, but also in cars.
He feels he should remind her though that an assistant assists, and leaving him stranded here isn't very assisting. The man must keep to his schedule and he makes sure to remind her of this. The two are quite good friends, but he assures her he can and will find a new assistant if this keeps up. She is polite, but knows he will forgive her sooner or later. The man settles in on a punishment, teasingly of course, that she will not be able to update his wardrobe this winter. He knows this is completely in his favor, for he doesn't suffer at all; he couldn't care less about his wardrobe. She panics and seems to have effectively learned her lesson. But unbeknownst to him, she plans to spend as much as she can without him noticing, for what are a few zeros gone in the bank when you have plenty to spare? She knows her operation will be successful.
The assistant draws her mind back to the man and realizes he has asked her about the event they will be attending tonight. She explains that the Hansens are having their fifth annual fundraising gala and he has agreed, or rather she has agreed for him, to sponsor and donate to their cause.
He knows that the Hansens are only interested in his investment, but also knows the importance of keeping appearance with high class Chicagoans. The man confirms that he will be there, although he knows he doesn't have a choice regardless; but he likes pretending every now and then that he has some say in his life.
The chirping of her voice now bores his ears so he tries to focus instead on the turning of the wheels on the recently damp asphalt and the pitter-patter of the rain on the sky roof of the car. This relaxes him and he slouches in his seat a bit, but not too much, for she still seems not to have noticed that his attention no longer belongs to her. The Chicago skyline passes him in a blur of mist and bright lights, contrasting the dark sky. Each light borrows his attention, only a few seconds each, but these are comforting; familiar to him, and after all this time he still finds happiness in these sights.
A street light here, a bus station bench there, a billboard lit up with enthusiasm, and even the old man Robert who frequents the local lamppost of First Street and Sheridan. Of all of these, the one that holds his wandering attention the most is none of those listed above, but is the lone doorman, standing outside his fast approaching home away from home.
A smile crosses the doorman's face, for he knows this businessman. He knows that just about every other week this man stays in the same luxurious suite and says little, but is able to express himself in a way the doorman has never seen before. Each greeting from the man is laced with gratitude, for unbeknownst to the doorman, he is just about the only constant thing in the businessman's life.
He is the one person who can be counted on and will always be there, and unlike the bubble of excitement next to him, the doorman is never late. He is very professional and calming, and for some strange reason, feels like home to this lonely man whose success can only be measured by dollar amounts.
The doorman offers his hand and notices that it's a little early for the businessman to be arriving. He tells the doorman that it's never too early for him, and even the sun is almost up. The doorman dons a smile and helps him with his bags while pointing out that his must be the earliest he has ever arrived, or the latest, depending on how you look at life. The man finds himself inspired by the doorman already this morning. He can always count on him for an uplifting tidbit on how he views the world.
But today something seems off. The doorman looks almost nervous as he stacks the bags on the conveniently placed trolley. He asks if anything is wrong and the doorman merely shrugs. He is sorry to have to tell the businessman this, but there has been a change of management recently and it seems that the businessman's room is…temporarily…occupied. These are dirty words to the businessman and he is stunned to hear them. The doorman assures him that this will never happen again and he is terribly sorry. The woman that occupies the suite currently had told them that her flight is at nine so she will be checking about by eight.
The man is upset but he knows this is not his friend the doorman's fault, so he shouldn't direct any anger towards him. It saddens him that the doorman is so scared to break this news to him. He assures the doorman he is not upset and inquires where he could find a nice cup of coffee; the doorman smiles and, pointing to his left down the street, tells him there is one three blocks down.
He thanks the doorman and requests that someone leave his bags in a back room of some sort until he gets back. The assistant is long gone, so the man will walk. He stands in the cold wet air and glances up at the surrounding buildings. He concludes that the rain will be clear at least for a half hour or so, for the gray clouds he finds so offensive have moved on for the time being.
Before he leaves though, he asks if the doorman would join him. He respectfully declines though, for he can not leave his post, faithful doorman as he is. The man boldly asks how much he makes an hour and the doorman responds twenty dollars an hour. The man shakes his hand and leaves a one hundred dollar bill there. He looks up at the doorman explains that he might as well have some company while he has to wait, but he leaves the choice up to the doorman.
The doorman puts the bill in his pocket and walks into the hotel, yelling something inside before snatching another coat and walking back towards the businessman, and the two are now on their way. The man is smiling; glad to have a friend along for the wait, and the two walk the streets for a few blocks, exchanging common introductory facts that have never been mentioned between the two before. The man learns that he was the first person the doorman ever opened a door for and in exchange the doorman learns that the reason the businessman stays at this hotel so often is because his company is here, but that he enjoys a quite life in a small town a few hours away, the city not completely suiting him.
The friendship between them is now more tangible and real, and neither feels alone. It seems to ground them and keep them a part of the world around them. They pledge that each time the man arrives; the doorman will take at least a coffee break with him.
Bells ring as they arrive at a corner café, alerting the employees of customers. The shop has a very welcoming feel to it, warm and almost cozy. The walls are a comfortable brown, lined with beige window sills. The lights, although few, are perfectly dulled by the red and white glass covers. There is a cloud of smoke in the assumed poet's corner, and in another corner the man notices a lovely old woman of about seventy playing a black polished Baby Grand. She looks up, noticing the man, and smiles.
The steam and coffee beans fill the air as the man inhales deeply. The aroma is almost painful; it burns his lungs while pleasing his taste buds, and his mouth is already watering. He hasn't slept in a while, but the smell of these lovely caffeinated drinks brightens up his day significantly. A chipper young cashier urges them to order the new special while a blender crunches ice, steaming hot water is released from a nozzle into a cup, and whipped cream is delicately placed around the rim of a coffee cup. The doorman insists on paying for both of them with his crisp new bill, and the business man is flattered by his generosity. He expresses this to the doorman, for as a businessman, he knows all too well that the people constantly surrounding him do not express any sort of kindness towards him.
While waiting for their beverages, the man asks out of curiosity why no one was informed of his…attachment to the room. The doorman explains that the new manager is a young woman who recently transferred from a chain in California and happens to be his sister. He had assumed she would be aware of such details, but clearly he should have told her. The man again expresses that he is not upset and he should be more aware that not many other people are aware of his traveling routine.
The two enjoy their warm beverages in silence while watching various strangers dodge the rain outside. Every minute or so, the ringing of the bells alert them to a new-comer, each successively more disheveled by the rain, and seemingly glad to have found solace in such a warm, quaint hide-out.
The man no longer hears the notes from the piano which he has been enjoying, first Beethoven's Fifth, then moonlight sonata in C minor, and he looks over to see someone handing the woman a coffee. He excuses himself from the table he shares with the doorman and walks to the piano, asking if she minds if he plays for a few minutes. His hands gently grace the body of the Baby Grand and he can still feel the vibrating Sonata underneath his fingertips and he is itching to feel its full force. She smiles softly and moves from the cushioned bench, motioning for him to sit. The man thanks her and sits down, his fingers already itching towards the ivory keys.
The constant ringing of bells on the door now bother him, but he tries not to focus on them, but instead on the wonderfully vibrant masterpiece in front of him. His fingers graze the keys calmly for a few seconds, not producing any music, but simply getting accustomed to moving around. The man has not played for a few weeks, for he has been busy at conferences in London. This has taken a toll on him, for the piano is his one true companion, and he has missed it so. He has been playing all his life and even went to Julliard after his formal college education at Yale. Few people know that he has played at Carnegie Hall and the White House, as well as with the San Francisco Symphony.
Living his love, though, had become too much for him and he vowed he would never play for a paying audience again. His playing is now only for pleasure or stress relief. So today he plays for pleasure, for he just can't resist himself. He is very surprised that a place as small as this would have such a nice piano and he soaks in each of its pure, rich notes. He has a soft spot in his heart for beautiful pianos; there is something about them, polished yet used, just waiting to be played. Not worn exactly because beautiful pianos are taken care of very well, but one can always tell when a piano has poured out more than a few Beethoven's.
His hands move to their own accord as they find their way form Anchierro to Vanstein, barely hearing the muffled clapping in the background, but it only takes a second for the man to look up and remember the doorman is watching. He cuts to the bridge of the piece so smoothly that the audience doesn't know what hit them as he ends it softly and walks back towards his table. The sweet old woman is back on her seat now, playing the mellow tunes of Lennon and McCartney, much too modern for the man's taste.
Bells chime once again inside the shop, but something about this specific chime prompts both of the men to look up. This chime had a strange difference to it that stood out from all of the others. But its importance was lost on the man because all he saw was another customer, normal enough. She was very beautiful and perhaps this was the reason that the doorman became flustered. He hurriedly downed his last gulp of coffee and encouraged the man to do the same, for it had been nearly an hour and he should get back to his door. The man was confused as to what the hurry was, but on his way out of the shop he thought he heard the woman who just walked in talking on the phone saying something along the lines of:
"Who does this guy think he is? Can you believe someone who claims their own room in a hotel? I can tell you one thing; I'm never staying in Eleven Sixty Seven again."
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A/N: So, let me know your thoughts ! I purposefully didn't name the characters, so lets see who you thought they were ? The Man ? The Woman ? The Doorman ? (: