Taking It on the Lam by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Page 43
heap, which was soon to be left unprotected in the sleazy, Chicago, side street.
Making a left at the US flag, I had to step over a few sleeping hop-head bums on my way to the front door. No problem; might have crunched a finger or two, but I was glad they were there rather than inside, as I didn’t trip and this would make trailing me one step more difficult. I opened the door and viewed the lobby.
No chippies insight inside. There also weren’t any chairs encouraging one to sit. The hanging buck head and the exposed fuse box were of particular interest; they suggestive of the
modernistic penchant for some sort of supposed functionality as opposed to the rigors of debatable aesthetics. The overall effect was a naturalness which largely arose from my inability to discern the original paint color, it having faded and chipped into a spotty gray which was duck soup on the eye. The ambience was perfected through the sweet music in the air. I was sold, but knew that it was best to appear otherwise in racket situations. Later concessions, whether or not predisposed, are often worth some bread. And if not, no loss. No matter; just as with Winnie, the music on the hotel lobby radio took over, obliterating any inferiority.
Taking It on the Lam