13– The Waiting Room

Steamer marches on dutifully, and leads Proff88 and Journa14 into the adjoining waiting room.

What stands out immediately is the abundance of seating. Even though the image is rendered in a high contrast, edge detected style, the geometry of the chairs is unmistakable. The room feels less like a cozy lounge and more like a cluttered throughput space, designed to hold many people, perhaps encouraging them to linger.

There are multiple rows of chairs, arranged in a way that suggests efficiency rather than comfort. The chairs appear to be uniform, identical in shape and spacing, reinforcing the sense of order. The total number of seats is high for the size of the room, giving the impression that the space is meant to absorb a steady flow of people. The seating is arranged against the walls and in clusters, maximizing capacity while keeping pathways deceptively clear.

The chairs create a perimeter of waiting, guiding people to sit along the edges while leaving the center open for movement. The density of seating makes the room feel functional, almost institutional; like a Division of Motor Vehicles, clinic, or transit office, like those most often used by illegal aliens. The lack of soft furnishings or varied seating types suggests the room is meant for occupancy; comforting short term, or a disagreeable long term.

Because the chairs dominate the space, the room feels defined by waiting as an activity; a place where time is acknowledged, not escaped. The uniformity of the seating creates a subtle tension; the room is prepared for many people, even when empty.

Just Like This Train

 

Joni Mitchell

 

I'm always running behind the time

Just like this train,

shaking into town with the brakes complainin'

 

I used to count lovers like railroad cars

I counted them on my side

Lately, I don't count on nothing,

I just let things slide

 

The station master's shuffling cards

Boxcars are banging in the yards

Jealous lovin'll make you crazy

if you can't find your goodness

'Cause, you lost your heart

'Cause you lost your heart

 

I went looking for a cause

Or a strong cat without claws

Or any reason to resume

And I found this empty seat

in this crowded waiting room

I found everybody waiting

 

There's an old man sleeping on his bags

Women with that teased up kind of hair

Kids with the jitters in their legs

And those wide, wide open stares

 

And the kids got cokes and chocolate bars

There's a thin man smoking a fat cigar

Jealous lovin'll make you crazy

if you can't find your goodness

'Cause, you've lost your heart

'Cause, you've lost your heart

 

Well, I've got this berth and this roll down blind

I've got this fold up sink, and these rocks

And these cactuses going by, ah

And a bottle of German wine to drink

 

I'm gonna settle down into the clickety clack

with the clouds and the stars to read

Dreaming of the pleasure I'm gonna have

Watching your hairline recede my vain, darling

 

Watching your hair and clouds and stars

I'm rocking away in a sleeping car

Oh, jealous lovin's gonna make me crazy

I can't find my goodness

I lost my heart

Oh, sour grapes, because I lost my heart

 

Written by Joni Mitchell

 

Steamer seems observant, slightly anxious, and tries not to make sense of things. Prof88 is calm, shows some dry humor, and is resigned to solve the mystery. Journa14 is curious, impulsive, and asks the questions everyone else avoids.

Steamer: “Does anyone know what we're waiting for? I've been trying to read the signs on the wall, but they're all blank.”

Prof88: “I noticed that too. Either this place is under renovation, or it's a very progressive, avant garde approach to interior design.”

Journa14: “Blank signs are suspicious. It's like they're hiding something. Or testing us. Maybe this is a psychological experiment.”

Steamer: “If it is, I'd like to opt out. I only came in because I was paid to and the abstract receptionist told me to ‘take a seat and wait.’ She didn't say for what.”

Prof88: “She pointed at the chairs like she'd done it a thousand times. Very practiced gesture. I trusted the gesture.”

Journa14: “I asked her what we were waiting for. She said, ‘You'll know when it's your turn.’ Then she winked. Or blinked. Hard to tell.”

Steamer: “That's not comforting.”

Prof88: “I've decided to treat this like waiting for a bus. You don't know exactly when it's coming, but eventually something shows up and you just hope it's going in the right direction.”

Journa14: “But what if it's not a bus? What if it's ..... I don't know ..... an opportunity? A revelation? A door to another dimension?”

Prof88: “Then I hope it has good ventilation.”

Steamer: “I keep thinking someone will come out of that hallway and call a name. But no one's come out. And I haven't heard anything. Not even footsteps.”

Journa14: “Maybe they're watching us from behind a one way mirror. Maybe the blank signs are mirrors for people with very low self-esteem.”

Prof88: “If someone is watching, I hope they're enjoying the show. I'd hate for us to be boring.”

Steamer laughed derisively: “Should we do something? Ask again? Leave?”

Journa14: “Leaving feels like failing the test.”

Prof88: “Staying feels like failing a different test.”

Journa14: “So we're failing either way.”

Prof 88: “Statistically likely.”

Journa14: “Well, if we're stuck here, we might as well make it interesting. Let's guess what we're waiting for. Winner gets ..... bragging rights.”

Steamer: “Okay. I think it's some kind of orientation. For something we didn't sign up for.”

Prof88: “I think it's nothing. Truly nothing. We're waiting because humans hate empty space, so someone invented this room to keep us occupied.”

Journa14: “I think it's a surprise. And I love surprises. Even the bad ones. They make good stories.”

A faint click echoes from the hallway. All three freeze.

Steamer: “Did you hear that?”

Prof88: “Yes. And I regret hearing it.”

Journa14: “Finally. Something's happening.”

They stare at the hallway. Nothing else happens.

Steamer: “Should we check?”

Prof88: “Absolutely not.”

Journa14: “Absolutely yes.”

Journa14 stands. Steamer stays seated. Prof88 pretends to be part of the chair.

Journa14: “Okay, I'll go look. If I don't come back in five minutes, assume I found out what we're waiting for.”

Prof88: “And if you do come back?”

Journa14: “Then we're still waiting.”

She walks toward the hallway. Steamer and Prof88 exchange a look.

Steamer: “Do you think she'll be okay?”

Prof88: “Statistically ..... uncertain.”

They wait. The room stays silent.

Journa14 comes back and reclaims her seat.

Prof88: “Well?”

Journa14: “Well, nothing; not even that stupid receptionist.”

Shanghai Noodle Factory

 

Traffic

 

In a Shanghai Noodle Factr'y

Place where I once used to be

Nowhere doing nothing

 

People there were made of steel

Tiny cogs in one big wheel

Turning never learning

 

Had to make a break

And soon I had to wake up

Feeling stronger, feeling stronger

On my island of dreams

With impossible schemes

 

In a Shanghai Noodle Factr'y

Place where I once used to be

Nowhere doing nothing

 

People there were made of cans

Packed like roosters in a pen

Crowing, never knowing

 

Had to make a break

I knew I couldn't fake it any longer

Everything just aches

Soon I'd have to wake up

Feeling stronger, feeling stronger

On my island of dreams

With impossible schemes

 

In a Shanghai Noodle Factr'y

Place where I once used to be

Nowhere doing nothing

Nowhere doing nothing

Nowhere doing nothing

Nowhere doing nothing

Nowhere

 

Had to make a break

I knew I couldn't fake it any longer

Everything just aches

Soon I'd have to wake up

Feeling stronger, feeling stronger

On my island of dreams

With impossible schemes

 

Written by Steve Winwood, Jim Capaldi, and Chris Wood

 

Steamer stands and says: “I’m getting extremely bored. I’m going into my room next door.” The other two follow grumbling some indecipherable, contradicting things they’d rather not have anyone hear.

14– Steamer’s Room

The room presents itself as a traditional bedroom, but the eye doesn't settle on the bed first. It drifts inevitably toward the Queen Anne highboy standing along the left wall, principal and primary, its key embracing escutcheons proud, pristine, protruding, and prominent. Even in this stripped down line rendering, the highboy has presence. Its verticality gives it a kind of architectural authority, rising in a series of stacked drawers that taper upward with the quiet confidence of a piece designed to outlast trends, owners, and even the room containing it.

Its cabriole legs lift the lower case off the floor with a poised, almost balletic stance. The waist molding creates a natural pause before the upper case continues its ascent, a rhythm that feels almost musical. The crown; modest in this depiction but unmistakably Queen Anne, adds a final note of refinement, the suggestion of a flourish without the need to shout. Even in line art, you sense the weight of the wood, the density of craftsmanship, the way the drawers would glide with that slightly resistant, satisfying friction of old joinery.

The four poster bed, though large, behaves like a supporting actor here. Its posts echo the highboy's vertical lines but lack the same sculptural intention. The headboard's curves feel broader, more generous, while the highboy's curves are tighter, more disciplined.

A small nightstand sits to the right, almost apologetic in scale. A framed picture above it adds a bit of visual punctuation, but nothing competes with the highboy's silhouette.

The room feels orderly, traditional, and faintly ceremonial; like a space where the furniture has lineage. The highboy anchors the composition, giving the room its sense of height, history, and quiet authority. Everything else orbits it.

 

Then things shift again, exposing a “new” wall of psychedelia, and the band begins to play.

The trio steps across the threshold, and the shift is instantaneous; almost like the house inhales and exhales a different decade.

From the Queen Anne calm of just a heartbeat earlier, the room had been all muted elegance; pale damask wallpaper, gracefully curved chairs, a writing desk with delicate cabriole legs; the sort of space where one whispers rather than speaks to psychedelic sixties explosion.

The walls ripple, literally ripple; as if the air itself is changing frequency. Color floods in. The wallpaper melts into swirling, saturated tie dye hues. Posters bloom across the walls like technicolor flowers; Quicksilver Messenger Service in electric blues and reds, Laura Nyro in soft focus portraiture, haloed by neon lettering.

A Janis Joplin style beaded curtain materializes over the doorway, lava lamps pulse on every flat surface, a reel to reel machine hums to life, feeding the room a wash of psychedelic guitar and layered harmonies. The floor even seems to soften into a shag rug that wasn't there a second ago.

Steamer, of course, takes this in stride. He’s been here before. This is as far as he's ever gone, but the house clearly knows him better than he knows himself.

Prof88 freezes mid-step, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. He looks like a man who has just walked into a lecture hall expecting to teach Victorian literature and instead found a Jefferson Airplane concert. He adjusts his spectacles twice, as if the lenses might be malfunctioning. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again; no sound emerges. He finally manages; "This ..... this is historically inconsistent," as he tries to find a formula to co-opt and capitalize on this weird phenomenon.

But, he unwittingly betrays his academic competitiveness. Even as he says it, he's scanning the posters with academic fascination, mentally cataloging dates, venues, and artistic styles. A tiny part of him is impressed, though he'd never admit it outright. He unknowingly exhibits even more misplaced, competitive zeal than he can even imagine Journa14 displaying.

Ballad of a Thin Man

 

Bob Dylan

 

You walk into the room

With your pencil in your hand

You see somebody naked and you

You say, "Who is that man?"

You try so hard, but you don't understand

Just what you will say when you get home

 

Because something is happening here

But you don't know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

 

You raise up your head

And you ask, "Is this where it is?"

And somebody points to you and says, "It's his"

And you say, "What's mine?"

And somebody else says, "Well, what is?"

And you say, "Oh, my God, am I here all alone?"

 

But something is happening

And ya don't know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

 

You hand in your ticket

And you go watch the geek

Who immediately walks up to you

When he hears you speak

And says, "How does it feel to be such a freak?"

And you say, "Impossible," as he hands you a bone

 

And something is happening here

But you don't know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

 

You have many contacts among the lumberjacks

To get you facts when someone attacks your imagination

But nobody has any respect

Anyway, they already expect you

To all give a check

to tax-deductible charity organizations

 

Ah, you've been with the professors

And they've all liked your looks

With great lawyers,

you have discussed lepers and crooks

You've been through all

of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books

You're very well read, it's well known

 

But something is happening here

And ya don't know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

 

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you

And then he kneels

He crosses himself

and then he clicks his high heels

And without further notice,

he asks you how it feels

And he says, "Here is your throat back,

thanks for the loan"

 

And you know something is happening

But you don't know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

 

Now, you see this one eyed midget

Shouting the word "now"

And you say, "For what reason?"

And he says, "How?"

And you say, "What does this mean?"

And he screams back, "You're a cow

Give me some milk or else go home"

 

And you know something's happening

But you don't know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

 

Well, you walk into the room

Like a camel and then you frown

You put your eyes in your pocket

And your nose on the ground

There oughta be a law against you comin' around

You should be made to wear earphones

 

'Cause something is happening

And ya don't know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

 

Written by Bob Dylan

 

Journa14, on the other hand, is delighted. She steps forward with a grin, already pulling out her Acer Aspire 1 Notebook. "Now this is a story," she murmurs, brushing her fingers over a psychedelic concert poster as if checking whether it's real ink or illusion. She sways a little to the music; she can't help it.

Her eyes dart everywhere, hungry for detail; “Why this era? Why these artists? What does this say about Steamer?” She's already forming a headline in her mind.

The trio stands in a space that feels alive, humming, almost sentient. The house has peeled back a layer of Steamer's psyche-nostalgia, longing, rebellion, or maybe just the part of him that never stopped loving the music that made him feel free. Prof88 is unsettled. Journa14 is energized. Steamer is quietly overwhelmed.

And the room? The room is just getting started.

Who Do You Love

 

Quicksilver Messenger Service

 

Lengthy guitar solos of Duncan and Cipollina

 

I walked 47 miles of barbed wire

I got a cobra snake for a necktie

I got a brand new house by the roadside

Made out of rattlesnake hide

I got me a chimney made on top

Made from a human skull

Come on, take a little walk with me

Who do you love?

 

Who do you love?

Who do you love?

Who do you love?

Who, who, who, who?

 

Lengthy guitar solos of Duncan and Cipollina

 

Come on Maureen, take me by the hand

Let me know that you understand me

Who do you love?

Who do you love?

Who do you love?

Who do you love?

 

Ride nine times on the midnight train

Through the fire and cold rain

Who do you love?

Who do you love?

Who do you love?

Who, who, who, who?

 

Lengthy guitar solos of Duncan and Cipollina

 

I've got a tombstone hand in a graveyard mine

Just 22 and I don't mind dying

Who do you love? (Love)

Who do you love? (Love)

Who do you love? (Love)

Who, who, who, who?

 

Lengthy guitar solos of Duncan and Cipollina

 

Written by Quicksilver Messenger Service

 

Fresh Air

 

Quicksilver Messenger Service

 

Whoo-oh-oh, what you do to me, yeah

Oh, what you do to me, little girl

 

Ooh, have another hit of sweet air (come on)

Ooh, have another hit

 

I want to know where you going

I want to know, sweet mama, where you gonna go?

 

Yeah, ooh, have another hit of fresh air

Ooh, have another hit

 

Oh, baby what you gonna do?

I want to know, honey,

what you gonna do sweet thing?

 

Ooh, have another hit of sweet love in the morning

Ooh, have another hit

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

 

I love you, yes, I do babe

I love you, god knows I do, sweet thing

 

Ooh, have another hit of sweet California sunshine

Ooh, have another hit

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

 

Take me home, take me home

Take me home with you

Take me home, I wanna go home with you, little girl

 

Ooh, have another hit of fresh air

Ooh, have another hit

 

Written by Jesse Oris Farrow

 

Mona

 

Quicksilver Messenger Service

 

Hey, Mona, hey hey hey hey, Mona

I'm gonna build my house next door to you

 

I'm gonna tell you what I'm gonna do

Maybe we could do a little kissing and tellin' lies

 

You'll listen to my heart goin' bumpity bump

When I'm through lovin' I'll surely die

 

Can I make love to you once in a while?

I need you baby and it ain't no lie

 

When I come out on the front, girl

You'll listen to my heart goin' bumpity bump

 

I need you baby and it ain't no lie

When I'm through lovin' I'll surely die

...

 

Hey, Mona, hey hey hey hey, Mona

I'm gonna build my house next door to you

 

I'm gonna tell you what I'm gonna do

Maybe we could do a little kissing and tellin' lies

 

You'll listen to my heart goin' bumpity bump

When I'm through lovin' I'll surely die

 

Can I make love to you once in a while?

I need you baby and it ain't no lie

 

When I come out on the front, girl

You'll listen to my heart goin' bumpity bump

 

I need you baby and it ain't no lie

When I'm through lovin' I'll surely die

...

 

Written by Quicksilver Messenger Service

 

What About Me?

 

Quicksilver Messenger Service

 

You poisoned my sweet water

You cut down my green trees

The food you fed my children

Was the cause of their disease

My world is slowly falling down

And the air's not good to breathe

And those of us who care enough

We have to do something

 

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

 

Your newspapers, they just put you on

They never tell you the whole story

They just put your young ideas down

I was wondering, could this be the end

Of their pride and glory

 

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

 

I work in your factories

I study in your schools

Graveyard education

And your military too

And I feel the future trembling

As the word is passed around

If you stand up for what you do believe

Be prepared to be shot down

 

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

 

And I feel like a stranger

In the land where I was born

And I live like an outlaw

And I'm always on the run

And I'm always getting busted

And I got to take a stand

I believe the revolution

Must be mighty close at hand

 

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

 

I smoke marijuana

But I can't get behind your walls

And most of what I do believe

Is against most of your laws

I'm a fugitive from injustice

But I'm going to be free

'Cause your rules and regulations

They don't do a thing for me

 

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

 

And I feel like a stranger

In the land where I was born

And I live just like an outlaw

And I'm always on the run

And though you may be stronger now

My time will come around

You keep adding to my numbers

As you shoot my people down

 

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

Oh, what you gonna do about me?

 

I ain't looking for no trouble,

I ain't looking for no trouble, but ...

 

Written by Jesse Oris Farrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stoned Soul Picnic

 

Laura Nyro

 

Can you surry?

Can you picnic?

Can you surry?

Can you picnic?

 

C'mon, c'mon and

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

 

There'll be lots of time and wine

Red yellow honey

Sassafras and moonshine

Red yellow honey

Sassafras and moonshine

Stoned Soul

Stoned Soul

 

C'mon, c'mon and

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

 

Rain and sun come in akin

And from the sky

Come the Lord and the lightnin'

And from the sky

Come the Lord and the lightnin'

 

Stoned Soul

Stoned Soul

Surry on surry

Surry, surry, surry, surry

 

There'll be trains of blossoms

There'll be trains of music

There'll be music

There'll be trains of trust

Trains of golden dust

Come along a surry oh

Sweet trains of thought

 

Surry on down

Can you surry?

Can you surry?

 

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

 

There'll be lots of time and wine

Red yellow honey

Sassafras and moonshine

Red yellow honey

Sassafras and moonshine

Moonshine

 

Stoned Soul yeah

Surry on surry

Surry

Surry

Surry

...

 

Written by Laura Nyro

 

Buy and Sell

 

Laura Nyro

 

Cocaine and quiet beers,

sweet candy and caramels.

Pass the time and dry the tears

on a street called buy and sell.

 

Life turns like the endless sea.

Death tolls like a vesper bell.

Children laugh and lover dream

on a street called buy and sell.

 

Ladies dress calico style,

beware your heart when they smile.

And the men walk

shamelessly, aimlessly by.

Cinders in the daylight,

junkyards in the sky, buy and sell.

Sell my goods to buy my roof,

my bed, my bed.

 

Two pennies will buy a rose.

Three pennies and who can tell

on a street that comes and goes

by the name of buy and sell?

Buy and sell, sell my goods

to buy my roof, my bed.

 

Written by Laura Nyro

 

Goodbye Joe

 

Laura Nyro

 

We were lost in the fair on the highland,

goodbye, Joe (goodbye, Joe)

With the sky and the deer on the highland,

goodbye, Joe (du-du-du)

Time is full of changes,

and now you've got to go

Don't forget that we loved on the highland,

goodbye, Joe (goodbye, Joe)

 

Yes, I understand,

I'm trying not to cry

But if I do,

it's only 'cause I'll miss you

One last time,

let me kiss you

 

I remember when you came calling,

goodbye, Joe (goodbye, Joe)

Like a sunrise that rose without warning,

goodbye, Joe (du-du-du)

Time is full of changes,

and now you've got to go

And we walked on a Manhattan morning,

goodbye Joe (goodbye, Joe)

 

Yes, I understand,

I'm trying not to cry

But if I do,

it's only 'cause I'll miss you

One last time, let me kiss you,

let me kiss you

 

Goodbye, Joe, goodbye, Joe

Let me kiss you, goodbye, Joe (du-du-du)

Time is full of changes, Joe,

and now you've got to go

Don't forget that we loved on the highland

Goodbye, Joe (goodbye, Joe)

Goodbye, Joe (goodbye, Joe)

Goodbye, Joe (goodbye, Joe)

Goodbye, Joe (goodbye, Joe)

Goodbye, Joe (goodbye, Joe)

 

Written by Laura Nyro

Prof88, the professor, and Journa14, the journalist seemed dissatisfied. They insisted that they paid to see the innermost room, and this wasn’t it; at least in their own lives unspoken.

Steamer said; “The door right in your face, is open to the innermost room. I cannot go there on this trip as I was paid to come here. But, there’s nothing stopping you from entering.”

Prof88 said; “Who says so?”

Steamer said; “Crocker told me. ..... Or was it Mairin?”

Prof88 said; “Don’t you usually blame Crocker?”

Steamer said; “Phrase it however you choose. I don’t care. You’re either going to have the nerve to enter the Zone’s core or not. That is all.”

 

You see, the whole thing was that it was solely dependent upon mutually assured benefit for a bit of co-operation, but that proved to be more elusive than it should have been. The hippies were infiltrated by those with an economic agenda; a self defeating liaison entered into in the hope of ending the Vietnam war and the draft. ..... It did that, but not without bearing the cost of “partnering” with the enemy. Understand, the professor types were prone to exhibit their “cleverness” in the hope of having fools sign up for their courses. They believed and instructed their minions that the workable simplicity of; “Be on my side; I’ll be on your side.” was something as complicated as one of their revised calculus theorems. ...... And no one called them out.

 

The whole thing was sufficiently glorious and painful for Steamer. Over. He went to bed and slept and dreamt. It should be made clear at once that his story did not turn out to be a dream in the last paragraph. The division between sleeping and waking was abrupt although the feeling of both was the same. They were both in the same sphere of what seemed to be a horrible absurdity though in the former he was asleep and in the latter almost terribly awake. He tried to be asleep several times. Steamer’s results are not known to anyone, including himself. He was certain that the smoke on the water was getting more focused; or more comfortably less so.

Incense and Peppermints

 

Strawberry Alarm Clock

 

Good sense, innocence, cripplin' mankind

Dead kings, many things I can't define

Occasions, persuasions clutter your mind

Incense and peppermints, the color of time

 

Who cares what games we choose

Little to win, but nothing to lose

 

Incense and peppermints, meaningless nouns

Turn on, tune in, turn your eyes around

Look at yourself, look at yourself, yeah, girl

Look at yourself, look at yourself, yeah, girl, yeah, yeah

 

To divide the cockeyed world in two

Throw your pride to one side, it's the least you can do

Beatniks and politics, nothin' is new

A yardstick for lunatics, one point of view

 

Who cares what games we choose

Little to win, but nothing to lose

 

Good sense, innocence, cripplin' mankind

Dead kings, many things I can't define

Occasions, persuasions clutter your mind

Incense and peppermints, the color of time

 

Who cares what games we choose

Little to win, but nothing to lose

Incense, peppermints

Incense, peppermints

 

Written by Timothy P. Gilbert and John Daniels Carter

 

Prof88 and Journa14 went to the threshold of the door, after remembering that they had paid for precisely that. To not go would have been stupid to their mindset and ambition.