The Twitter Bridge
I’ll tell you this about Elon Musk, there are better stories about old men who kick dogs than watching Musk running away from bots.
“They say he’s worth several billion,” Jenny said.
“A billion less, if he walks away from the Twitter deal,” I replied.
Jenny made a sound like a hummm. She was looking toward the individual with the world’s wealthiest man title and makes a side-to-side motion with her head like a dog attracted to his owner’s attention.
“Do you think he’s handsome?” She asked.
“Who?”
“Who do you think,” Jenny says, rolling her eyes as if I’d asked the dumbest question.
“I do, but I think a new uniform would improve his overall look and perhaps if he wore his cap correctly.”
“Harry, you’re staring at the doorman. Stop being funny. I’m talking about Musk; do you think he’s good looking?”
“There’s not a man in the world strikingly ugly with that kind of wealth, love. He could be the hunch-back of Norte Dame, he’d still have a ravishing beauty on his arm.”
Jenny didn’t hear that response; she was mesmerized, watching Musk move through the foyer with a crowd of journalists. I thought this, it was not a good time to have a heart attack.
“He has such a baby face, don’t you think?” She said, then forced to stretch her neck somewhat to see the man disappearing toward the elevators amid a swarm of stinging questions.
“I didn’t notice, I was looking at the topless woman behind the Welcome Desk.”
Another response that didn’t make it through to its intended destination.
Musk had been whisked through the foyer toward the elevator, the doors held open by a security person. Musk stopped briefly to speak to the mob of people holding hand recorders and sweating camera people holding up strong lights. Musk stood in the glow, Palms wilting over his head.
“He looks so young to be that smart, someone who makes spaceships, don’t you think?”
“Not smart enough to keep wives, honey,” I said, gloating, a response that went into the universe but not into Jenny’s train of thought.
“Do you hear that? Someone is speaking to him in a foreign language. Does he speak several languages as well?” She said, her whole body shaping to stand.
“English, but he was born in South Africa. I did notice a camera crew from eNCA, that’s a South African TV station. Perhaps he’s being asked a question in Afrikaans.”
I’m busy looking at the half of Jenny’s ass not on the seat, peachy, her waist turned like a licorice stick while I spoke to the back of her head. She then looks back at me over her left shoulder.
“It sounds Guatemalan, or maybe the reporter is from Honduras. Do you think he owns Honduras?”
Sometimes, rarely, a man comes along more interesting than me. So instead, I concentrate on pouring tea from the tray on the table in front of us.
Jenny had called ahead. Our room would be ready.
When we arrived, the hotel manager was most apologetic. I bet Musk doesn’t suffer this shit!
“I’m sure, had he been in Guatemala or Honduras, he would have been shot or hijacked. Shall I pour your tea?” I asked.
That question floated toward and straight out the turnstile door.
“Hear that, Harry? He’s answering in a foreign language. He looks so alone with everyone ganging up on him,” Jenny says.
You may ask what I’m doing booking into a hotel where a room for two nights costs the same as a week’s vacation in Hawaii. That’s because, as my reader friends know, I have no interest in staying in luxurious establishments. I’m the typical damp and dusty hotel guy. I don’t tally up points or carry leather luggage, preferring to stay in shabby places filled with interesting people.
Marble columns support this hotel. It’s cleaner than I like, that’s all, and more expensive, much more expensive. Jenny and I are here for two nights and then catching an early flight to Colorado in the morning.
Jenny was looking out the car’s window. Something was wrong with her mouth; I think she couldn’t shut it; it looked stuck open.
This was a place I’d stayed at several years ago. I remember the man who worked in the tourist bureau; hit was who pointed me to it. He said his brother ran it. I stayed one night for a fantastically small figure — thirty dollars; I think it was.
“We’re hear, honey. This is it.”
Now, here’s the thing: Jenny doesn’t have anger issues; it’s more of a standards issue, which amounts to the same thing.
“I don’t think so, honey,” she said. “In fact, I know so.”
“Jenny, please don’t be judgmental; I have fond memories of this place. It’s just for two nights,” I said, trying to get her jaw to close naturally.
“Harry, I’m not going in that place there for two minutes, let alone two nights.”
“Honestly, it’s not that bad. I got my shoes shined for a dollar last time I was here. Anyway, I was having trouble finding a room elsewhere.”
“Harry, give me your phone. Now please move the car away from the door, there’s a man staring at us. I’ll look for a room that isn’t built like a wooden booth…ah, good evening, is this the Birmingham Country Club…? Excellent, do you have a room for two nights? A suite only, that’s fine. One moment, I’ll give you a credit card. Hogg, Harry and Jenny. It will be about an hour before we arrive. …… …. 4156. Perfect. Thank you, see you soon.”
Mr. Bassa, that was his name. So, I booked in, and he told me, “There’s only one restroom working, I’m afraid. It’s in the car park. The builders left it for me.”
Mr. Bassa was interesting. Part Indian, part something else, which was odd because the dog sitting at his side too started out as a Red Setter. Mr. Bassa is a small set gentleman with silver hair, a silver mustache, metal-rimmed glasses, and one gold tooth like a writer might add when creating a character in a story to give him a flaw. Anyway, I’m off point.
I’m a sentimentalist where dogs are concerned. Mr. Bassa told me that his dog read the papers, “but only Mexican papers,” he said, scratching the dog’s ears.
At first, it was difficult not to laugh, and then there didn’t seem to be much to laugh at; an old man imagining his dog reading Mexican papers. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Then I learned from the guy who emptied the restroom that Mr. Bassa paid a Mexican boy five pesos to smuggle it across the border.
Now, here’s what I know, whether the dog can read Mexican papers or not, I’m never going to get such a good story sitting inside this marble temple, where the shoeshine charges forty dollars and insists on 25% gratuity. What’s the story with that? I wanted to kick the asshole but held my temperament. I paid him with a hint of cold-blooded venom.
Jenny then had both buttocks out of the chair, leaning on the arm, desperate to stand up. I know her poise and dignity won’t allow that. She has more restraint.
“Honey, I’m going closer. How often am I going to get near the richest man in the world?”
I suppose there’s poetic retribution. This richest man in the world, in the eyes of the shareholders, the press, and the Twitter Board, believe that Musk has entered into the very public arena of bogus transactions.
Jenny had left me alone. I see the shape of her legs as she stands on tiptoe, peering over journalists’ heads. I pour another cup of tea.
What a shame we didn’t stay with Mr. Bassa. Then Jenny returns. I’m relieved. I want to believe I still have that, you know, charm.
“Harry, listen to this. I just overheard two journalists talking quietly to each other. The rumor is when Musk buys Twitter, he’s going to buy the Golden Gate Bridge and call it Twitter Bridge!”
Oh God, I have yet one more insufferable night of excess and boredom.
