Two
Lincoln
The bar is packed, the air humid with warm bodies, and the music of the live band bleeds into the low roar of the crowd. Crammed shoulder-to-shoulder and wedged onto a rickety bar stool, I swig from my beer bottle and scroll through the city’s room listings on my phone. An empty basket of fries sits in front of me, decimated except for the crumpled grease paper and a dusting of salt.
What have we got here? My thumb tracks lazily down the screen. Ah yeah, I remember this bullshit well from the last time I stayed in one place for a few months. Room-hunting is such a trip.
There’s a spare bed up a ladder in someone’s dusty attic. Cost: your life savings.
A room that comes with compulsory babysitting duties.
An honest-to-god bunk bed.
It’s slim fucking pickings, that’s for sure. On and on I scroll, one eyebrow raised at the unending nonsense of humanity, until soon I’m slamming my empty bottle down on the bar and waving for another. This is a joke.
It’s my own fault, obviously, for coming back from the Sahara shoot without a plan in place, but up until this morning, I wasn’t even sure I’d be staying.
It’s not my thing. Lingering. Hanging out in one place for too long. And even though I’m technically based here, this city sets an itch under my skin—it gives me the worst kind of restlessness, a non-stop urge to throw my clothes and camera in a backpack and take off again.
Because whenever I’m here, I feel off. The hairs rise on the back of my neck and my nerves prickle, and it’s like there’s something here, something important, but I’m not seeing it. No matter what I try, no matter how hard I scan the streets, no matter how I focus and refocus my camera, the important thing is stuck in my peripheral vision. I’m oblivious.
And I don’t like feeling like an idiot, so I usually blow straight through, onto the next shoot in a far flung location. Off to somewhere that doesn’t make me feel so fucking weird. Like there’s an itch on a phantom limb.
This time, though, I’m here on business. Some rich eccentric wants to pay me an obscene amount of money to create a photo series of this city, and I know better than to turn down good cash over some weird tickly feelings. A month or two here could pay for half a year on location next year.
“Thanks.” The second beer lands in front of me, white foam climbing the glass bottleneck, and I take another swig as my thumb pauses over a room ad.
Bring your own microwave?
What the hell?
I read on, forehead creased, then let out a snort. I can borrow their iron? Yeah, right. I live out of a backpack most weeks, cycling through an endless uniform of rolled up black t-shirts and faded jeans. In my experience, other clothes are more trouble than they’re worth.
The guy on the stool next to mine leans into my space, arguing loudly with his buddy on his other side, and I roll my eyes before nudging him back. He smells like sweat and whiskey and it’s not even 9pm. A lightweight like that ought to slow down.
Reaching the bottom of the ad, my eyes stall on the monthly rent. It’s cheap as hell. Better than the bunk bed, even. With a room like that, I could save up more money, then take off for longer than a few months next time. Or do a specialty shoot. Yeah. Yeah.
The band strums, loud and brash, starting up a new song. Hand steady, I scroll up to read the ad again, because one thing I know for sure is there’s always a catch.
No parties and no small talk. Okay. Works for me. I don’t care if my roommate is a joyless shut-in—I’m here to do this photo series, not to make friends. Whoever they are, I’m sure I’ll want to avoid them as much as possible too.
No liars or thieves. Either this person has been burned before, or they’re paranoid as fuck. Doesn’t matter. I won’t steal from them, so it makes no odds.
My mouth twitches again at the iron thing, and then I’m setting my beer down. Typing out a short message and pressing send.
Okay, so their listing is kind of weird. But the room is so goddamn cheap, and all those public ads have a low level weirdness to them. I’m serious. At least a third of them mention a pet snake.
Besides, I’ve got a good feeling about this. I can’t explain it, but I want this room. I really want this room. My spider senses are tingling.
Hell, if they pick me—I’ll even bring a microwave.