72 Hours, I’m told, until the little van with the parallel benches shows up at the gates to take me to H.Q. As noted, time has a different set of meanings here, in my incarceration, so that three days could feel like an hour or a year. I’ve no way of knowing.
“We’ll let you know,” said Carlos.
Yesterday, I completed the chapter on the chef’s wife. Afterwards, back to the restaurant, this time by limo, to spend six hours on my feet observing the chef, cooks, servers, and guests. The task is now to complete the last chapter. Tentative title: “The Last Chapter.” The title needs work. I know. You don’t have to tell me.
Banned? Well, yes, a certain media outlet’s editors are pressing “DELETE” when I send them messages. What has happened? Where’s the love? This is what happens when you mock the words of their writers! This is what happens when you run out of money to pay freelancers! Oh, sad days!
Bewilderment is going a smidge too far, don’t you think? What I meant to say, what I should have said, is that being isolated, as I’ve been for over a week, has increased my focus, but diminished my interest in all but a few things. The good news? Cooking up a storm: Hummus from scratch, turkey and black bean chili, what have you.
Footsteps. They’re coming.