Sophie's Playlist - The Gramble Chronicles I E-Book

Michael Finocchiaro

• Herausgeber: Le Lys Bleu Éditions
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Gramble Chronicles
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 342

Beschreibung

Simultaneously a story of initiation, a thriller, and a love story, Sophie’s Playlist – The Gramble Chronicles I takes the reader with a beating drum on a voyage through time and space from the 70s to the 90s and the present, between Paris and Miami with stops in Tokyo, Singapore, and even in Purgatory as described by Dante. The book is set against the background of crossed destinies of a pair of identical twins, Sophie and Adele, and those of three cousins Gramble, Samuel, and Stephen. It deals with the quest for self-identity while also looking at love in all its forms (romantic, sensual, filial, and platonic) and is full of both suspense and sensuality. Soundtracks are available on Spotify and Deezer so that the reader can listen to the music and feel a stronger connection to the narrative.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Michael Finocchiaro is an American expat from Miami, Florida who has been living for the past quarter century in Paris, France. He has a long background in IT, but has always been interested in history, art, and literature. Inspired by some of his favorite authors – Faulkner, Dostoyevsky, Pynchon, Proust, and Joyce, he wrote his first novel Sophie’s Playlist after a particularly strange but interesting dream.

Leseprobe

Michael Finocchiaro

Sophie’s Playlist

The Gramble Chronicles I

Roman

© Lys Bleu Éditions – Michael Finocchiaro

ISBN: 979-10-377-3927-8

Le code de la propriété intellectuelle n’autorisant aux termes des paragraphes 2 et 3 de l’article L.122-5, d’une part, que les copies ou reproductions strictement réservées à l’usage privé du copiste et non destinées à une utilisation collective et, d’autre part, sous réserve du nom de l’auteur et de la source, que les analyses et les courtes citations justifiées par le caractère critique, polémique, pédagogique, scientifique ou d’information, toute représentation ou reproduction intégrale ou partielle, faite sans le consentement de l’auteur ou de ses ayants droit ou ayants cause, est illicite (article L.122-4). Cette représentation ou reproduction, par quelque procédé que ce soit, constituerait donc une contrefaçon sanctionnée par les articles L.335-2 et suivants du Code de la propriété intellectuelle.

Dedicated to my uncles

Cecil Len Coleman (1944-2016),

Ralph Allen Smith (1949-2004),

my mom Susan Leigh Coleman Hall (1946-2018)

and to Aurélie François (1974-2008).

R.I.P.

All characters, localities, and business establishments represented in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual places or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Sophie’s Playlist Available on Deezer.com: http://www.deezer.com/playlist/2651437224 and on Spotify at https://play.spotify.com/user/le_fino/playlist/6y7SqCT6pA1hxm7bUmOY1N.

The past is not dead; it isn’t even past.

William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun (1951)

Chapter 1

Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board.

Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937)

Birdie in the hand for life's rich demand

The insurgency began and you missed it

I looked for it and I found it

Miles Standish proud, congratulate me

A philanderer's tie, a murderer's shoe

Let's begin again begin the begin

Let's begin again

Begin the Begin, R.E.M. (1986)

Gramble

Gramble Thyssen was looking at the clock wondering when it would strike 5 PM so that he could leave. The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) was, as always, devoid of any “customers” and the silence preoccupied him: the hum of the air-conditioning, the occasional cough several aisles away, the shuffling of papers, or creak of a chair. He was alone today in his cubicle – again – as Edith was out pregnant and George started showing premature signs of Alzheimer’s and no one had been assigned yet to the other corner and was rummaging in the tomb of his memories. Funny how these partitions create a fake sense of isolation and look so desolate with their laminate surfaces, the carbon copy telephones and old monitors and power strips. The Wi-Fi was relatively unstable (despite being spitting distance between the Lincoln Memorial and the White House in central Washington, DC) and the network cables were all missing that little plastic tab designed to hold the cable in the laptop port. If all four occupants of the cubicle pushed back on their chairs, they would collide without even stretching out their legs. And should two of them need to make a phone call at the same time, well, it was hard to hear oneself think sometimes. The Standing Rock conflict in North Dakota was still a few years away, so things were very quiet. Too quiet. He opened the file before him once again. It had a few receipts stapled inside the cover smudged with a dirty thumbprint and slightly crumbled from being in his pocket. They were from his investigative trip down to Florida. What a change from DC. He decided to stretch his legs and walked over to the window from which he could see a corner of the Washington Monument. In his reflection in the window, he was a bit pale and haggard with salt and peppered brownish hair with high cheekbones and penetrating blue eyes. At 43, and a few inches shy of six feet tall, he had already started developing a bit of a beer gut. His thoughts drifted to that trip down to Miami. First off, after kissing the kids and his wife goodbye (“Daddy will be back in just a day or two”) that airplane ride on an aging 737 with staff that looked as if they were recruited in a nursing home – probably easier to keep these ageing employees on minimum wage and increase the airline’s profit margins rather than paying younger people that would ask for higher salaries. It did tug at his heart when their tottering hands were handing scalding hot coffee across the two seats to him at the window (out of pity or out of fear of spilt coffee, he couldn’t say.) Then, the mess of Miami International Airport (MIA) which, still, after decades, was under constant construction. This time around his luggage was not lost (no, he was an old-fashioned traveler that didn’t mind checking bags even if it meant losing them occasionally). He was in no hurry; he was not really expected at the casino – a sort of surprise inspection or rather inconspicuous observation, nonetheless a regular monthly one. He had suspicions of collusion of the corrupt members of the tribes running the casino with organized crime and thus being too obvious and cocksure with a formal visit would, of course, cause the mafia-connected individuals to flee like shadows when a light is turned on in a dark basement. He had a sense of rage against injustice; for a long time, he was able to feel he was making a difference at the BIA, but he saw the greater evil of the cancerous presence of organized crime in the casino business as disrobing the tribes of their dignity and – despite all statements to the contrary – as a way of enriching the owners of the casino while leaving the rest of their tribes in a morass of poverty and addiction. The connection to gaming reminded him of the propaganda exercises that were employed by the Florida Lottery to get it passed via a referendum under the false pretenses of improving education across the state. And yet, decades later, Florida ranked 22nd in education quality despite the billions of dollars that the lottery was supposed to infuse into the schools, but which subsequent scandals had demonstrated were just lining pockets in Tallahassee, the state capital.

Gramble had grabbed his bag and took a series of moving sidewalks to the tram that then took him to the rental car lot. These lots were all so damn identical. Damn government would not flip the fees for Hertz Gold membership, so he always lost about 45 minutes behind the hapless families from the Midwest who were complaining about charges on their bill or the barely English speaking South American trying to get his reservation confirmed. Looking around the rental car center, he noticed the cracks in the marble floors – a bit shocking since the terminal was only a few years old. More mob labor with half-ass materials? The semi-circular hall was mobbed with people crowding the various counters trying to get their cars. In a hurry for the beach? For some arroz blanco con frijoles negros (white rice with black beans, a Cuban food staple)? Or just impatience in general? Hard to tell. In his work, Gramble had learned to overcome his natural restlessness and had been obliged to become very patient. He had carved caves inside his consciousness where he could sit cross-legged and stare at the fire while the world pushed and shoved around him. His thoughts would drift back to his childhood actually not far from here in Miami back before the boatlift, before cocaine built downtown, before the Marlins, before the Heat even. Back when Miami was still a relative backwater teaming with mosquitos and primarily inhabited by WASPs. There was of course racial tension as the Haitians came fleeing from the horrors of Duvalier, the Dominicans came fleeing the horrors of Trujillo, on the heels of the Chileans fleeing Pinochet and the Cubans fleeing Castro. Miami was long a refuge for all of South America and the Caribbean which seemed to breed dictatorships like banana plantations (with similar amounts of support from the CIA and DelMonte Inc, respectively). Back when he was a kid, the population was more tipped towards the white descendants of settlers that had taken Flagler’s railroad to the end of the line – some continuing via the decrepit bridges further south to the keys – and building working class neighborhoods like Hialeah with its greyhound racing, Mediterranean inspired communities like Coral Gables, or tropical paradises like Coconut Grove. The sprawling mess of Kendall was still just a few years away. He grew up in a neighborhood that was lower middle class but bordering the rich Gables. Literally a stone’s throw away across Red Road which was just a block away from his small house with a front yard dominated by a huge 50-foot-tall pine tree which he would climb as a kid perching precariously from the thin top holding the tiny branches to get a glimpse of the Biltmore hotel off in the promised land of the Gables. The backyard contained both an incredibly fertile key-lime tree and avocado tree which the aggressive squirrels would devour on the tree before the best avocados would fall to the ground. They were huge dark green avocados with a core the size of a cricket ball (smaller than a baseball but bigger than a golf ball) with the most delicious yellow flesh. Just a little salt and key lime juice, and it was a meal in and of itself. Across the street, the neighbors had both a mango tree and a guava tree from which he would regularly pick fruit from their front yard not knowing if they knew and ignored him or if it was OK. A few blocks down, there was the local strip mall slash shopping center with the grocery store where he had his first job: Piggly Wiggly (who the fuck came up with that name for a grocery store anyway?) and accidently sliced open the meat of this thumb when opening an orange juice carton needing 8 stitches and leaving a 2-inch-long scar. There was also the time he was driving the floor-washing machine during the night shift and knocked over one of those 6-story wine racks, what a mess that was, a lake of cheap wine dripping out towards the frozen food section. Boy, the boss was pissed. It was the street just before it – and leading to the promised land of the Gables – that had a house with a deranged kid that would scream inanities anytime he passed in front. It was with a sense of both pity and terror that he would trepidatiously walk in front of this house – sometimes he would use the alley behind the shopping center in order to avoid that particular disagreement. Once he found plans for an entire community called CocoPlum dumped there by an architecture firm (strange as there were no such firms in this residential neighborhood), but he imagined them being the secret plans for invading the shopping center to rob them in the middle of the night using tunnels and unguarded entrances. But that was long ago, before university, before marriage and kids, before work. All these responsibilities and constraints which made him feel caged. Being transplanted to DC some years ago and raising a family there was OK, but occasionally these trips to Florida would tug at his soul. The sunshine, the blue skies, the incredible sunsets, the nice weather… So much more positive influence on the mind compared to the long, cold grey winters of the mid-Atlantic and the terrible traffic day in and day out in DC. Well, traffic in Miami is not exactly fluid, what with all the roadwork and the astronomic population burst over the last few decades, but despite his dark childhood memories which continued to haunt him in his 40s, he still ached for someplace called home and DC was not really that for him. Oh, how he missed the beaches sometimes…

“OK, OK, hold your horses,” he said as someone tried to butt in front of him because in his musings, the line had advanced and he just stood there in his self-absorbed daze blocking the impatient tourists from their cars.

I ride the dirt; I ride the tide for you

I search the outside, search inside for you

To take back what you left me

I know I'll always burn to be

The one who seeks so I may find

And now I wait my whole lifetime

Outlaw of torn and I'm torn

So, on I wait my whole lifetime for you

So, on I wait my whole lifetime for you

The more I search, the more my need for you

The Outlaw Torn, Metallica (1996)

II. Samuel

Impatient tourists, like those Samuel Feinstein saw every day in Paris that queued in front of the Eiffel Tower for hours waiting to go up for the view and the selfie that were surrounded by hawkers – of Eiffel Tower keychains, of I LUV PARIS t-shirts, of blinking pocket lamps, of nasty rubber froggy things, of overpriced bottles of water, of selfie-sticks - like clouds of flies on the omnipresent dog shit on Parisian sidewalks. That and the columns of tourist bus that lined the streets on either side like barbed wire fences (that thought made him shudder unconsciously). He would drive past the Eiffel Tower on the way home from work barely moving along the voie Georges Pompidou on the right bank. Day in and day out behind endless lines of red brake lights. Hours in traffic that made his existence feel a bit Sisyphean and frustrating because it took up to an hour and a half to go ten kilometers twice a day every day. Maddening. At work, meetings systematically started 15 minutes late with no set agenda, and one left knowing less than when the meeting started. Then mind-numbing PowerPoint slides that were just copied from deck to deck each time with information slightly diluted and distorted from their previous incarnation twisting the truth to conform to some alternative reality (or alternative facts?) that management insisted needed to be conveyed. And then there were the accents. Even though Samuel had studied French in high school and his mother was from Montréal, so he was nearly fluent but with an apparently cute, sexy accent according to some, the folks would always insist on speaking in Franglish during the meetings. “So, in Ow-steen Take-sass we have made some sort of a progray. And eef you louk at zis chart, and here I rally ask you to fuckus attention beekos eet is creetick, u wheel see zat we are gainin-gue on ze competeetion in zees sector globalee”. It was akin to listening to ten fingernails scratching a chalkboard. And the “fuck-us” always forced him to suppress a smile. Samuel was not one to swim against the school of blind deep-water fish, but just did what he was told. Well, he found this consulting gig for a big software vendor in France for 6-month term that was going on 3 years, but it was wearing on his patience. Being single and highly paid in Paris had lots of advantages, but it still wasn’t home and sometimes it was incredibly, mind-numbingly boring. Like when he was a kid, he often daydreamed; sometimes he dreamt about being Captain Snargle of a spaceship seeking out new life and new civilizations (obviously inspired from his love of Star Trek on Saturday afternoon reruns) and yet, here he was in Paris in traffic feeling horny and lonely instead of heading towards Algeron-4 at Warp 6. His pants felt a bit snug from remembering the night he spent on the previous Friday with the girl he picked up at James Hetfeeld Pub (apparently either the real singer of Metallica James Hetfield had a copyright on his name, or the printer never caught the spelling error). He didn’t really like going to pubs, but after seeing and being gravely disappointed in a big budget superhero movie, he had gone across the Grands Boulevards from his favorite cinema, the Max Linder Panorama to grab a beer. Adèle was there with a girlfriend, and they started some small talk.

She approached him first as he was complaining to the bartender about the limited beer selection.

“Hey, give the guy a break, will you? This is Paris, you know, just order a French beer or grab a Guinness, why are you being such a douche?” she said.

Taken back by her abrasiveness, he turned to look at her nice figure and beautiful green eyes, but irritated he replied, “C’mon, this bar is named for the lead singer of a California band, so I could possibly expect to have a California beer, no? Of course, they can’t spell his name correctly, so I guess they can’t order IPAs either.”

“IPAs, what does that mean?”

“It is a style of beer that the British used to send to their troops in India during the colonial period that had a higher hops and alcohol content so that it wouldn’t spoil on the way from the UK (where hops were grown) to India (where they were not) since lagers and stouts did not travel well.”

“OK, Mister Know-It-All. So, we don’t have those. Why not just suck it up and order a cocktail rather than browbeating this bartender and interrupting me and my girlfriend.”

“Actually, my name is Samuel and not Mr. Know-It-All and it looks like your girlfriend has already found some other company.”

Indeed, her friend had stepped away from her already and was laughing loudly with a drunk expat that looked like a student with round glasses and a shoulder bag and a stubbly chin around the corner of the bar. She did a double-take and conceded, “Yeah, I guess you are right. My name is Adèle. I guess I am glad to meet you, Samuel. Are you new in town? You are obviously not French!”

“Yeah, thanks for pointing that out. I have been here for a few years working in IT down in Vélizy. It is a hellish commute, but it pays the bills for now.”

“IT, huh? So, you are a geek then?”

“Well, I guess so, yeah. And you? Do you hang out in bars expressly to annoy expat patrons that don’t like French beer or do you have a life outside of Hetfeeeeeld’s”

“Hah, Hetfeeeelds. Funny. Well, I actually just moved back here from Miami not long ago, so I am still getting my bearings back and reconnecting with old friends.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Your friend has her tongue down the throat of that guy on the end of the bar already, so I would take a guess that you will be leaving here without her.”

“Well, you aren’t exactly Mr. Social either, coming in here alone. Were you planning on picking up a chick and getting laid, was that Samuel’s Master Plan?”

“Um, well, no, that was not the plan. I saw the latest big-budget Hollywood superhero flick across the street at the Max Linder and it depressed me so much that I came over here for a beer before grabbing the last metro back home. Nothing more interesting than that to be honest.”

“Well, as long as we are being honest, I am rather tired and will be leaving soon. Where do you live?”

“Up on Canal St Martin, and you?”

“Funny coincidence, I live up there as well, near Metro Jaurès.”

“Hmm, looks like we are taking the same metro back then. Why not ride together?”

“I don’t know, you may have ulterior motives, Mr. Honest.”

“No risk, no reward, right? Look I don’t think I am going to finish this cold Guinness (you know that it is supposed to be served room temperature and not chilled, right?) and so if you are nearly ready…by the way, what is that cocktail you are drinking?”

“A Long Island Iced Tea, my favorite! S’il vous plait, le monsieur qui vous a agressé et moi aimerions bien payer nos boissons.”

“You didn’t have to say that did you? Jesus!”

“Oh, c’mon Mr. Sensitive, grow a sense of humor, OK? Oh, you are offering to pay for my drink, how gallant of you. My knight in shining armor.”

“You are just one compliment after another, aren’t you?”

Samuel enjoyed her sassiness – it was sexy. They shared the metro and got off at his stop and before either of them really realized it, they wound up in bed at his place. But, despite the shared intimacy and conversation (not to mention the great sex), she had not called him back yet. What was that story he told her that night? They were listening to Beyoncé (off her iPhone plugged into his speaker bar) and he was suddenly inspired despite the music but rather by the intimate mood to recite spontaneously:

Imagine our bodies are instruments…

Our fingers and tongues play upon the skin provoking notes and harmony:

Lying on your stomach, a touch of the feet provokes a high note whereas a light stroke of the leg produces a long alto sound.

As my lips move up kissing the legs and thighs, the volume increases slightly.

Slightly squeezing the buttocks and small kisses around the edges increases the pace whereas a caress of the small of the back produces a deeper bass sound.

As the fingertips reach the shoulders, the instrument is turned on its back, nipples pointing straight up.

A kiss provokes a high brass tone while a caress underneath the breast provides a more tenor sound. As the hands reach down, the volume increases.

A muted trumpet announces that the lips are slightly opened whereas a cymbal crash notes the flower being exposed and glistening...

It was almost as if he was channeling an invisible muse, but it had led to hours of passionate lovemaking. He just couldn’t understand why she wasn’t calling back. Intimidated? Maybe she has a boyfriend and didn’t say so? Who knows? Was he being too impatient? In any case, he was not looking forward to tomorrow when he was on a “mission” to a customer where the environment was a massive unheated open space (people literally wore winter coats at their desks he was told) with the absolute worst cafeteria food and yet located metaphorically thousands of miles from a restaurant with edible food. And it wasn’t like he was Mr. Cook-At-Home. Damnit. He was hoping to end this mission and move somewhere else. He couldn’t believe it had already been three years since he fled Novato, California. Funny, how things get a feel of normalcy after a while. He was still staring at brake lights along the avenue de New York next to the Palais de Tokyo when the phone rang in his leased car with an “Unknown Caller ID”, and he picked up on the hands-free.

“Bonjour, c’est Samuel Feinstein. C’est qui à l’appareil?”

“Oh, it’s me, Adèle, you know, from the other night?”

“Oh, of course, sorry, yes, how are you doing?”

“Me? I’m fine. Just been really busy and wanted to call you back.”

“Oh, well no big deal, I was just driving and…”

“Hey, what are you up to this weekend?”

“Well, I’ll need to check my calendar…”

“Because a friend of mine ditched me for this concert and I wondered if you wanted to join me?”

“Um, did I ever tell you how great your English is?”

“Well, I think you mentioned that last weekend, but I was raised in Miami, remember? Anyway, how about it, wanna come with me on Saturday?”

“Well, I think that I’m free. Who’s playing?”

“You remember Pixies? ‘Where is My Mind’ from Fight Club?”

“No way, really?”

“Way! (laughs). Seriously! OK, so Kim Deal left, but I hear the new bassist is pretty good.”

“OK, so um, do we meet before or…”

“No, I have a thing so let’s just meet in front of the Zenith at, say 7:30 on Saturday?”

“Sure, so, uh…”

“Great see you there.” Click.

Wow, really? OK, well, that changes everything. It has been years since he had listened to Pixies. Doolittle, Surfer Rosa…

With your feet in the air and your head on the ground

Try this trick and spin it, yeah

Your head will collapse

If there's nothing in it

And you'll ask yourself

Where is my mind

Where is my mind

Where is my mind

Way out in the water

See it swimmin'

Where is My Mind, Pixies (1988)

III. Adèle

Surfer Rosa was like my favorite album when I was growing up. Down in Miami when I was in high school, Pixies were never really that big, but I learned of them because my twin sister Sophie sent me a letter with a CD of theirs while she was at MIT. I got a lot of my musical taste from her. Wow, all those geeks there in MIT that she told me about in her letters. I think that is what attracts me about Samuel is his total geekiness that seems to me to be a sort of protective shell over a deeper, more artistic core. We were at his place, I wanted to hear Beyoncé’s ‘Drunk in Love’ (probably because I was pretty tipsy already) and Samuel started talking about how much he loved music and also somehow started talking about his strong sexual drive, when he suddenly seemed to improvise an analogy between a musical instrument and a woman’s body and I was so turned on that I could feel I was soaking wet and I started kissing him madly and we made some incredible love together. Despite that fantastic night – and partially in fear that perhaps I had imagined or exaggerated it in my memories, I didn’t want to seem desperate, so I forced myself a four-day cooling off period before calling him back and offering him that extra ticket to Pixies. I do that all the time. On SongKick, when a concert comes up that I want to see, I just grab two seats and hope to find someone to go with. Otherwise, whatever, I go alone or just eat the other ticket. No biggie. I had been to see several concerts to get out and not be alone in my apartment. It was easy to slip into a complacent mood and just stay at home and read, but I felt it was good to get out from time to time. I knew few people here and that girl the other night with me at Hetfeeld’s is kind of a bitch, but as she is constantly looking for a boyfriend, I can pretty much call her up whenever to go get a drink. Last week, I have no clue why she suggested that dive bar on the Grands Boulevards. I guess it is better than the loud and even more obnoxious bars there like Corcorans or the Oz Café or, worse, the Hard Rock Café, and the music there is OK. I had really been just there to have one drink and then go home to read something light and smutty. I was about halfway through Beyond Complicated by Mercy Celeste because it was set in Miami. I had found it entertaining to read women authors of erotic books about men loving men (MM books). Something about the taboo of homosexuals and all those cocks perhaps. And there was no BDSM in it (I am not into violence and sex at all) and it was better written than 50 Shades of I Can’t Write for Shit. Something to let my mind drift off to sleep on. I tried to get back into reading more relevant fiction, but lately, my concentration for fiction had fallen off. Recent French fiction did not really attract me. I couldn’t stand the pretentiousness of Amélie Nothomb or Michel Houellebecq and pulp fiction like that of Marc Levy was even worse. At least the smut is entertaining and surprising, not to say occasionally arousing. Of course, I would have been embarrassed had Samuel wanted to go to my place because I’d be ashamed of his seeing a stack of smut on my bedside table, so I let myself be led to his place.

Hopefully, he will be as amazing on Saturday as he was last week. Oh, shit, am I getting feelings for him already? I lied to him about my name once I realized that he was that same guy from Sophie’s funeral. Kind of stupid perhaps, but I felt attracted to him and did not want to weigh down the evening with that unpleasant part of the past. If things moved forward, there would always be time to tell him the truth, but as my luck has not been all that great, why take the risk of spoiling the present? If I was on a talking basis with my brother (and I am not! Unlike Sophie who doted on him, I think he is such a douche!), I would ask his advice, but as I am on my own now, I had to think and act on the spur of the moment.

I have a few checkouts to do today – some American vacating a flat in the 19th (they were OK for the three weeks they spent here) but also this fucking annoying couple from England that kept bitching about the heating and plumbing – as if England holds the world standard in accommodations – excuse me!?! When I got back from Miami, I did a little research and found that there were a lot of apartment owners in Paris that were away for long vacations and wanted to pad their income with renting out their apartments to tourists. There were a few people that were doing this already and I contacted Ursula (I found her over the web) who was happy to give me a few flats that she had as she was quickly becoming overwhelmed with the number of apartments to manage. Basically, I just had to ensure that the apartment owners secured one room of their flat with their personal belongings and left a large enough living space for the temporary residents. Then, I needed a cleaning lady (I found a wonderful Filipino woman named Theodora) to change the linens and spruce the place up between customers. So, all I had to do was meet the renters and open the apartment for them and perform the checkout. It paid well even after the cut for the owners, not great, but enough for me to pay the property charges, insurance, and electricity for my apartment on the upper side of the Canal de l’Ourcq which was already starting to become gentrified. The job did not take too much time, and I met a lot of interesting people. It was also so cool of Ursula to show me the ropes and help me get started. I worried that she’d think I was encroaching on her business, but with AirBnB having taken off two or three years before and owners wanting to not deal with the check-in/check-out and cleaning process, there was plenty of work to go around. I took Ursula out for dinner to thank her, and we had a wonderful meal at Le Saint-Marthe, god they have the best foie gras! Oh, shit, gotta run for a checkout! Hope the metro is running on time.

Love, exciting and new

Come Aboard. We're expecting you.

And Love, life's sweetest reward.

Let it flow, it floats back to you.

Love Boat Theme, Charles Fox and Paul Williams (1977)

IV. Gramble

AirBnB? No, that is strictly against government policy. Gramble had tried that a few times but gave up. I mean, wouldn’t you think the government would rather save money? Perhaps the logic is in the volume sales to corporate sponsors like Hilton and Marriott? Who knows. From his window in the Hilton, he could see Miami Beach and the Causeway and the hole in the ground where the Miami Herald building used to be. An icon that folks remember from the Miami Vice TV show, it was hideously ugly but nonetheless a landmark for Miami right on the water facing the cruise ships and the luxury houses lining the straight. He knew that a huge Malaysian gambling firm had purchased the land (including the land where his hotel was standing) for billions of dollars but the complex they had planned was at a standstill. Looking out of his hotel window from the 22nd