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Emile was a paralegal.

Age: 50
What is my nationaly: Indonesian
What is my sex: Female
My favourite music: Latin

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Damn it to hell! Emile knew he was just a mechanic, but he liked to think, not so much about his work but about everything else. Wait a minute. She lit it, the match, and let it fall to the ground still smoking. Behind the painting was a pack of Carltons. Who are you? This is my room. See this bed?

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He was caught by the way she looked around, as if seeing ghosts, watching every bit of lint in the air. Emile found himself gripped—like a staggering shot in the arm, it was painful and comforting. It was quiet in the office, except for the foreign sound of the brew filling his cup. It was sweet coffee, he could tell.

Do you see?

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It was full of papers, and note p, and books. Emile heard everything in pieces, the conversations moved around, and he felt separate from the pace of things:.

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Two eyes pointed in slightly different directions through greasy hair, and as the camera panned back, the head got smaller but a full body cast grew from below its neck. A cup of coffee would help. He hated the flavored stuff. Sometimes Emile had to type, too, and he never read any of it—it just went through.

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Emile moved towards the bed where a woman was lying in a heap with a pen in one hand and a pad of post-it papers stuck to the side of her leg. It made sense. Fareweather had a gurgly voice and smiled a lot. Everyone was amused and talking, but Emile was drawn hypnotically to the television hum. Fareweather spoke, and the office quieted a little while the lawyers gathered around their boss.

I may die in here yet … look outside the window, look at all those people. I mean, I could have gone to Canada I was thinking. Everyone faced the screen, drawn to it like sunfish, swaying casually in their chairs. The damn thing squawked a lot at first and I had to tie one leg to the door handle where it settled down eventually. No, never! Why should I give you a story. This bed: new sheets, same bed.

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She was one of the other paralegals and she sat in front of the typewriter, loading it with paper. I want to look nice. The biggest one they had: a two-tone convertible, about twenty years old, from the seventies. What do you know, Edna?

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Sliding herself from the bed, she went to a lamp hanging from the ceiling near the Full body cast stories, and she went to it, pulling the cord up and down, the light going on and off, while she looked around the shade. Edna looked all around the room. Not necessarily good, but sweet, some hazelnut-mocha mixed bean that the secretaries kept around. He pointed a finger like a gun at Emile, but before he pulled the trigger the staff formed a train leaving the room, talking about the video, and Mr.

Fareweather followed. He liked to see things connect, the wires plugged in and working. Walking to a landscape print painting on the wall, her feet scraped the floor, dragged a pile of crumpled yellow notes ahead of them and under them. The monitor was at eye level with a large puffy stubble-coated face on the screen peering out at the room. The file said Edna did it, and the firm was handling the case. I asked. Emile had gotten to the right floor in the right hospital, and room C was nearby. I lived it. I do have something. The house is burnt, so now my daughter has a burnt house, but it is still a house.

He pulled them off, read what ones he could:. Geraldo always has a story ready. Voices came from the conference room, he could hear them now. I have something.

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He stood over the coffee maker, its smell every bit of air in the room. He spoke a broken mumble:. Wendy typed from a handwritten sheet that told of a wonderful settlement. But for now he had to pay his dues, he worked with all the other paralegals. Inside, little yellow paper flags were on everything. You give me a story! It hurts to think about it.

No worries, just tell me what you know. By the time he had reached the side of her bed, he noticed a few of the papers stuck to the bottoms of his shoes and bunched up in little piles around his feet. Fareweather smiled. Horace walked out to the reception area and saw Wendy typing. Let go, wait for light … Thursday, 15th, 2pm, call daughter.

You say the weather is clear? These sedatives is what it is. They left in a line. He shut the door, then started the tape. She snored gently, sometimes skipping a turn. People were entering the office, rapidly talking to each other and walking as if they would continue through the walls.

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Like this eight-ball, this fucking eight-ball toy that my kid gave me last year. The flickering lights from the video, with the sound pressing through, struck him as the only motion in the room. Emile set up his stuff, pulling a chair over to the foot of the bed and brushing away the notes stuck to the seat and the arms.

Christ, I had no clue. What did you think was in here? It squealed in his ears. Emile was a paralegal. Emile was standing still. He tasted the coffee. If you have to smoke, ask for nurse—push blue button beside head of bed, the head of the bed is against the wall, push blue button for a nurse … if you want to smoke.

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You know, the first policeman on the scene later told me there were still feathers floating around after he arrived. Is that a TV camera? They said Geraldo was coming. The fine suits and cologne all passed by Emile and into the conference room. Witch doctors! Yeah, it flopped around on the turns and tried to fly away.

He knew Edna was sick, mentally, but he did not know how severely. Well open the curtains if the weather is clear. Horace, from building maintenance, had a low voice which made it sometimes hard to hear the individual words. On the edge of the bed, she lit one cigarette with a match she had drawn out of a pocket in her gown.