is at least three or four stories tall, but there are no other floors, save for an office way in the back, roughly the size of my momâs old trailer, accessed by a single, steep metal staircase thatâs missing about half the rungs in the middle. The office windows are broken, with toilet paper hanging out of one and reaching almost all the way to the floor below. Itâs the kind of place you could ride a bike around three or four times, front to back, back to front, and be winded.
Here and there random signs of human life appear: a discarded milk crate, a broken beer bottle, a can with the top cut off and full of sand and cigarette butts, a crumpled Nacho Tacos bag.
We stand just inside the doorway for a quiet moment. Our eyesâor perhaps just my eyesâadjust to the dim lighting. He marches forward, no doubt expecting me to follow. Dutifully, without argument, I do. Our careful footsteps echo across the wide expanse, the whole warehouse endless and broken and rusty and gross.
Except . . .
Except for a section there to the left, which has been swept, sanded, smoothed, tiled, and separated by three oriental screens. They are beautiful, luxurious, and Iâm immediately drawn to them. I step closer without asking permission, and Reece follows without giving any. They look so out of place in this depressing dungeon.
âWhat is this place?â I ask, moving steadily toward the red-and-black screens, which are covered with traditional Japanese drawings: sumo wrestlers and petite women in flowing kimonos. Each screen has four panels, and the tops billow in alternating silky white drapes that cascade down to cover the gaps where the screens bend.
âThis?â Reece asks, dangerously close to the back of my neck as I approach the opening of the three bordering screens. âThis is for you, Nora. This is all for you.â
I enter the opening of the room (I donât know what else to call it), stepping onto a grand woven black-and-red silk rug that covers the entire floor.
In the middle of the rug is a big black desk, the kind only an author could fully appreciateâa place to spend a lot of time, with plenty of room up top for papers and books and pages and drafts and pens and pencils and sodas and open bags of chips but also plenty of legroom below for fidgeting when the ideas just wonât come but the pages are due anyway.
If I had a house of my own, somewhere up in the Hills, with a home office, a great view, lots of windows to let in all that beautiful California sun, and hardwood floors to roll my chair across, itâs just the kind of desk I would choose.
On top of the desk is a laptop, but not just any laptop. Itâs the exact same model and year of the one I use to tap out all the Better off Bled books, down to the ergonomic wrist guard and the sleek metallic skin. Nearby is a wireless printer, just as sleek and making me wonder how he could know the very tech I use and feel so comfortable with.
In the space between each of the ornate oriental screens are towering wrought-iron candelabras in all different sizes, the kind you see in Hollywood movies where they have unlimited budgets and a team of people whose whole job, every day, is simply to light the sets.
In all of the candleholders sit flickering candlesâlong ones and short ones and tan ones and white ones and ivory onesâthat fill the roomy space with the scents of ginger and nutmeg.
Thick satin throw pillows as big as couch cushions in all colors of the rainbow lean against each side of the desk.
I approach it cautiously, my hand coming to rest on one of those expensive, space-age, ergonomically correct chairs: the kind with gears and levers and pulleys and hydraulics that hiss when you finally take a seat.
The laptop is open, the screen black.
I brush my finger gently across the mouse pad and the screen flickers to life, revealing a new document, the screen mostly white except for some big, bold type
Here and there random signs of human life appear: a discarded milk crate, a broken beer bottle, a can with the top cut off and full of sand and cigarette butts, a crumpled Nacho Tacos bag.
We stand just inside the doorway for a quiet moment. Our eyesâor perhaps just my eyesâadjust to the dim lighting. He marches forward, no doubt expecting me to follow. Dutifully, without argument, I do. Our careful footsteps echo across the wide expanse, the whole warehouse endless and broken and rusty and gross.
Except . . .
Except for a section there to the left, which has been swept, sanded, smoothed, tiled, and separated by three oriental screens. They are beautiful, luxurious, and Iâm immediately drawn to them. I step closer without asking permission, and Reece follows without giving any. They look so out of place in this depressing dungeon.
âWhat is this place?â I ask, moving steadily toward the red-and-black screens, which are covered with traditional Japanese drawings: sumo wrestlers and petite women in flowing kimonos. Each screen has four panels, and the tops billow in alternating silky white drapes that cascade down to cover the gaps where the screens bend.
âThis?â Reece asks, dangerously close to the back of my neck as I approach the opening of the three bordering screens. âThis is for you, Nora. This is all for you.â
I enter the opening of the room (I donât know what else to call it), stepping onto a grand woven black-and-red silk rug that covers the entire floor.
In the middle of the rug is a big black desk, the kind only an author could fully appreciateâa place to spend a lot of time, with plenty of room up top for papers and books and pages and drafts and pens and pencils and sodas and open bags of chips but also plenty of legroom below for fidgeting when the ideas just wonât come but the pages are due anyway.
If I had a house of my own, somewhere up in the Hills, with a home office, a great view, lots of windows to let in all that beautiful California sun, and hardwood floors to roll my chair across, itâs just the kind of desk I would choose.
On top of the desk is a laptop, but not just any laptop. Itâs the exact same model and year of the one I use to tap out all the Better off Bled books, down to the ergonomic wrist guard and the sleek metallic skin. Nearby is a wireless printer, just as sleek and making me wonder how he could know the very tech I use and feel so comfortable with.
In the space between each of the ornate oriental screens are towering wrought-iron candelabras in all different sizes, the kind you see in Hollywood movies where they have unlimited budgets and a team of people whose whole job, every day, is simply to light the sets.
In all of the candleholders sit flickering candlesâlong ones and short ones and tan ones and white ones and ivory onesâthat fill the roomy space with the scents of ginger and nutmeg.
Thick satin throw pillows as big as couch cushions in all colors of the rainbow lean against each side of the desk.
I approach it cautiously, my hand coming to rest on one of those expensive, space-age, ergonomically correct chairs: the kind with gears and levers and pulleys and hydraulics that hiss when you finally take a seat.
The laptop is open, the screen black.
I brush my finger gently across the mouse pad and the screen flickers to life, revealing a new document, the screen mostly white except for some big, bold type
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