Secret Shelter

On some days a person just deserves a break. Morning comes too early, work is too hectic, financial discipline unbearable, and lunch forgotten to be made. On days like that I allow myself a little indulgence: eating out at my favorite place downtown. With the entrance being tucked away in the maze of Pike Place Market, the small Bar&Grill is actually smack in the middle of all the action. Never crowded at lunch, and almost empty, if you arrive a little before or after, the place is a people-watcher's heaven. The windows face the market, and from the height of the second floor, I can observe everything that's going on down on the street without any fear that anyone will notice. People run back and forth, homeless walk around begging for change, and tourists take endless pictures by the sign, by the fish, and by the huge metal pig placed in front of the entrance.

There's a building across the street which holds the sign "La Salle Hotel" on it. From the posters on the windows, as well as the different kinds of curtains and blinds on every floor, I have deduced that it no longer serves as a hotel. But the building almost hauntingly draws me to itself. I have walked around pike place trying to find the entrance several times now, with no luck. No online searches on the title have given back any satisfying results. The place seems depressing and sad from the outside. But my imagination runs wild thinking what the inside holds. It brings to life several scenarios:

~A hardwood floor suite with curtains on the windows and a boudoir in a dimly lit room; a cabaret performer is doing her make-up in a pink velvet robe and silk stiletto slippers. Playing in the background is an old record of classical jazz. Her emotions are all over the place: happiness from success and the anticipation of the rush that takes over her body whenever she first steps on stage is mixed with a sadness and a longing for something deeper and more meaningful. A tear glides down a perfect face as she stares in the mirror and doesn't recognize herself in the reflection.

~ A carpeted room is filled with clutter made up of books, papers, paintings and cd's. The couch is overtaken by boxes of documents, maps, and clothes. A guy in his late twenties is sitting by the couch with a pen in his hand, staring thoughtfully into the notepad on his lap. He's wearing a hat, t-shirt and corduroy pants, and hasn't shaved for a while. There's no point, since he's not planning to go outside, into the rain, and into the influence of the bustling world... It's unclear if he's a song writer or a novelist. But the thoughts he is trying to express have taken over his mind and body. He sits still, biting his pen, and concentrating on the empty lines that his heart is ready to fill but the mind isn't ready to find.

~ There's no light in the room. All it holds is an empty bed with worn-out linens that smell like grandma's closet. Lightning strikes. No one occupies this place. Somehow the room has been forgotten from the past. The furniture is still the same as it was when the place was a hotel. It sits still and silent, not giving away any of its secrets, with only the bed and dresser aware of everything that has happened within the four walls. It gives out a chilly vibe. No one has lived in it for years -- an unexplainable phenomenon on Seattle's housing market. Somehow the landlords don't care. Or maybe they have been getting rent for the place for years now from a Mr. Smith who holds the place for himself but never goes anywhere close to it. Or maybe the unit somehow slipped through the accounting cracks of a large property-management company and nobody has noticed that it has been empty for so long...

These thoughts occupy my mind every time my eyes see the sign from across the street. Before long I have to step out of my daydream and go back to work. But the forty minutes I have to muse and wonder give me the energy to deal with real life situations for the rest of the day.