Confined Spaces

I am currently staying on the 14th floor of the Shangri La hotel in Kuala Lumpur. This evening I experienced a strange moment in the elevator.

As the doors opened for me on 14 there was one man in the lift. He was leaning against the wall and as I got in he stood up to shift aside and let me in. We settled a comfortable distance from each other: me on the back left, looking ahead at the doors and he at the front right, staring at the buttons.

The lift stopped at 12. Another single man got in. All three of us reshuffled slightly to evenly distribute the space. He too looked ahead; this time into the middle of the doors. No one said a word. No one looked at each other. Everyone stayed staring silently ahead as they moved.

Another man got in at 11. Without saying a word, everyone knew what he had to do. We all shuffled again and rebalanced the space. 11 also settled into position and looked ahead at the doors.

Another man got in at 10. More reshuffling, this time within a much more confined surface area. Our newest entrant looked at no one and settled into the buttons on the left hand side.

The lift stopped again - I kid you not - at 9. Another single man. This time the two men in his immediate path moved aside while the rest of us swayed uneasily from foot to foot in empathy but not quite sure where to go. 

I felt like we should have been wearing light grey suits and bowler hats and holding green apples.

Amici's Non è Mio Amico

By Monday I still hadn’t heard back from the owner of Amici's. He hadn’t called me as promised by Huyen. So at 8pm I implemented Phase 2 of my strategy ... become so annoying that Huyen will do anything to get rid of me, ie dryclean my shirt and tie.

I called Huyen, reintroduced myself and asked why the owner had not called me back yet. 

At first she pretended she didn't know who I was.

“Who? Huh? What?” 

--It’s me! Anthony*! With the shirt and tie! You have my shirt and tie!”

“Who? Who you?”

The little ragamuffin.

-- “Anthony! The coffee! Spilled! Coffee lid! My shirt and tie … at your café! The owner. He does not call me. Why not?”

I start to realize how ridiculous this all sounds. The broken English has really stripped it back to the bone. 

“It is late. I work all day. I don’t need this. Not from you. Call tomorrow.”

-- “You promised me the owner would call me back --”

[I hear a pin drop.]

 “He will call. Tomorrow."

-- “But you said that before. And nothing.”

“He will call. Tomorrow. It is late. Go away please. I am tired.”

-- “What is his name please?”

“I can’t tell you. Please call back tomorrow.”

-- “You told me the manager would call me and now you--”

“I don’t care. I am tired.”

[Click]

That fucking bitch. I called her straight back. No answer. My heart is racing. I am a caged animal. Stir crazy. Ready to strike. Infuriated and angry and justified and mistreated ... my senses are heightened and my tongue is sharpened. My eyes are flickering and my fingers are furious. My thumb comes down hard as I press Send. 

This is Hanoi. This is not Tunbridge Wells. I soon calm down and reread my sms. 

The sms – get this – outlines how I am so outraged at all this that I will be - get this - writing a newspaper article about it. I can't quite believe what I'm seeing.

I imagine Huyen reading my sms and feel humiliated.

My watertight strategy has just sprung a huge leak.