loulou's alibi

Nineteen-ninety-one, my girlfriend Michelle and I were asked to house-sit her parent's place in a remote part of Morgan Hill, south of San Jose, California. One had to drive for two miles on a dirt road through a running creek to get to the house deep in the woods. It was magical. The place ran on generators and a massive array of batteries.

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It’s 9 a.m. at Charles de Gaulle airport. A man in his early thirties has just extinguished the butt of his sixth cigarette. He’s a driver for Success Model Management, sent to pick up a model flying in from America. Her flight arrived at 8 a.m., but she’s nowhere to be found. It’s Sunday; there’s no one at the agency he can contact. He resigns himself to wait another hour.

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Twenty or so years ago I was writing semi-regularly for print magazines. I recall a memory from the Knightsbridge Inn, London.

Under heavy deadline pressure to complete two articles, the trip from California to London left me jet lagged and sleep deprived. Resolved to finish the pieces before a Chelsea dinner party the evening after next, I locked myself in the hotel room leaving instructions to have food and coffee brought every four hours. After two long days in a fugue state of writing my room reeked of stale espresso and decaying croissant bits, but the work got done.

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