The Airportline: Observations

I’m currently working (well, I was working on it but the development has not been that impressive lately) on a short story called And You People Just Live On Rails. It’s about an office man that meets a crazy guy with a microphone on Union Square in San Francisco. The office man has an interior decorator. So far, this is how I describe this character:

Your cell phone started to vibrate in your left pocket, a reminder of the outside world. You picked it up
‘Hey man, how’s my boy doing?’, and energetic voice on the other side of the line said.
‘Hey, good, I’m good,’ you respond distantly as you take a careful step into the real world when you realized that it’s your interior decorator; a narcissistic gym rat with free flowing brown hair and a fetish for minimalistic steel furniture designed in Denmark. When he fucks his blond assistant; a UCLA-student in love with the Parisian subway, Wes Anderson movie soundtracks and black Starbuck coffee, he fantasize about a 1964 limited edition arm chair from a carpenter in the Danish city of Helsingör. These were things he freely shared during their scattered phone calls, as if his detachment from the physical act of sex was a statement of post modern grandeur. Still, for all his obtrusiveness and his somewhat deranged interest in sharing sexual experiences, you liked him because he managed to be so removed from everyday expectations.