It's an old-timey lobby with wood paneling, cubbyholes for mail, and a brass call bell at the front desk. I expect to see men lounging around in homburgs and high-wasted trousers.
The corridor has a triangular glass roof. Beyond it are roosting birds and gray sky. Lamplight reflects off the metalwork.
Mirrors extend the front hall infinitely. The doorman sends us up to where the old man lives on every last drop of his fixed income.
By mashing buttons, I score a slam-dunk in video game basketball. When in doubt, mash the buttons. Something will happen. I try it again, making a shot across the full length of the court. I wish I could say it goes in.
I stare at the payphone as if it's prehistoric. My friend comes up behind me and says, "You can... call people on this?"
With the slogan, he identifies his tribe and takes a mental shortcut. The conversation ends.
Pushing through to the other side of tiredness to finish a project on time.