The Lobby
NO FRILLS, BUT CLEAN. That was how Dorothy described the hotel. And she was taking a little longer and didn’t care for his silent pacing, so she sent Tom on ahead with the one suitcase that was already zipped, down to the lobby to have a cup of coffee and maybe a bite to eat from the continental breakfast, while she finished packing the other suitcase and readying for the day’s events.
A day they had both been looking forward to now for weeks, a day on campus, visiting the children, who were learning French, music theory, philosophy, astronomy, engineering; what Tom and Dorothy both considered to be a well-rounded, classic liberal-arts education.
Dorothy liked to have a moment in the room to gather her thoughts, as well as double check under the bed and in the shower; just a minute or two of solitude and quiet in an undivided space, while Tom enjoyed sitting with a cup of black coffee, watching the comings and goings of the other guests, jotting and mapping his thoughts in his journal.
Besides the reception desk, the coffee and tea area was the only Purple space in the lobby, but all the same, Tom wanted the hot drinks station to be clear before approaching. An older woman of indistinguishable markings was fussing with the pump on one of the many flavored creamer options, so Tom decided to find a table first.
He selected a two-top on the edge of the Blue, the only visible Blue screen being of medium size, sound off. Tom glanced up as he sat down—a PBS segment on the latest news from Africa—then decided to situate himself so he’d be facing the room, and not the screen, and switched to the opposite seat at the table. While this afforded him a nice view of both the Red and Blue zones, it also meant he risked making untoward eye contact—not to mention that his sightline now included the gargantuan Red screen—so he retrieved his journal and pen and wrote the day’s date at the top. Now he had a project to quickly look down at in case he did mistakenly lock eyes with the wrong person.
By now the coffee station was free and clear. Tom approached and considered his choices. Breakfast Blend, Dark, Decaf, Autumn Spice, Gut Blaster, and The CSN&Y Select Single Origin Fare Wage Old Growth Light Roast. He filled a cup with the first option, then went about fixing his wife a cup of tea. While doing so, a man came up and Tom had to move slightly so the man could reach the dispenser. He wore what Tom would describe as duck-hunter chic. A long-sleeve top in various shades of camo-grey, the fabric treated with chemicals that encouraged it to both stay dry and repel insects. A majestic, shapely beard like a pharaoh, spray-painted to mirror the charcoal patterns on his shirt. His jeans were tight, his ass sizable, and his cap was up high on his dome, as if he were hiding a pet mouse on the crown of his head. Resting on the brim was a pair of tethered, wrap-around mirrored shades, the cameras off, or at least the [REC] lights unlit. The front of his hat advertised a drone and auto-parts shop in Concord.
For his part, Tom was wearing what he and his wife both referred to as his mime suit, a black wool two piece he’d bought in Copenhagen. The pants were baggy and had long deep pockets. The jacket had one pearl white button, roughly the same size in diameter as the cup in his hand, and one large pocket on the right hip. Underneath his suit he wore a green and black paisley button up dress shirt; shoes of artificial zebra fur, pointed at the toe, and zippered. The two inch heels had a sponge-like quality and were made from recycled licorice.
The duck man was now pumping potato creamer into his cup. Tom sensed the man looking him up and down in a way that gave Tom an uncanny feeling that there was something sexual in the man’s gaze. Tom had to remind himself that this would not be unusual, given their geographic location and the nature of public spaces in general. Purple zones, even ones as utilitarian as a hotel lobby hot drinks station, carried an unspoken double-functionality and were understood to be spaces where cruising could take place, lusty looks exchanged across otherwise strict divides.
The man was still pumping creamer, slow, methodic, eyelids heavy—and Tom hurried back to his table with his two steaming cups. He was feeling hungry, but first he took a sip of his coffee and wrote a few sentences in his journal.
Morning in the hotel lobby. I just rubbed elbows with a man in the neutral coffee zone who added way too much flavored cream to his cup of coffee. What an asshole. LOL. I believe he was giving me a look, these poor repressed Red-siders. I almost feel sorry for them. Still, and but also, fuck that guy. If he has to live in his-sin, that’s his choice.
Tom looked up, pen pressing his lower lip, and glanced around. The prurient duck man had finished fixing his coffee and was moving back to his table where his wife and half dozen kids all sat glued to their individual devices, buds in ears, drool un-napkinned.
No one was watching, so Tom chose to have a quick look at what was showing on the big Red screen; a beast of a device, at least six times the size of the Blue screen off to his left. A morning newstainment show, a rail-thin blond woman being interviewed by an on-site reporter surrounded by gourds and pumpkins. Along the bottom of the screen, the words: The Dallas Pumpkin Queen.
Tom looked down at his page and continued: We’ll be seeing the kids in a few hours, as soon as they finish with morning classes. I’m told a special lunch is being prepared for the visiting parents, I hope they put a little more of that tuition money toward the spread. Last year the options were rather limited, though the desserts were top notch. The school still seems like the best place for them, security remains vigilant and we’re assured, very well-paid, though I cannot help but worry about the pool from which they recruit the staff. But the surrounding townships and neighbors, for the most part, seem okay with letting the school remain, at least for now. I’m still not happy with the updated treaty, but I saw the list of books, and they’re all titles we have in our home library, so if the kids want to read any of them, they can do so over Thanksgiving or Winter break, or next summer, if they want to bite off Ulysses, Demons, or Schattenfroh.
Tom sipped his coffee. His stomach tipped over and growled. It was time for a quick bite to eat. Just a little something before the big lunch.
He put his pen on the page and shut the journal. Stood up and crossed to the far wall where the breakfast bar was set up. The first half, the Blue breakfast bar, included a variety of prepared fruits—apples, musk melon, blue (of course!) black and raspberries, pear, bananas, even a few kiwis— as well as oatmeal, some wholegrain cold cereal options, boiled eggs stacked in a pyramid in a bowl, yogurts, including non-dairy options, small pre-poured glasses of fresh grapefruit juice, a variety of ceramic dishes that contained prunes, pumpkin seeds, coconut shavings, dried cranberries, protein plops, and yeast flakes, and finally, Nutella with a wooden spatula sticking out from the contents of the jar.
Across the line, on the other side, things were different. There was a waffle bar, a tray containing cheesy eggs, other trays with bacon, sausage, and ham, a row of clear silos holding cereals like Fruity Pebbles, Frosted Flakes, Mommy’s Milky Chocolate Puffies, Fruit Loops, Marshmallow Squares, Honey Balls, and Sugar Shites. Past that were carafes of milk, cream, and a variety of juices: orange, apple, grape, corn, and Red.
Tom made himself a cashew yogurt parfait with blueberries, cinnamon granola, pumpkin seeds, and a sprinkling of coconut sugar. He was about to return to his table when he experienced a sudden, overwhelming, nearly visceral urge for a piece of bacon. He’d not had Red bacon in over a year. The smell was drifting to his side, and, looking around, he saw no one that seemed the type to make a fuss over such an infraction as the one he was contemplating. He stepped forward, but just then a kitchen attendant came out from the back and her eyes immediately fell upon Tom’s proximity to the line.
Right, thought Tom, best follow the rules.
He moved to the neutral zone separating the counter into its two halves, and tore a sheet from the pad. Took a pencil from the cup. He wrote his name, social, and room number, then went down the list until he found bacon. He filled in the bubble and held up the form. The attendant frowned. But this was part of her job, so she approached and, without saying a word, took his request form, gave it a quick glance, then walked over to the meat section, put two pieces of bacon on a plate, and came back over to Tom’s side. She removed a stamp and ink kit from her apron and pressed the words COMPLETED ON____ onto the bottom of the page. She handed the form back to Tom, not bothering to fill in the date. Tom scribbled his initials and the number 5 at the bottom in the section marked REQUESTOR’S SATISFACTION: 1-5, then traded her the form for the plate of bacon, grabbed his yogurt parfait, and returned to his table.
The couple next to him, a skinny man in balloon-pocketed shorts and a shirt advertising a marathon from last year, and his partner in a long-sleeve version of the same, both saw his plate and made wide-eyes, then looked quickly away. Tom sat and gobbled both strips of bacon before anyone else saw, hoping the couple didn’t post about it.
He opened his journal as he dunked a spoon into his yogurt concoction. His eyes roamed from the page to a table nearby, on the other side of the line. Normally, those reading books would be on Tom’s side, but this man was indeed reading an actual book, with paper pages, a spine, and a cover. Only, it looked strange, the man held it in an awkward manor, his wrist making constant adjustments. Tom lowered his head slowly to see the cover, a title by Jordan Peterson. That certainly squared. He was about to raise his head and return to his journal when the man’s grip on the book slipped. The book suddenly became two books, for inside the Peterson book was a second, smaller volume. The text the man was attempting to hide fell to the floor, and Tom saw the cover for a brief moment before the man scooped it back up.
Morning Hours, Lectures On God’s Existence.
Tom frowned and turned to make sure the man didn’t see him watching. When he looked back, the man had returned the smaller book to its place inside the Jordan Peterson book, and once again, it appeared as though he was reading the latest biography of the drug-addled, raw meat-loving, now 18-months missing and presumed drowned Canadian legend of the man-o-sphere. Tom got out his phone and searched the title, scrolled until he saw the cover of the book from the floor. Morning Hours: Lectures On God’s Existence by Moses Mendelssohn. Tom was confused for a moment; there was nothing odd about a Red Sider reading a book about the Red God, so why was this man hiding the book?
Tom read a summary of the text, and a clearer picture came into view. He casually snuck a photo of the man, performed a quick edit that included a pre-fab crop and the Blotch filter, then posted it to the Redhips hashtag on Everything Always, his favorite page for shaming Reds. Check this Red out, he wrote. He’s reading Moses Mendelssohn, but hiding it in a Jordan Peterson book. Apparently, German idealism, even when employed to prove the existence of the soul, is too woke. What a pathetic hip. #Redhipseverywhere
He put his phone away and returned to his journal, but he’d lost his appetite for self-documentation and light musings. He continued watching the man and his book(s) and considered deleting the social media post.
It wasn’t that he felt guilty for publicly shaming the man with the two books. He’d done similar things numerous times, but Tom was not in his comfort zone, he was in a neighboring state, and he wasn’t sure what sort of search algos were out there, scraping Hypocrisy Sites for infringements that could, in turn, trigger a peace drone or even a visit from a NICE patrol. He didn’t want to get the man in trouble. He just wanted some Likes and Lolz. Still, deleting the post now would probably make his followers think he was a Second Guessing Garth. Plus, as everyone knew, there was no such thing as delete.
The Red screen switched from the jovial host guffawing about pumpkins and gourds with a his Lago-lipped co-host, to football. A split screen, showing two games at once: the Little Rock Jets versus the Baton Rouge Patriots, and…Tom squinted: the Salt Lake Giants versus the Omaha Eagles.
Tom disliked football, especially the newer, weaponized version that dominated Red screens. He considered moving to a table farther in the Blue where the enormous screen would be blocked from view, but then the image switched again, this time to a soap opera. Tom glanced toward the reception and saw the front desk attendant, a blimp of a man, setting the remote down, his eyes glued to the screen. Tom didn’t know this show, his knowledge of daytime Red dramas was limited, but anything was better than football, and he once again started to enjoy his meal. On the screen, a woman in pioneer dress, incredulously spotless whites and a bonnet to match, was cradling a dying man’s head, offering him water from a dented tin cup. The man was Native American, with dark eyes and warpaint on his cheeks, his jet-black hair slicked with oil, or blood.
Tom suddenly sensed he was being watched. Stared at. Observed. His eyes rolled around the room cautiously until he saw the man in the purple coffee zone; skinny, young, face still constellated with acne, t-shirt in a death metal font, eyes narrow and red as if suffering from allergies, but now widening as Tom’s and his gaze met. The man clapped loudly, pointed, and said for all to hear: “This man has triggered me. I request All and God as my witnesses, I’m challenging this citizen to a back quarters duel. Let no biologically-born-man come between me and my Justice, unless he speaketh now and with voice greater than thou own.”
Tom’s feet started to tingle and his arms grew heavy. He looked around, but everyone on his side was now creating distance, Schumering their stares into the corners and refusing to meet his pleading eyes, even going so far as to stand and gather their belongings. The man took a step closer, his finger still pointed at Tom. Tom stood, reluctantly, and said that he was certain there must be some mistake.
“Forgive me if I’ve offended you, sir. But I cannot duel you. I have to go visit my kids after I finish breakfast.”
The man shook his head, as if to ward off a swarm. The large front desk attendant was coming around from his station, a clipboard in hand.
“You challenge this guy to a duel?” said the man, his voice tired and disinterested, as if he was coming to the end of a long overnight shift.
“I do and I will and I shall and I did.”
“On what grounds, sir?” He clicked his pen, waited.
“My CTR ring-drone has shown me that he writes vile things in his personal book of wicked thoughts, a clear invasion of my emotional landscape.”
Tom looked down at his open journal. Behind him he sensed motion. A small metal object flew past his head, crossed the line, and landed on the accusing man’s knuckle. The man carefully took it between thumb and finger and attached it to his gold ring, which served as its base and recharging platform.
“A ring drone and an accusation of wickedness,” said the desk clerk. “That’s two of the items here on my list. Please, both of you, follow me outside to the patio to select your weapons and tarps.”
Tom started to move toward the elevators, but three hotel staffers were suddenly upon him. The lobby was now mostly empty, apart from the duck man and his brood, who all had out their phones and were filming the entire event. Tom was dragged outside, shown a case of weapons, told where to stand, and the countdown began.
A few minutes later, Dorothy came down to the lobby. She always avoided small confining neutral spaces, so she had taken the stairs, despite the cumbersome weight of her suitcase. She went to the front desk and dropped off her key, smiling at the giant bowling ball of a man behind the counter. She complimented the establishment for its cleanliness, fresh towels, and thick walls, and thanked the man for such a pleasant stay. The man smiled warmly, handed her a form on which she circled all the 5’s. The man told her that he hoped to see her again and to come back soon. She turned at the sound of applause, but it was only the Red television on the other side of the lobby. Still, she took a step closer to get a better look. On the screen, a woman in a white dress and black lace-up shoes was hanging by the neck before a crowd on an old-timey western street. Her face was purple and her tongue swollen and draped over her lower lip. A fly was resting on her cheek. The onlookers were cheering, hollering, clapping, howling. A few were groping each other and one dusty old man was masturbating into a wheel barrel full of horse dung. Dorothy shook her head in disgust.
She exited through the hotel’s sliding doors to go find her husband, who she assumed was unplugging the car and waiting for her with the trunk open, impatient and eager to see the children. It had been weeks since their last visit, and she knew that if there was one person more excited to see their kids than she, it was Tom. He might not show it, might talk more about his wish for a lavish lunch, or for the free T-shirt they always handed out at parent registration to be of finer thread, but in truth, Tom very much loved his children, and she felt lucky to be sharing this experience with her husband, in a world so divided and so quick to judge, execute, troll, and spam.
She got to the car, but Tom was nowhere to be seen. As she turned to scan the parking lot, an ambulance turned into the parking lot. Lights off, it pulled up to the front. The two attendants got out and wheeled the gurney inside. For this reason, Dorothy decided it best to wait at the car and not risk getting in the way of the emergency medical personnel who were, she assumed, busy helping one of the hotel guests in distress. She found herself comforted by the fact that ambulances remained neutral, with their distinctive and soothing purple lights and markings, a sign that the world wasn’t as bad as believed by most. It gave her hope, and she sat down on the curb and tried to imagine a world different than the one she now lived in, a world her kids could become adults in and not worry about geography, hashtags, deepfakes, or drones. A world where there was Purple, not only at the coffee and tea station, but everywhere. She realized then that what she really wanted before they set off for campus was a hot tea, so she stood up, dusted herself off, and went back inside the lobby to make herself a cup.
• • •
Nathaniel Krenkel lives in Portland, Maine. He hosts Rhizome Radio at WMPG, and runs the record labels Team Love and Oystertones. Krenkel was the recipient of the 2025 Joy of the Pen Fiction Award. SOCIAL MEDIA: https://bsky.app/profile/krenkel.bsky.social. WEBSITE: nathanielkrenkel.com