Lost in observation

Saunders waded even deeper. This time he floated on his stomach, observing through the transparent pool floor a flock of people who were most likely unaware that he was their omniscient god.

Callum Saunders wore a tan coat, faded Lincoln green gloves, a fedora with his name sewn into the label and leather loafers that were half a size too small.

“Saunders, Callum. For 11 AM check in?” He stood a good half metre away from the reception desk, bag in hand, hat on head and gloves degloved.

As he approached his room, Room 295, he placed his leather briefcase parallel to his feet and slowly turned the key in the door. The smell of carpet shampoo and naphthalene greeted him. There had obviously been no artistic vision in the interior decorating of the hotel — it looked as though a dog had barfed and been lauded as a muse. Saunders ran his finger along the skirting boards as a means of gauging the cleanliness of his quarters. Pleased with the only minimal layer of dust, he placed his suitcase at the foot of his bed and made his way to the window, hands clasped behind his back. The view of Las Vegas from the 17th floor was unremarkable to Mr Saunders, but it was the hotel rooms that he could peer into that interested him. Flaneur. You see, this hotel had three prongs that protruded from a central atrium, a requirement for Saunders’ future people-watching plans. Mr Saunders had once been an avid birdwatcher but after watching birds for 23 years, one must also move on from fowl. Perhaps it was their migratory nature.

It is prudent that I explain why he was in this hotel room today. He was representing Puncher&Wattman, on the basis of a defamation lawsuit as they faced tax fraud and corruption claims. He was a lawyer by trade, of course, and yet felt no particular affliction to abide by the word of the American law. It was likely a product of his recent haircut, as it made him believe he was younger, cooler, sexier than he really was.

The unnumbered 13th floor of the Las Vegas Hotel intrigued him, the infinity pool with a transparent floor that brewed at a comfortable 71.6 degrees Fahrenheit was not of any extreme interest to Saunders and rather served as an appropriate place to wear sunglasses. Sort of.

As you and I have both surely worn sunglasses, we can agree that they are rather appropriate when one’s eyes must not be seen.

After about an hour of watching people, he reminded himself to take a mental picture of the Barbies and Kens at the pool, for later. They were Saunders’ great solace. He scrutinised their every move and chuckled to himself at how awfully silly they could be sometimes. She had a walk in which her pelvic tilt was so exaggerated it must have been unhealthy. “Osteoporosis,” he whispered.

He was not a doctor.

Image credit: Marek Tomsa

Ken, on the other hand, had a dulcet voice, great abs… and was a “sweet” 400k in debt. Saunders had come by this information by eavesdropping on a phone call Ken had partaken in behind the pool shrubbery not 16 minutes before. He began to grow bored of the unchanging scenery from his deck chair and decided to go for a swim in the pool. After lowering himself into the basin and wading into the centre, he began to float on his back. Not much to see. Saunders waded even deeper. This time he floated on his stomach, observing through the transparent pool floor a flock of people who were most likely unaware that he was their omniscient god. It had occurred to him that most people spent their entire lives completely unaware of those around them. He presumed that this was the case because they were simply not divinely important enough to bear the weight of eternal observation. He, obviously, was. His oxygen supply slowly trickled away as he set his eyes on a blonde showgirl holding a sign saying… well whatever it was saying, it was far too blurry to read.

So as not to alarm any lifeguards who happen to be reading this, I will clarify that Mr Saunders is not drowning. He is simply pretending. This information is something that the visitors at the Las Vegas hotel were not privy to, and thus it caused quite some panic amongst the pool-goers at 1:19 PM.

It was the case that Saunders was utilising the transparent floor possibly more effectively than it had ever been used before, he was looking through it. Hundreds of little people flitterd about in the lobby sipping Rhode Island ice-tea — tropical Lowry! — blinged up to their eyeballs, cashed rolled up their ars- 

Saunders’ thinking was interrupted as he was reluctantly “saved”. Dammit.

At 11:58 PM the view from Room 295 was bleak. Dark, empty. No yuppies or

coke-bloat blondies. Saunders stood in front of his window, his trusty camcorder slung around his wrist, and sighed. His previously “zonked out” demeanour had been engulfed by a restlessness that began between his shoulder blades and lingered in his upper lip. His stomach began to churn. Probably a GERD flareup, he thought.

Again, not a doctor.

The hum of the bar fridge was his only companion. 

He awoke at 5:16 AM, somehow more tired than he had been 5 hours and 18 minutes ago.

He returned to the window. This time the city was awakening. Immediately his eyes darted to a lit-up window he could observe from his perch. Directly across were a man and a woman who, from Saunders’ experience, were not meant to be on the 15th floor of a Las Vegas hotel at 5:21 in the morning. Saunders grinned to himself, how disgusting and strange.

The restlessness dissipated, settling his stomach and the tingle in his upper lip. Feeling better about his lost sleep, Saunders picked up his video recorder and looped the nylon strap around his wrist, glancing through the viewfinder to find his perfect framing of the couple on the 15th floor who were obviously preoccupied with “business” and “conferences” and faithful relationships.

At this point I must clarify that I do not condone filming people, no matter how morally incorrect their behaviour. Saunders, on the other hand, found an immense sense of comfort in the wrongdoing of others. Perhaps he had been dropped as a child, shaken a bit too roughly, fed too much red dye 40.

Pleased with his recent voyeurism, Saunders returned to the comfort of his Super Plus King (California Style) and tucked himself beneath the blankets in a sort of swaddling way and smacked his lips with delight. He was far too exhilarated to drift off into peaceful slumber and as such, he turned on the TV. Real Housewives, How to Win Friends and Influence People, Are You Depressed?

The phone beside him started to ring. The little numbers began to flash red and drew his attention away from the Prozac commercial.

“Saunders.” He cleared his throat.

“Good morning, Mr Saunders. I have a message from Mr Puncher and Mr Wattman. Would you like me to read it to you?”

“Sure.” He did not care.

“Very well…” The lady on the phone paused and then began: “Saunders, please meet down at the District Court in Carson City at 7. Bring the video evidence. No patterned ties, please.” She asked him if the message should be repeated. He declined. She wished him a pleasant day.

Saunders glanced over at the clock. It was 5:57 AM, a reasonable time to resume with the proceedings for the day. His bag was filled with papers and pens and a half-eaten packet of mints. He procured the SD card with the necessary evidence from his coat pocket. He dressed himself, sans patterned tie, ugh, and made his way down to the shuttle bus that awaited his imminent arrival. The elevator whirred down the central atrium and he popped some Pepto-Bismol and flashed a smile before exiting into the grandiose lobby. Saunders took a quick glance up at the pool, deciding he would entertain a short swim after court.

I will spare you the details of the court proceedings as they are very boring. It is

only at this point that it becomes most entertaining.

Mr Saunders stood in front of the court.

“Would the defence please provide the video evidence against the plaintiff?” The judge was very red in the face and looked as though he spent the majority of his free time at the local Arby’s and much of his working time at the Las Vegas style all-you-can-eat buffet provided by the state of Nevada District Court.

Saunders grinned and clicked play.

Horrified. The good, honest, lawyers and various legal staff of Las Vegas gasped as they watched the couple from the window on the 15th floor. Saunders had not yet noticed that he had grabbed the incorrect SD card from his pocket as he had mixed his left and right and now he had involved not only the adulterers from the 15th floor, but himself. Suddenly, it had become clear that the supposéd divinity he possessed was not so divine afterall. He was not their omniscient god. 

I suppose he will not be enjoying a swim this afternoon.