Logs:When One Door Closes

When One Door Closes
Dramatis Personae David, Wendy
In Absentia Lucien	2024-06-02 "It's a bit of a tightrope walk, but I've always been good at that."
Location <NYC> Le Bonne Entente - Astoria
This hotel is the reincarnation of a condemned neoclassical cathedral, drastically yet skillfully renovated such that its majesty feels distinctly sacred but agnostic of any particular creed. The annexes and exterior redesigns harmonize stunningly with the original architecture. By day plentiful sunlight streams in through tall stained glass windows. At night the white marble exterior is lit from below to faintly ethereal effect. The grounds are not extensive, but meticulously landscaped, with tables and seating arranged within a circular colonnade and benches scattered along paths through the surrounding gardens. In stark contrast, the interior columns are richly gold-veined black marble, relieved with lighter accents, softer furnishings, and a surprising amount of greenery. The lobby is magnificent yet welcoming, expansive but not imposing. The reception area is nestled between twin staircases ascending to a mezzanine that circles the grand ballroom to an expansive multi-leveled cafe in what was once the sanctuary. The gallery hallways that look down from the upper levels are lined with conference rooms, spas, gyms, and guest rooms, many with external balconies and all sumptuously appointed. The crypt chapel and part of the crypt proper have been converted to a matched club and lounge respectively which manage to convey a sense of almost scandalous intimacy despite their considerable size. The crown jewel of this ambitious architectural endeavor is the sprawling restaurant that spans the airy clerestory to spill out onto a crescent-shaped grand balcony with a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline across the East River, especially at sunset. Above this, the soaring bell tower remains a mystery to most guests beyond the lush conservatory in its base, and though the original bells have been restored, they are not currently in use. The cluster of Northeastern Tech Summit attendees currently strolling down the hallway toward their conference room have a boisterous energy, somewhere between nerd and frat boy, that lends their semi-casual attire and messy hair a strange credence, like this is evidence of vitality and entrepreneurship rather than immaturity. Most of them are wearing colorful name tags, and the lone man without a conference lanyard -- average height, average build, somewhat baby-faced -- is striding purposefully ahead to get the door for his companions. Perhaps he meant to follow them in, but instead he ends up holding the door as a small stream of waitstaff file back out with their food carts. Apparently this man can't resist the allure of chit-chat -- he makes a quiet remark to the last waiter in the row, and by the time he remembers the door it has shut silently behind him. The doorknob may have worked mere minutes ago, but now it doesn't even turn in David's hand. He tries the other doorknob, which also doesn't work, then steps back, rubbing one hand through his thick hair. David is underdressed today, in a dress shirt without a tie, crisp taupe slacks, dark blue blazer -- though this seemed raffishly irreverant in his previous company it's now just bordering on irreverant, and David looks about twenty years older -- or perhaps that's just his expression. As a conference coordinator approaches he raises one hand in greeting, and he is about to follow her into the room when he notices that one of his shoes is untied, and once again the door has shut by the time he remembers it. Though the doorknob does turn this time, the door doesn't open. David checks his Apple Watch and then huffs out a sigh, looking over his shoulder down the hallway as though he's expecting somebody. Wendy is probably not the is person he was looking for, but she is coming down the hall right now. She certainly isn't here to attend the conference; at the moment, devoid of L'Entente name tag and casually dressed in flowing bell-sleeved floral dress and summery jute wedge sandals, she doesn't appear to be here to help with it either. She glances between David and the door, then his watch. "Are you lost?" she asks, a little bit apologetically. "The cafe is one floor down if you were just looking to grab a bite?" David throws one last jealous look at the closed doors before giving Wendy a broad smile -- "Ah, no, I was just visiting with some old friends," he says. "I was worried they were going to cancel the conference after -- ah, you know --" this is with an airy, nonchalant wave, as though he is referring to a blizzard or food poisoning, "so I felt I should drop by and say hi, while they're in town. See what's cooking in their weird little noggins since we last spoke -- you know," though his voice changes to suggest a scandalous whisper, he is carrying on at the exact same volume, "they're all losing quite a bit of money on these AI models, makes me glad I'm not on that sinking ship!" "Oh! Yes, thankfully we didn't get hit too hard out here. Usually I'm grateful for the views here," Wendy's head is incoming small and indicative in the direction of the hotel's panoramic Manhattan skyline view, though only slivers of it can be seen from this specific hallway, "but watching that day --" Her head just shakes. She slips briefly to the offending door, pulling it just ajar to peek -- briefly -- inside. "It looks like attendance didn't suffer much, at least. AI or aliens notwithstanding. What -- ship are you on?" David gives Wendy a sympathetic grimace, a mournful headshake. "Just awful," he proclaims this. There is a keen glint in his eye as she opens the door -- his head cocks curiously to one side. Perhaps he, too, is trying to catch a glimpse inside. His smile, this time, is less broad, but perhaps more pleased. "A different sinking ship," he says brightly, "The artist formerly known as Gizmodo. Who knows, maybe we'll get her back on an even keel. But don't worry --" though he hastens to add this it is in an oddly unhasty manner. "I'm not a journalist, I'm not here to spy." "Right, just to see what's cooking in your, ah, friends'?" Wendy ventures this like she is not really sure it is the right word, her head cocking small in a counterpoint mirror to David's, "heads. Really you think they'd love someone from Gizmodo here to puff up the latest in AI innovation." She's clasped her hands in front of her, and as the door opens to disgorge Yet Another Tech Bro she is shifting just slightly -- out of his way, somewhat incidentally into David's -- to let the man by. "I wasn't worried. As long as our guests here are happy, I'm happy, and they usually are. What do you do for Gizmodo?" "Ah, do you work here?" David is latching onto this new information fast, the curious gleam in his eye intensifying for a moment; as Wendy shifts out of the Tech Bro's way he is chivalrously raising one hand at about elbow height to steady her if needed. But he does not know this Tech Bro, apparently, though they are dressed in humorously similar outfits -- the man departs without so much as a nod their way, and David does not make any overture of acknowledgement either. Only now he answers the question -- "Ah, I'm the Vice President of Media Strategy." He is clarifying, whether necessary or not, "-- mostly I worry about money! Somebody's got to. What do you do here?" Wendy's elbows tighten subtly in against her sides when David's hand lifts; she's angling herself to stay just a skosh farther from the contact danger zone. Her expression, polite and pleasant, doesn't falter. "Oh! Yes, I do, sorry, I'm off shift and my manners just poof. Wendy Ho," she makes the introduction with a very small bow of her head, "Guest Experiences Manager. I think it's a little bit my job not to worry about the money, I let Mr. Tessier and our accounting department handle that, and they let me see to our clientele." Whether it's necessary or not, she's looking just a bit more curious at his clarification. "Media strategy -- is that deciding on ad buys or --?" David drops his hand away again; his expression doesn't falter either. "Guest Experiences? So would you be the mastermind behind these wonderful amenities? I recommend this place to everyone I know who's coming into town," he informs her cheerily. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm David Smith." He doesn't bow his head, though he presses his fingertips delicately to his chest as he makes this introduction, though there is not much modesty in his explanation of his position -- "Advertisers and audiences -- my job to keep 'em both happy. It's a bit of a tightrope walk, but I've always been good at that." He tucks one hand into his blazer pocket, glances down the hallway again as though expecting the subject of his next question to come strolling down the hallway -- "I'm sure you're all glad to have Mr. Tessier back! What a shock that he was alive the whole time." He says this a little as though he isn't, though his expression is still blandly pleasant. "Something you have a lot of practice at? It feels like there'd be some competing needs there." Wendy follows David's look down the hall, but her eyes snap back to David quick. "I feel like soon I'm going to lose my ability to be shocked. Aliens and coming back from the dead and --" She lifts a shoulder, her laugh a small what can you do kind of thing. "He's a great boss, though, everyone's glad to have him back. Or -- well, everyone here." Her hand flutters around their luxurious surroundings. "Honestly, you two will probably run into each other sooner or later. He's got a weirdly golden touch with a lot of media business." A smile is stretching slowly across David's face again, broad and pleasant -- his eyebrows twitch up minutely, but this is the only outward indication that there are any wheels turning in his mind, now. "I do hope so," he says. "Wouldn't you know it, I was supposed to meet with him before his, ah, untimely demise. I guess I shouldn't stop believing in second chances yet." "Abduction," Wendy corrects, quietly amused. "Supposed to?" For her part, she's looking like some wheels have just clicked into place. "Yeah. Maybe not yet. Around here, things tend to end up where they should. -- Excuse me." Her smile comes a little bit easier, and she nods, polite, to David before slipping into the conference room's bustle. "Of course," David says automatically -- he seems to realize a moment too late what he was excusing. When he tries the doorknob one last time, it is -- quelle surprise -- locked.