Lancaster could hear the buzzing. He vaguely recognized what it was; a mobile phone. Whatever had happened to his? That’s right -- he’d left it behind. The device, by now, would have gone flat, its screen black and unresponsive in the darkness of an apartment that no one else but he and Pi had keys to. The phone would be gathering dust, and whenever anyone tried to call it it would go straight to message bank: Elliot’s phone. Leave a message. Or don’t. I’m probably at the pub.
Those who knew Lancaster would know that I’m probably at the pub meant that he was working, not continuously getting drunk. The pub took up most of his time -- between it and the backpacker’s above it, and the loft he’d taken to living in above that, he generally barely left the one building. It was where he could be found, if all else failed. Mostly.
Not now, though. Now, the buzzing only reminded him of a phone he’d once owned, one that he hated because although it purported to be a ‘smart’ phone, Lancaster always assumed that meant the phone was smarter than him and not the other way around. That memory, too, was consumed, as was the memory of all that resided on that phone. Contacts, pictures, snippets of song. The buzzing was ultimately ignored as the manhole was reached; their interactions hadn’t lasted long, and the manhole still stood open. A car whooshed overhead and Lancaster just shy of the light bleeding in from the world outside.
There he waited with his hands loosely hanging at his sides. He nodded to the exit before turning back to his human companion; a stance that pointedly said ‘you have reached your destination safely. This is where I leave you.’
Those who knew Lancaster would know that I’m probably at the pub meant that he was working, not continuously getting drunk. The pub took up most of his time -- between it and the backpacker’s above it, and the loft he’d taken to living in above that, he generally barely left the one building. It was where he could be found, if all else failed. Mostly.
Not now, though. Now, the buzzing only reminded him of a phone he’d once owned, one that he hated because although it purported to be a ‘smart’ phone, Lancaster always assumed that meant the phone was smarter than him and not the other way around. That memory, too, was consumed, as was the memory of all that resided on that phone. Contacts, pictures, snippets of song. The buzzing was ultimately ignored as the manhole was reached; their interactions hadn’t lasted long, and the manhole still stood open. A car whooshed overhead and Lancaster just shy of the light bleeding in from the world outside.
There he waited with his hands loosely hanging at his sides. He nodded to the exit before turning back to his human companion; a stance that pointedly said ‘you have reached your destination safely. This is where I leave you.’
