Conversation · Garte, the Cafeteria Manager

"You still owe me 70. If you don't have it by tonight I'm not letting you back up there," he points upstairs.

"I have no memory of drinking them. I'm not paying for the drinks."

"The ledger does! The ledger has a memory!" He points to the book. "The drinks are non-negotiable, there's no way your station will pay for them."

"I won't pay for the window."

"Fine, I'll take it off the bill! You want to sleep in a post-apocalyptic shit-hole, go ahead! But I'm not giving you another room."

"Goodbye and thank you for your cooperation." [Leave.]

"Don't thank me. You still owe me 30 for the drinks! If you don't have it by tonight I'm not letting you back up there..." He points upstairs.

"Don't thank me. You still owe me 70. If you don't have it by tonight I'm not letting you back up there," he points upstairs.

"You have admitted to sexual crimes. You will be taken to sex prison."

He laughs. "What in the name of God..."

"Sounds like you think sex is more than a social construct. Tell me, do you think women are mentally inferior to men?"

"Okay, okay..." He settles down. "I know what is going on -- and okay. I'll call your station... what did you say it was?"

"Forty one," the lieutenant steps in.

"I'll call them for recompensation for the room. But you still owe me 70 for the drinks and the window. And I do not think women are mentally inferior to men."

"I wonder what Sylvie has to say about that?"

"Are you trying to frighten me now?" He turns to the lieutenant: "What is this?"

"This is me threatening you with excruciating legal procedures, because you're impeding my investigation."

"Fine, fuck this. I'll do it myself, I'll call your station... what was it, 41? I'll ask them to pay for the room. The drinks and the window you still have to pay for. That's 70. Are we done, officers?"

"You tell me what this is? Did you rape her?"

The words leave your mouth as if walking up the stairs -- everything is going fine until you reach the end and take one step too many:

"I fucking well can, bitch!"

"Oh, so apparently I'm a bitch now. Okay, I'll be the 'bitch', and you'll be the broke cop who owes me money, and no one will arrest anyone because that's insane. How's that?"

"Sir, leash in your tongue." The lieutenant's voice is controlled, yet threatening. Like it's coming from a different person.

The words nail the Cafeteria Manager to his place. Unmoving he stares down at the counter with his cheeks reddish.

"Officer," he turns to you. "You need to contact your station. Ask your people for assistance with the money you owe this place. There is a shortwave radio in my car, when you get the time, use it. We need to get this investigation started now."

"I'm sorry, but I can't let him stay here if he doesn't pay... He's three days on the slip. If he doesn't have the money by tonight, he'll have to work this from home."

"Fuck this place. I'll take my chances on the streets."

"No, there's no need..." The lieutenant is silent for a moment. "Let's go. Goodbye, sir."

The man stands silently behind the counter, with his eyes fixed on the broken taxidermy, then on the ledger. He does not know what to say anymore.

"I don't remember where my home is."

"Okay..." The lieutenant lets out a heavy sigh. "Let's go. Goodbye, sir."

"Good luck."

"I don't have a home."

"Isn't there somewhere else I can stay around here?"

"You can look, but... the Union squeezed most people out of business to fund the strike. So, I don't know... your best shot is just going home."

"I'll see what I can do."

The man starts to say something, but then thinks better of it. "Good luck."

The words nail the man to his place. Unmoving, he stares down at the counter with his cheeks reddish.

"What do I owe this place for?"

"Let's see." He dramatically turns a page in the ledger. "Three nights at a tariff of 20 reál comes to 60 reál. Then there's the window you annihilated -- the hole in the window was the first thing I saw when I came to work, so don't try to tell me you didn't! That will be 40 reál in damages."

"Another thing you've annihilated is half the bar -- you've run a tab of 30 reál. Actually more, but we'll round it down to 30 for your hard work maintaining the stability and order of Revachol. That's 60 + 40 + 30 = 130 reál. And yes, reál is still money."

"What happens now?"

He turns to the lieutenant. "I'm sorry, but he has to pay, I can't let him stay here any longer if he doesn't. If he doesn't have the money by tonight, then..." He shrugs.

"Officer, maybe you're better off working this from home for now? You live in Jamrock, right? It's not that far away."

"Isn't there somewhere else I can stay around here?"

"You mean somewhere else to run up a huge debt? I don't think so. The Union squeezed most places out of business to fund the strike. You're better off home."

"I don't remember where my home is."

"Officer..." A pattern of creases appears on his forehead. "You really need to take this up with your station, I have a shortwave radio in my car. Call them, ask for assistance. We have to get this investigation started now."

The man wants to say something, then thinks better of it. "Good luck."

"Fuck this place. I'll take my chances on the streets."

"No, don't, there's no need..." A pattern of creases appears on his forehead. "You really need to take this up with your station, I have a shortwave radio in my car. Call them, ask for assistance. We have to get this investigation started now."

"I'll see what I can do."

"I'm sorry I couldn't help more." Creases line his forehead, above the spectacles. "You should take this up with your station, I have a shortwave radio in my car, okay? We have to get this investigation started now."

"I don't have a home."

"But what exactly is money?"

"What are you, a philosopher?"

"Since I woke up I have trouble remembering even the most basic concepts of reality."

"Money is what grown up people use to pay for things. Things like this hostel room or..." He peeks into the ledger: "...or eight bottles of 'Potent Blend' and nine packs of 'Royal Extra'. We use it for everything, really."

(Proceed, but don't show him the coins. They're yours.)

There's a shuffle of nylon as Lieutenant Kitsuragi looks for something in the pockets of his orange bomber.