I think it's strange. That what interests me most these days has nothing to do with anyone in my actual life. That the figure that pulls my strings most is a man named Keith. God I don't even know his last name. "The coffee is nice." he said. The way he said it in that interview.
I sometimes go to a cafe, tell Alan I have to run errands for work, but I'll sit at another cafe far away from home and imagine that interview. Why did this Keith agree to be interviewed? And why only that one off question? There must've been other questions asked, simply didn't get published.
What makes the story even more alluring is the outcome of the journalist. Two years after publishing the article about
Spacecity
, he was found dead at the All White party hosted by billionaire Joe Macko. OD on cocaine.
In my head this was no coincidence. I admit however, that this is all in my head. My aim to get it out of my head drives me to go to these cafes and sit and ponder there instead of on my usual route or god forbid in the stuffy apartment I share with Alan.
When the weather is not glum I like to sit at the cafe and imagine the story around the story. The journalist. His final days. Keith. How he was involved in the interviews. The rest of the content from the interviews.
When it's raining, I like to nurse a gingery hot drink with honey and think about what life up there was like. If it were still possible to go up to that station above the rain clouds, I would go in an instant. Leave my entire life behind. Alan. The cafe. all the coworkers and friends.
I might do something crazy. Leave home and drive out west by where the spacecity launch site was supposed to be. Not tell Alan where I'm going. Just drive. Alone. I might just go one of these days. I just might.