I’m a party at Chris and Bill’s apartment. People start complaining that they hear a horrible noise. One of the other guests says “That noise is so terrible, none of us should have to hear it.” I can’t hear it. Based on that fact, everyone comes to the conclusion that I must be the cause of the noise.
Bill takes me outside to a bar on the Lower East Side. I stand there and sheepishly go through my things and find the source of the noise. Seems like I’m carrying a purse, a backpack, and another tote bag. I slowly rummage through all of them, feeling increasingly anxious and embarrassed. Finally I locate the source of the horrible noise. It’s an old, broken alarm clock, the old-fashioned kind with a bell on top.
I step away to dispose of the offending clock properly, leaving Bill to watch my bags. When I return, Bill is gone. The bar has been closed for a private party to celebrate a wedding reception. I peer inside the bar, looking for my belongings, but they’re gone.
I panic and start frantically asking around if anyone has seen Bill or my bags. I do a mental rundown of everything that I left: wallet, keys, laptop, phone, iPad.
I start wandering the neighborhood and decide to go into the park across the street. The park isn’t well-maintained, and the grass has lots of brown patches and places where it’s worn away to dirt. I find a spot to sit down and ponder what I’m going to do next. As I’m sitting there, a number of people come up and start crowding around me. I’m annoyed because I feel like I need space.
