He imagines what it would feel like to be so free. Free of his student loan debt. Of a job he’s come to hate. Of a relationship that’s destined for failure. Though, maybe it’s already failed. Clare normally springs out of bed, but not this morning. He’d sensed she was waiting for him to leave so she wouldn’t have to talk to him. He’d taken a shower, put on his fancy new suit, and is now the sharpest-dressed man in the morning cattle call of indigent defendants.
Chris has spent many hours trying to get a glimpse of Mr. Nirvana’s face. And he’s far from the only internet sleuth on this case. But the vlogger has evaded being outed thus far. Comments and forums speculate that he scrubs the videos before posting, editing out reflective surfaces or anything else that might identify him. Some theorize that Mr. Nirvana stays anonymous because he’s on the run from something. Others say he’s doing it simply to add to his mystique.
In the past, Chris considered traveling abroad to track him down. Put an end to this wild fantasy, once and for all. Prove that Mr. Nirvana is—or is not—his brother. But he couldn’t afford it. Not even close. Now, though, the vlogger’s in the U.S. And he’s been taking more chances of late, posting live feeds, challenging his fans to find him. Why would Vince hazard that? Maybe the excitement from the risk. Or more likely it’s just a tactic to get more subscribers, more ad revenue from the posts.
Chris waits, refreshing his phone. New videos usually pop up in the morning or late at night. Sure enough, a new vlog appears. Chris feels a wave of excitement as he reads the title: “Five-Star Hotel in NYC.”
The anonymous traveler is in New York City, a short drive from here.
Mr. Nirvana has finagled a free room at a five-star hotel in the city for a single night. In the new video, the camera tours the room: five stars but still tiny. That’s New York for you. The traveler takes the elevator and continues filming until hotel security shuts him down. The camera turns black for a beat, then filming resumes, now surreptitiously. He’s on the platinum-member floor of the hotel, eating a buffet breakfast. In the background, a large-screen television plays the news. Chris freezes the frame and zooms in. Nothing on the TV gives a clue to the date. The traveler could be toying with viewers. There’s no real way to know when and how long he’s been in the U.S. Chris resumes the clip. The camera focuses on an average-looking plate of bacon and eggs that the traveler treats like something extraordinary. The camera scans the room again … There. Chris pauses the video. A man is reading the paper. It’s spread wide, perhaps the guest’s effort to stay off-camera. Chris zooms in. He can’t make out the date but the headline is visible: DIVIDED JUSTICES SPAR OVER RIGHT TO GAY MARRIAGE. He jumps to the New York Times website and there it is—the same-sex marriage headline. The front page, above the fold, in this morning’s paper. The traveler is really here.
This might be Chris’s chance to find Mr. Nirvana. But to what end? He’s the clichéd dog chasing the car, not clear what he’ll do if he catches it. On the screen, the traveler wheels his bag out of the dining area and outside to a Manhattan sidewalk heavy with foot traffic. The traveler had the room for only one night. Hopefully, he’ll post more on his quest for free accommodations. He usually does that.
And when he does, Chris will find him.
A calendar reminder pops up on his phone. His next client will be brought down in five minutes. Another day of drug cases. He takes the file from the top of the stack on the table and opens it. His client, Brenda is her name, has a thick jacket, though she’s only twenty years old. The booking photos from her prior arrests take his breath away. The early shots show a pretty teenager. But with each photo, the toll of the methamphetamines becomes more apparent. If he stacked the mug shots together and flipped them at the corners like you did with little stick-figure cartoons you made in middle school, it would show the evolution of a monster. The eyes sinking. The hair receding. The skin scabbing. The teeth disappearing.
He’s so tired of the drug war, which is really just a war on broken people, many who’ve suffered childhood trauma. Locking them up does nothing. Plenty of people in the system want to help. But his clients are like an army from a zombie movie. Help one, and a hundred more appear.
An officer escorts Brenda into the room and pulls out the chair. She plops into it. She’s thin, and looks even worse than in the photos. She smiles at Chris. A row of blackened nubs.
He goes through his script. He has it memorized by now: he’s her lawyer, he can never reveal what she tells him, she can trust him. He explains the charges and likely sentence if she pleads out versus if she loses at trial. He asks her questions about her background that might inspire the softer prosecutors to cut her a break.