picture.
Well, the cobblestones are still there, as are some of the buildings—though in much worse condition, and a lot filthier. The gas lamps have been replaced by the harsh orange glare of sodium vapor, and many of the lots are either weed-filled and fenced off with chain link, or hold only a burned-out husk of crumbling brick and charred wood. To my surprise the steam clock is still there, though obviously nonfunctional; as our car creeps past, I see that it’s only a shell, the empty interior visible through a missing access panel. Even the hands on the clock face are gone.
It’s no worse than many neighborhoods I’ve been to, but it hits me harder than I thought it would. It’s because I’ve been here before—well, been to a version of it, anyway—and now it feels like visiting a place after a natural disaster has swept through, a hurricane or an earthquake. The landscape’s familiar but everything’s been damaged, torn down, swept away.
The disaster here, though, isn’t a natural one. It’s a wave of crime and drugs, of violence and corruption. Inner-city decay as bad as a case of gangrene, feeding on greed and poverty, desperation and indifference. I don’t need to see the compounds the warlords live in to know they’re just as opulent and decadent as this place is squalid and grim. That’s how it always is.
Gastown was the original settlement that sprang up around the port, the place where the longshoremen and merchant marine would go to spend their hard-earned paychecks. Bordellos and speakeasies would have lined the streets in those days, maybe a few gambling parlors or opium dens. The oceanfront is visible through the buildings, only steps away, but there’s a set of railroad tracks and at least two razor-topped fences between here and there.
The only people out and about seem to be the drunks, junkies, and hookers, all three of which seem to favor the non-hairy look. I remark on this, and Eisfanger informs me that the baseline human form burns fewer calories. I reply that we also look a helluva lot more attractive in fishnets, and he concedes the point.
The hotel we’re booked into is called the Royal Arms, and the only thing royal about it is the castle-like security. No moat, but we have to buzz through two separate doors to get inside, both of which are heavily armored. There’s also a big sign on the first one stating that illicit activities are not allowed and will not be tolerated, which I understand to mean the rooms are not available by the hour.
The lobby is old and dusty and features furniture that might actually qualify as antiques if they weren’t held together with duct tape and baling wire. The clerk, a droopy-eyed pire who looks like he hasn’t been outside in a few decades, signs us in and takes an imprint of my credit card. We’ve got three rooms on the top floor, the third. Charlie takes the car around to the underground parking, while Eisfanger and I grab some luggage and head upstairs.
The place isn’t as bad as I thought it might be. Old, tired, and dingy, sure, but it’s clean and doesn’t stink. The rooms are larger than I would have expected—built when cubic footage was cheap—and the radiator in mine gives off a nice warm glow. Charlie shows up with the rest of our bags and announces that the parking lot is fairly secure, even has a lem guard.
“Haven’t seen too many of those, either,” I say. “Lems, I mean. Do the gangs do terrible things to them, too?”
“It’s not that,” Charlie says. “There are plenty of lems here, but you don’t see them on the street much. No reason for them to be there.”
“Guess not. They don’t get high, drunk, or laid, and that’s about all this place has to offer.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I hear the local ballet company is to die for.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Plenty of things here to die for…”
* * *
We get settled in, and then I call the number Stoker sent us and leave a message. I
Well, the cobblestones are still there, as are some of the buildings—though in much worse condition, and a lot filthier. The gas lamps have been replaced by the harsh orange glare of sodium vapor, and many of the lots are either weed-filled and fenced off with chain link, or hold only a burned-out husk of crumbling brick and charred wood. To my surprise the steam clock is still there, though obviously nonfunctional; as our car creeps past, I see that it’s only a shell, the empty interior visible through a missing access panel. Even the hands on the clock face are gone.
It’s no worse than many neighborhoods I’ve been to, but it hits me harder than I thought it would. It’s because I’ve been here before—well, been to a version of it, anyway—and now it feels like visiting a place after a natural disaster has swept through, a hurricane or an earthquake. The landscape’s familiar but everything’s been damaged, torn down, swept away.
The disaster here, though, isn’t a natural one. It’s a wave of crime and drugs, of violence and corruption. Inner-city decay as bad as a case of gangrene, feeding on greed and poverty, desperation and indifference. I don’t need to see the compounds the warlords live in to know they’re just as opulent and decadent as this place is squalid and grim. That’s how it always is.
Gastown was the original settlement that sprang up around the port, the place where the longshoremen and merchant marine would go to spend their hard-earned paychecks. Bordellos and speakeasies would have lined the streets in those days, maybe a few gambling parlors or opium dens. The oceanfront is visible through the buildings, only steps away, but there’s a set of railroad tracks and at least two razor-topped fences between here and there.
The only people out and about seem to be the drunks, junkies, and hookers, all three of which seem to favor the non-hairy look. I remark on this, and Eisfanger informs me that the baseline human form burns fewer calories. I reply that we also look a helluva lot more attractive in fishnets, and he concedes the point.
The hotel we’re booked into is called the Royal Arms, and the only thing royal about it is the castle-like security. No moat, but we have to buzz through two separate doors to get inside, both of which are heavily armored. There’s also a big sign on the first one stating that illicit activities are not allowed and will not be tolerated, which I understand to mean the rooms are not available by the hour.
The lobby is old and dusty and features furniture that might actually qualify as antiques if they weren’t held together with duct tape and baling wire. The clerk, a droopy-eyed pire who looks like he hasn’t been outside in a few decades, signs us in and takes an imprint of my credit card. We’ve got three rooms on the top floor, the third. Charlie takes the car around to the underground parking, while Eisfanger and I grab some luggage and head upstairs.
The place isn’t as bad as I thought it might be. Old, tired, and dingy, sure, but it’s clean and doesn’t stink. The rooms are larger than I would have expected—built when cubic footage was cheap—and the radiator in mine gives off a nice warm glow. Charlie shows up with the rest of our bags and announces that the parking lot is fairly secure, even has a lem guard.
“Haven’t seen too many of those, either,” I say. “Lems, I mean. Do the gangs do terrible things to them, too?”
“It’s not that,” Charlie says. “There are plenty of lems here, but you don’t see them on the street much. No reason for them to be there.”
“Guess not. They don’t get high, drunk, or laid, and that’s about all this place has to offer.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I hear the local ballet company is to die for.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Plenty of things here to die for…”
* * *
We get settled in, and then I call the number Stoker sent us and leave a message. I
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