Which it is.

Boombadaboom.

Drew sits up in bed. Awake now.

Boombadaboomboom.

Not a tire. Japanese taiko drums. Blasting from the Polk Audio speakers.

Boombadaboomboom.

Touches the keypad. No more drums.

Big Bang, by Portland Taiko.

Thanks to a server and a network, Drew awakens every morning to the sound of drums. Gets out of bed. Touches the keypad.

“…morning edition from NPR.”

Off. Bathroom. Shower and shave. On.

Drew watches TV in the shaving mirror, a Sony LCD behind semi-silvered glass, shining through. (Stole the idea from Vegas resorts.) He shaves with a straight razor, the kind you strop. In some ways, he’s very old-school.

And there’s DeNiro.

Taxi Driver.

“You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? Then who the…”

Off.

It’s just too weird.

He throws on a T-shirt and, what the hell, shorts. Having dressed for the office, he grabs the keypad and pads down the hall into the living room.

Stops and looks around.

Alice is coming today. Tonight. This is the big night. The dinner he’s pinning his hopes on.

Let’s say he was Alice. What would he think—what would she think about the guy who lived in this place?

Living room.
Bamboo floors.
Low-volt halogen track lights on an S-curve monorail.

The furniture firmware is your basic no-nonsense, mid-century modern—the kind of chairs and sofas Frank Sinatra would like to sit on. Most of it followed him here from California: the black-leather Barcelona couch (a knockoff of the Mies van der Rohe classic), the black-leather Venni recliner (a knockoff of the Paul Volther Corona chair—which he got at Living Walls, replacing the chair destroyed in shipping), a glass-and-wood Noguchi coffee table. Maybe it’s in fashion, maybe it’s out of fashion. The look was imprinted on his mind as a kid; the cool house he promised himself.

Sony HDTV plasma flat screen—one of 16 scattered through the condo. They come in various sizes; this happens to be 50-inch diagonal.

Alice would think…

This guy’s got money, decent taste, leans heavily to the modern and shiny, no table legs with animal feet—a look he decided on and stuck with, not cruising the H channel every week. It’s a bachelor pad, at least for the last 13 months or so. Not too neat, but neat enough.

The look—it is what it is. You go into battle with the condo you have. Besides…

“What’s your favorite movie? Ocean’s 11, right?”
“The original, right?”
“No, duh. Yeah. The Frank Sinatra version, not the George Clooney version. That’s your favorite. Right?”
“Right.”

She’s been here before. Said she liked the look. That’s not the problem.

Sound?

Starts moving again, pacing around in the living room.

What’s the most romantic music he can think of?

Touches the keypad.

L.A. punk starts blasting.

“Someone clean to chew on…”

Ooops.

Your Phone’s Off the Hook, by X.

Let’s try…

“Well, it’s a marvelous night for a…”

Cover of Van Morrison's Moondance, by Michael Bublé.

Better. But…

“The summer wind c ame blowing in…”

The Summer Wind, by Frank Sinatra.

Best.

Off.

It’s going to go great.

Relax, take it easy.

Take a breath.

He looks out the window.

A smart window—electrochromic coatings, making the glass adapt to the light outside. Pre-release product—still testing it. Post-release, they’ll pay him to write about it. Green technology, saves energy.

And it’s a beautiful view.

A bright, sunny day, just like the dream.

Nothing but blue sky. Sarasota Bay, random scatterings of sailboats.

Thanks to his line of work, Drew could just as easily be looking out at the sailboats in San Diego harbor. He happens to like Sarasota, so this happens to be the view. Clients everywhere; he can work anywhere. The joys of being a knowledge worker. Silicon Valley taught him much.

Knowing when to cash out.

The importance of coffee.

The…
Coffee.
Brain food.
Must have coffee.

Drew snaps out of his fugue state, looks away from the window, does the zombie walk straight to the kitchen.

And there’s his Saeco Talea Ring Plus Super Auto Espresso Machine, a programmable high-end, streamlined baby. Black, like the Batmobile.

Grind, brew…

It’s a very nice kitchen, but it still feels like enemy territory. Except for his Batmobile coffee machine, everything in it was her idea—she who must not be named, namely the ex-wife who left, 13 months ago, and now has her own cooking show.

Roararrrrgggghhh.
The cappuccino train comes in.
Pop.
The bagel is done.

Drew sits, sips and eats at the bar counter at kitchen’s edge—keeping the dining room table clean for tonight. Looks at the kitchen. Shudders. It still feels like a very enemy territory. But it’s a very nice kitchen.

Stainless steel double sink, very practical. Stainless steel also for the major appliances (actually that was his idea—she wanted wood): Viking gas range (two stoves, open burner, grill, dual fuel sources) and a Sub Zero refrigerator (actually a side-by-side fridge and freezer—two drawers and a door for each; the fridge has a glass window). Black granite countertops. Some stuff is reachable, but most of the designer pots and pans and obscure Japanese ceramic knives are stuffed away in drawers (she liked drawers). An all-in as opposed to all-out design approach. The kitchen is a chef’s dream from the daughter of a chef. It’s a kitchen to die for, and he doesn’t cook. Unless you count the coffeemaker, the juicer and the microwave.