I'll always remember Sierra's impromptu recital on the player piano in the
second living room. Unimpressed at first by the automated rendition of the
Association's stale hit, "Windy," I found myself astonished when the piano
roll was subsequently reversed and played backwards. Who would have dreamed
that "The Rabbit Walk" and a Latvian folk tune could have been combined like
that and then concealed in a pop song that sold millions? An entire
generation of elevator-riders knew the song in their sleep, but only Sierra
had discovered the hidden musical secret.
For me, it was the beginning of an ultimately futile attempt to woo the
unassuming genius. I did everything I could to lure Sierra into my private
study in Room 91. I would have traded my entire collection of Claes
Oldenberg inflatables for one long moonlit night caressing those naked limbs
under the fluer de lis sheets. But it was not to be.
A biting, sarcastic barb about being "allergic to cats" was the last
sentence directed at me. Then the door to Room 56 slammed shut and I was in
a silent hallway, alone. At first I thought I could make things right by
disposing of my affectatious toupee. But putting a match to the civet-fur
hairpiece with the silk lining that had been a part of my personal anatomy
since the 6th grade was a mistake. I suddenly discovered that the chimney
above the fireplace was blocked by some unknown object. I never entered that
room again.
