by J. Hartman
(10/18/00)
1504, 1506, 1510 . . . Humphrey Milquer eased off the accelerator, peering at the dim building numbers under flickering streetlamps. There it was: 1592, at the corner of Addison and Huxley. A discreet wooden sign declared the grey concrete building to be The Secret Garden. A tough-looking motorcycle cop was parked on the broad sidewalk in front, facing the street.
Humphrey drove slowly past. The cop stared at the street, as if he'd been instructed to see nothing.
Humphrey parked a block away. His hands trembled as he set the parking brake. He shut off the engine, sat with his fingers on the keys for a long moment.
Finally he took a deep breath and yanked the keys from the ignition. He got out, locked the car door, and strode toward The Secret Garden.
A middle-aged man in a leather jacket, carrying a gym bag, emerged from the grey building as Humphrey approached. The man scurried around the corner and disappeared into the shadow of the tall wooden fence that extended from the grey wall.
The cop continued to stare dead ahead, still as a mannequin.
Humphrey pushed open the pneumatic door and found himself in a grimy, bare entranceway. A dim incandescent bulb dangled from the ceiling. Straight ahead was a window of thick glass, with a hole in the base for the exchange of money. A bored-looking young man, tall and thin and blond, stood behind the glass.
The man looked up as Humphrey stepped forward. Humphrey cleared his throat. "I'd like, uh, a one-time membership?" he croaked.
"Ever been here before?" asked the blond man. He pushed a form and a pen under the glass.
Humphrey shook his head. He wrote his name on the form, conscious of the blond man's cool gaze.
"Over 18? Picture ID?"
Humphrey pried his wallet out of his tight jeans pocket and slid his driver's license under the glass.
"All right. Here's a key to locker number 82. Grab a towel from the stack just inside the door, then leave your clothes in the locker...
