Airport garage

I was sitting on a bench, in a damp and windy garage under Brussels International Airport. A habit, it seemed, as I returned every day; except one. I was waiting for a bus to take me downtown or to my hotel. The way to the city was drawn through the airport or, more truthfully, my seedy barracks of a hotel was placed in an industrial area in close proximity to the airplanes' nest and therefore out of reach for the public transportation system.

Finally the shuttle bus arrived, probably late. I need a cab for tomorrow. There's a general strike and nothing's moving, except taxis. I'm tired. Alright, they'll help me. It'll be great to lay down on the bed in my room to read and write. I'll probably have to put some important papers together for the conference tomorrow too. What's the code to my door again, yes I wrote it down. Click. Nothing. The code is accepted, it works, but the door won't open. Ridiculous! I NEED to get in to my room, I paid for it! Bodycheck. Bang! ...nothing. Alright, the staff must surely have a key or a plan b. - My door won't open and I know my keycode. - Alright, I'll check. Bodycheck ...nothing. -I'll call a technician, you can have the room next door. - OK, but i still need my stuff. - He'll be here soon. ... A sound. I go out in to the corridor. A young man with a bag of secrets is working on the door, he has dismantled the electronic apparatus and is now trying different instruments on the door itself. Nothing. It's time to take the gloves off. It's sunday evening and it's not fun anymore so he reaches deep down into his bag, picks up a crowbar and breaks the door open.

- I'll just pick up my stuff and move in to the room next door.
- yea, this room is out of order.