i was just about to quit for good.
it was another day carrying bags
up and down stairs
while guests stood
in front of the elevators
and complained that they
were taking too long.
guests who had just gotten done
bitching about the lobby,
that the air conditioning
“was too cold,”
that new york had
“too many rats.”
usually i skipped the elevators
and hoofed it up the stairs
with their luggage strapped
to each shoulder.
it gave me five minutes without them.
and if they’d already pissed me off
i might accidentally
drop their bags a few times.
i wouldn’t even wait for them
at their rooms.
it was the same story every day.
they had no cash
or they only had euros
or they would pretend
to forget my tip altogether.
but that night i didn’t
punish the bags,
i just left them on the floor
and decided
“i’d rather be homeless.”
there were always windows
you could open
and step out onto fire escapes
for a quick leap,
or empty rooms
with fresh sheets and
high rafters.
but that night was the first time
i realized you could just walk out.
it wasn’t against the law yet.
i thought about it on the way
down the stairs,
and i probably would’ve done it
but then i saw her in the lobby –
a famous actress i’d had a crush on
since the days
we bought tickets for
singing animal movies
and then slipped into
the r-rated theater
when no one was looking.
i grabbed her bags but i didn’t
take the stairs,
i stood right next to her
the whole way.
“how’s your day going?”
she asked.
“terrible,” i said. “i was just about to quit
and then you walked in.”
she smiled.
i had said the right thing.
i couldn’t believe it.
i looked back at my coworkers.
they couldn’t believe it.
when we got to her room
i asked her if she’d ever been
to new york before.
of course she’d been to new york.
hell, she was the girl i thought of
when i thought of new york.
but she laughed.
everything that came out
of my mouth was stupid,
but it was coming out right.
“what else do you do?” she asked.
i told her i was a writer.
“what are you working on?”
“i just had a book published,” i said. “would
you read it?”
“a real book?” she asked. “sure.”
i kept about 30 copies of my book
in a locker
downstairs for just this reason.
i went to get one
and there was some crisis
in the lobby.
my manager asked me for help
but i shook my head.
there was more at stake
than keeping my job.
when i handed my book to her i said,
“they’re poems, but they don’t, like, rhyme.”
she gave me a $10 tip
(the most i’d ever been paid for my writing)
and i left,
wondering about this world i had entered,
always surrounded by
fame and money
and none of it ever crossing over.
we never had a lunch break
at that hotel,
you just left
whenever you wanted
and when you got bored
you went back.
this was down on ludlow street
so i walked to the cake shop
and ordered a budweiser.
it was happy hour and the bartender
slid two in front of me.
i was pretty drunk after
an hour of that.
my phone was buzzing the entire time
but i ignored it.
when i got back the girl
at the front desk jumped up.
“where have you been?”
“working.” i frowned.
“she called down!” the girl said. “she wants you
up in her room.”
i rode the elevator looking at myself
in the reflection
of the brass doors.
this was my moment.
she’s read my book, i thought.
she’s going to take me away from
all of this.
her door was open when i got there.
a guy was sitting on the floor
strumming a guitar.
he wasn’t good.
she introduced us and i could tell
by his indifference he was some
la kid,
born rich,
and all he had to do
was be at that right club
on the right night
and now she was his.
“you’re a great writer,” she said. “that’s why
i need your help.”
i was a bellman,
i would get fired
if i didn’t do what she wanted,
and usually, this meant
i would get arrested
if i got caught.
“i need to finish a script,”
she said. “can you get me a bag?”
i swore i’d never do it again,
but what the hell?
“how much
do you want?” i asked.
the guy with the guitar was
finally interested.
“get two,” he said.
she handed me $300.
it was a new hotel and
i’d never bought coke
in that neighborhood before.
janis was my favorite cocktail waitress
and she was running
the lobby bar by herself.
but janis was a soldier.
i told her what i needed
and she left her customers and
took me to another bar.
“i know a guy
with the best coke,” she said.
i looked at her nose.
i watched her inhale a cigarette.
janis had a beauty that ran so deep
all her hard work
couldn’t betray it.
she took me to max fish and
her guy charged $100 a gram.
that was a crazy price
and the bag looked really light
but janis had done me a solid
so i gave her $50
as a thank you.
when i got back into the lobby
ben stopped me.
“we’ve got to try it out,”
he said. “you can’t give
her a bag of shitty blow.”
we went up to the manager’s office
and did a bump.
then another.
“never forget,” ben said, “they’re paying us
to snort this right now.”
i went up to her room and
she opened the door, drunk.
“do you have a dog?” she asked.
i knew she was one of the
adopt or die types
so i said “yeah” but
i didn’t elaborate.
she told me a whole story
about white people
and how they’re the first
ones to get rid of their dogs
when times get tough.
“i hate everyone,” i said. “people
don’t deserve dogs.”
she liked that.
she took the coke and kissed me
on the cheek.
the next day she told me
she was getting an apartment
around the corner.
it sounded like an invitation.
“i’m leaving new york,” i said. “why do you
only get the girl
after you buy the plane ticket?”
the la guy parked a convertible
against the curb.
“that’s too bad,” she said. “it
could’ve been fun.”
then she walked past me
and threw her suitcase
into the backseat.
she blew me a kiss as she sat
in the passenger side
and put her feet up on the dashboard.
“it could’ve been fun,” she yelled.
the staff looked at me,
waiting for an explanation,
so i gave it to them.
“all the poems in the world won’t buy you
a convertible,” i said. “i don’t know
how many times
i have to learn that lesson
before i stop
trying.”
Scott Laudati lives in NYC with boxer, Satine. His writing has appeared in The Stockholm Review, The Columbia Journal, and many others. Visit him on Twitter or Instagram @Scott Laudati
