The Girl at the Chelsea Hotel
I was living in a 350 square foot studio near Union Square which I shared with a room mate I found through the Village Voice. He worked the night-shift making pastries for a bakery near Columbus Circle. We rarely saw each other; but the rent was obscene and both of us needed a Manhattan address, so we made it work for the sake of appearances.
I was a sales associate at an upscale furniture store. Not just anyone could afford our designs. And I liked things that were well designed; and I liked selling those things to well dressed women with well paid interior designers who carried big over-the-shoulder Ferragamo bags with small dogs inside. It satisfied me to see them love a couch only to have the designer come back later to bargain about the trade discount, which still exceeded my weekly salary.
After my most handsome sales, I’d walk around town and enjoy the lobbies of the best boutique hotels Gotham had to offer: the W or Millenium, the Tribeca Grand or the Giraffe. On a good day I could sit for hours in the Tribeca Grand on their sleek chairs with a pot of Earl Grey resting on a silver tray and the latest Architectural Digest in hand. That was heaven.
But when I’d given up chunks of my commission to one of those harpies who just had to have this chaise or that ottoman for their client, it was time for something more eclectic. When I was slumming it I’d visit the Gershwin or the Chelsea Hotel.
The Chelsea was never going to win awards for best designed lobby. I had no desire to sit on their unkempt furniture, but I liked their eclectic paintings and artistic vibe. There was something about the strange people that felt familiar; similar to the tenants from the rent-controlled apartments I grew up with at my parent’s upper West Side apartment building.
One night I spotted a girl sitting in the Chelsea lobby chatting with one of those young men you see these days with retro-style Buddy Holly glasses, a plaid shirt, skinny jeans and Keds. Those are the kinds of guys who work in art galleries and help put up installations of thousands of thumb tacks on a wall to re-create the Mona Lisa. She was gesticulating in the way young girls do these days, a la mode of Victoria Beckham, with a practiced nonchalance that might have fooled a young retro, but not me.
I could have sworn the girl looked at me through the window, so I hurried my pace. I didn’t want her to think I was some creepy guy that stared in hotel lobbies checking out the people, especially because I was more interested in the paintings. And her earnestness disturbed me; it seemed too on display for any passerby.
A week later, I had forgotten about it entirely but I wound up running into her on the F train. She stared at me as we stepped off the train at 14th Street and 6th Avenue.
“Excuse me, have we met before?” she said.
“Yes, I think so,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t remember the specifics.
I started to cross 6th Avenue but she walked alongside me.
“Wait, wait,” she said with an earnestness that I should have foreseen.
I plowed ahead towards 5th Avenue and swore to myself that the Chelsea was going to be off-limits from now on. I didn’t need strange girls lagging after me at subway stops. No one would do that at the Grand; those people had the decency of leaving you alone like normal New Yorkers.
“You’re that guy,” she said, smacking her forehead. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize it.” Her voice rose an octave.
I was pretty sure my gig was up, but I refused to confess to my nocturnal wanderings, that was my business. Who did this girl think she was, barging up to a stranger without warning and demanding conversation in the middle of 14th Street? It was offensive.
“You work at that furniture store,” she said.
“Yes, stop by anytime,” I said offering my best sales voice, hating myself for even suggesting that she come into my sanctum to distract me from reading about Gerard Butler’s loft in Chelsea (with the accompanying Architectural Digest pictorial.)
“I will,” she said.
“Well, I’ve got to get going,” I said as we crossed the short block at University Place. I prayed to the god of Andy Warhol she wasn’t going to walk with me across Union Square.
“Oh, sure…” she said, still looking at me. “But, can I ask you a favor?”
Here it comes, I thought. She’s already picked out what she wants and she’s going to assault me on the discount, right here on the street. Don’t people have any decency anymore? I can’t complain to the cops, ‘Officer, people are accosting me at subway stops because they need Swedish modern at more reasonable prices.’ For Christ sakes.
“What’s that?” I said.
“The next time you walk by the Chelsea Hotel when I’m there, would you promise to come in?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sure we must have met at the furniture store, as you’ve said.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I’ve seen you at the store all the times I’ve walked by, but you never noticed me. You don’t look out your windows.”
She was right, I never looked outside when I was at work. I hadn’t seen the need to look outside the store when everything I wanted to know was happening inside it.
“But you like to look into windows when you’re outside…don’t you? Maybe it’s time you opened the door, and came in.”
“What do you want from me? I don’t stroll into a group of strangers sitting in hotel lobbies and pull up a chair.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but I’d bet you have the most interesting stories from your store. I work at the Chelsea three nights a week and I get a lot of material just from watching what goes on there.”
“Material?”
“I’m a writer. Well, I’m studying to be one at NYU anyway.”
“Oh. I don’t know when I’ll be over that way, but if I see you there I’ll pop in and say hello. Alright?”
“Sure,” she said, grinning. “I could even write a story about our meeting.”
“I suppose,” I said. “What would you call it?”
“How about The Best Furniture Salesman in Manhattan?”
“Definitely not; I think this story is at least as much about you. You should call it The Girl at the Chelsea Hotel.”
“Perfect!” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “isn’t it?”
Carol Deminski‘s stories have appeared in Bartleby Snopes, the Jersey Devil Press, First Stop Fiction and other journals. A complete list of her published works can be found at cdeminski.wordpress.com. She loves the permanent art exhibition in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel and highly recommends a visit.
