Editor’s Note: This is the fifth installment of Sonia Pilcer’s The Last Hotel: A Novel in Suites. Look for it every Friday. Of this work,the author Hilma Wolitzer has observed: “‘The Last Hotel’ is a 20th Century ark filled with survivors of history and gentrification. Sonia Pilcer brings them all vividly to life with gentle wit and a generous heart.” To read previous installments, click here.
Sofa Club
Most hotels and boarding houses have a certain place where the habitués hang out, the professional tongue-waggers. Theirs was the turquoise vinyl couch near the elevator, chained to the wall so no one stole it. An overflowing pedestal ashtray stood nearby. That’s where the Sofa Club met most evenings after Saul left.
“So what’s the news?”
Lenny Katz took his designated seat on the couch, sucking on a chewed, unlit stogie, the Daily Racing Form in his hand. His second home was the OTB parlor on 72nd Street. He drove his own cab, mostly to the airports.
“Lousy,” Lenny grumbled.
Pete Mahoney, already seated, nodded. He spent his days outdoors, operating a cherry picker machine. A RED SOX cap slung low, he exuded a robust health like a fat baby as he sipped from a Budweiser in a paper bag.
Pincus Shreiber joined soon afterwards. His black leather briefcase overflowed with books and papers. He still had his hair though not much of it.
“Nu?” Pincus said, sitting down on the vinyl couch.
“The world is going to hell in a handbag,” Lenny said.
“Yeah, that’s for sure.”
“Did you see Jimmy Carter? It’s pathetic. His hands are tied. He can’t do nothing. And the Iranians are having great old time burning our flags.”
Lenny voice rose. “Fifty-two American citizens. Hostages. And Raghead is screaming about Great Satan.”
“That’s why Reagan’s my man,” Pete said. “He wouldn’t take this kind of crap.”
“Reagan is an idiot!” Lenny said. “All he does is smile. What me worry? I can’t stand looking at his mug.”
“He wasn’t even a good actor,” added Pincus.
A Hungarian woman with bright, thinning paprika hair, and an unpronounceable last name, Gittel brought a metal thermos of tea with lemon and paper cups. Her bony hand caught the new resident, a young woman, Hana, as she walked to the elevator, trying to avoid the Sofa Club.
“Don’t vorry, tsatskileh,” Gittel said as she tried to pass her. “Teppel gefint zich zaya shtertzel.”
“Huh?” uttered the frizzy haired, full-figured young woman.
“She don’t understand Yiddish,” Lenny said.
“Every pot finds its lid,” Pincus translated. “It’s a Yiddish expression.”
“You want an expression,” Lenny began. “How about ‘Itliches petzl gefint zok zein lechl?’ My father used to say that.”
“Meshugeh!” Pincus said sharply. “What kind of nonsense –?“
“It means,” Lenny translated, “Every little pecker finds its own little hole.”
Pete looked up drunkenly. “Where are we? Delancy Street? Too much kosher pastrami around here.”
“What’s it to you?”
“They’re always talking about eye contact,” Pete said. “You know why men don’t make eye contact? Because breasts don’t have eyes.” He laughed and took another slug.
“Haven’t you ever heard of Women’s Lib?” Lenny said.
“I‘ve had enough women’s lip to last me a lifetime.”
Lenny dropped his voice. “I heard someone wants to buy the hotel.”
“This place?” Pincus asked.
“You must be kidding.”
“We should talk to Saul.”
“Yeah, you try,” Lenny said.
“Talking to Saul is like talking to a volcano,” Pete said. “You never know when he’ll erupt.”
At that moment, Esther Fein entered the lobby, carrying a bag of groceries from Pioneer. She studied the motley group on the couch. “Hi, Pincus,” she said, her pretty blue eyes smiling behind rhinestone-initialed glasses. “Hello, Leonard.”
Lenny, pacing back and forth, read his Racing Form aloud. “Hey Pete, whadaya think of ‘Disco Kelly? Favored five to one.”
“Excuse me,” Esther said, trying to pass him, leaning away from his cigar.
He looked up at her. “Well, if it isn’t Queen Esther. Can I help you?” He took her bags.
As he bent down to place the bags in front of the elevator, she peered at the seam of his sleeve, which was splitting, the lining dropping out from his jacket. She couldn’t help herself. Bachelors, what do they know? Esther reached for his jacket, checked the lining with him in it.
“It’s falling apart,” she said.
He shrugged. “So don’t look at it.”
“I’ll fix it for you,” she offered.
“You would?”
“Give it to me,” she said, helping him out of his jacket. “Do you have other things too?”
“My good pants are split in the tuches.”
“So bring them over.” She looked down modestly. “Suite 49.”
“When?”
“Whenever.”
“I’m free as an eagle.”
“Tonight at seven?”
“Ya got it.”
“Don’t eat anything before,” she added.
Lenny strutted peacock proud. “Strangers in de night…” He hummed to himself as he joined his cronies. “Da da da da da …”
Gittel stood up. “De insides,” she said, pointing to her chest, “is de same.” She ran her wrinkled hand over her wrinkled body. “Just dis change. De outside.”
As they waited for the elevator, Esther turned the jacket inside out to look at the lining. She tsk-tsked, shaking her head. “They’re totally helpless without us.”
Hana shrugged.
“What are you, a writer?” Esther asked.
“Do I look like one?”
Esther pointed to her CHANNEL 13 canvas bag, filled with blue manuscript boxes.
“I’m an editorial assistant at a publisher,” Hana said.
“Very impressive…” she murmured.
Hana was part of the corps of English majors, who having graduated with honors, sat in cubicles, got authors coffee and logged manuscripts from the slush pile. After six months, she rose to reading the scripts and writing reports, which sent her to weekly chiropractor appointments, which weren’t covered by insurance. She earned a heaping seventy-five hundred per annum pre-taxes.
“So are you a writer or not?” Esther demanded.
“I’m trying to be.”
“Why don’t you write about the people at the hotel?”
“Maybe I am.”
When the elevator arrived, a woman with spiky dyed black hair walked briskly past them. She wore dark glasses and a wrinkled black trench. You couldn’t tell her age or ethnicity. She stared down at her huge black clodhopper boots.
When the woman was barely out of earshot, Esther whispered, “Do you know who she is?”
Hana shook her head. People always seemed to want to talk about her.
“She lives in the Penthouse. Very unfriendly,” Esther said. “I tried to introduce myself, but she wouldn’t even look up.”
“Maybe she doesn’t speak English.”
“And she mainly comes out at night,” continued Miss Marple. “I bet she’s a hooker or a drug dealer.”
“Or under a witness protection program.”
“She has a tattoo,” Esther added. “I saw it once.”
Hana looked up. She had heard that the elevator had once been manually operated. Now it was automatic, and had one of those slanted mirrors on the corner ceiling, which showed the mugger/rapist after it was already too late. Or you could check your hair. Just as the elevator door slid shut, Monica Parker of Forgive Us Our Passions stepped into the elevator behind Esther and Hana.
She nodded to Esther, but gave Hana an unfriendly snub. She lived in the suite below Hana and had made it clear she wasn’t into Miles Davis by poking a broom against her ceiling, which was her floor. She was tall, thin, and leggy. A total goyishe cupcake. The kind that drove Jewish guys nuts.
Monica carried a large black bag. All of a sudden, a yelp issued from it. Then another. She reached into the bag and whispered, “Shhh, Bogie.” Monica looked around anxiously.
So she had a dog! Animals weren’t allowed in the hotel. A little Pekingese face stuck out of her bag.
The door was about to shut when an intense-looking man rushed in. Thick black hair, caterpillar eyebrows, darting eyeballs, black moustache, he resembled Peter Sellers. Dr. Tannenbaum. Resident head shrinker. He saw patients in his suite on the second floor. Monica gave him a smoldering glance.
As he went through his pockets for his keys, something fell to the floor. It was a small ceramic elephant. A hash pipe! He hastily pocketed it. The Shrunken Head of the Last Hotel! Monica saw it, offering a knowing smile.
The elevator stopped at two. The door opened. Dr. T seemed deep in thought and didn’t move, though it was his floor. The door shut. Next was the fourth floor. Esther got off the elevator. Monica didn’t. That was her floor. The elevator climbed haltingly until it reached five. Hana stepped out. Monica and Dr. T turned to each other as the doors closed.
The scent of Parfum de Joy filled the fifth floor. Amber must have passed through. How often does one get to live next door to an honest-to-God queen. Hana knew because she had confided in her. And still she could only think of her as her girlfriend, though somewhere in the far reaches of her brain, she knew Amber had a penis. She was pre-op, and took Hana for her first manicure and pedicure. Wasn’t the city a great place?
As she walked down the hallway, approaching her door, another scent hit the olfactories. A very different, delicious one. Beef brisket simmering in its juices, the smell of fried onions wafted up through the vents.
Next week: Visit Hana Wolf in Suite 55.
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Sonia Pilcer is the author of six novels including The Holocaust Kid. The Last Hotel will be published in December by Heliotrope Books, available at Amazon.com. Visit Sonia Pilcer’s web site here.
