Editor’s Note: The Last Hotel: A Novel in Suites by Sonia Pilcer. This is the ninth installment of her tales of the Upper West Side in the 1970s. Look for it every Friday. To read the eighth installment, click here. Of this work, the author Anne Roiphe writes: “Bittersweet, funny, human and humane, a movie surely waits.”
Suite 22
“Da da da da da …” a booming voice bellowed from a tiny bathroom on the second floor of the Last Hotel. Lenny stepped out of the shower. As he wrapped a green Atlantic City towel around his waist, he gave the little man a cursory nudge. Still there, nose up in the air. Lenny gargled with Listerine.
He had spent the day driving, mostly to JFK. Lenny Katz wasn’t just any cabdriver. He owned the gold medallion on the hood of his car, free and clear. He had paid ten big smackers, but now it was worth twenty-five. He nodded to himself with satisfaction.
A large guy, Lenny was over six feet, 230 pounds. He had large hands, large belly, size 13 feet. He lathered his five o clock shadow the old fashioned way with his soap cup and shaving brush. Lenny had a heavy beard. If he wanted to be smooth at night, he had to shave a second time. Must be his Cossack blood. As the razor sailed through white foam, carving a wide path across his cheek, Lenny did his best Sinatra. “Strangers in the night, exchanging glances, wondering in the night, what were the chances….”
What were his chances with Queen Esther? He had always thought she was a snob with her Metropolitan Opera tickets and classes at the Whitney Museum. And he knew he wasn’t exactly Mr. Suave, pronounced swave where he came from. Yet she had not only offered to fix the lining of his jacket, but Esther said she’d mend the split in his good pants. Then to his total shock, she added, “Don’t eat anything before you come over.”
God, she must really want me! He smiled fondly at his reflection.
Filling the sink basin with hot steaming water, he splashed his face till he cried out, “Yes!” Then he started whacking his face with cold water from the tap. Slapping hard to get the blood going. Good for circulation. Now he patted Aqua Velva aftershave on his face and neck. “Yes!” he groaned. Sure, it stung like hell, but he enjoyed the masculine smell and feel of it. His skin, a bright ham pink, tingled.
Peering closely in the mirror, he noticed a few errant nose hairs. He trimmed them with round nub scissors, then snipped several hairs from his ears. What a hairy ape he was. Those Cossack genes. Lenny was convinced that his Russian grandmother had been raped by Cossacks though he had no evidence other than his hirsutitude. He knew some big words.
It wasn’t like he thought he was anyone’s dreamboat. He’d never make The Dating Game, but Lenny had a few charms. He pressed a tube of Brylcreem into his hands, rubbed them together, then worked it through his hair. Luckily, he hadn’t lost his hair like his brother the accountant, Max. Lenny’s hair was thick and dark. He sculpted the front into a pompadour with one spit curl falling over his forehead. Just like Tom Jones. “It’s not unusual…” he sang out as he stroked Extra Strength Right Guard under his pits, then sprayed Brut for good measure.
“Cool it,” he said aloud.
Although Lenny liked women, they invaded your life if you gave them just an inch. They took everything. He was a bachelor and that’s the way he wanted it. Looking around his room, he saw clothes he’d worn over the last few weeks draped over the single chair in his room, hanging from doorknobs, countless socks on the floor in the midst of empty Chinese food cartons and a large pizza box, not to mention a few empty cans. A woman would go nuts living with him.
He liked to live alone. No one to tell him what to do. That’s why he liked living in the hotel. You get all your privacy. Once he was married. Couldn’t take it. Never again. “When Jews say, never again, I say, yeah. I’ll never get married again.” He had made this remark to anyone who would listen for over twenty years.
He plunged an arm blindly into the dark, over-crowded closet, pulling out an orange cotton shirt. He sniffed the pits. Clean. His good bowling shirt with the name of his team WESTSIDE LANES printed on the back.
He found his split pants on the chair next to his black pants. He smelled them. They could use a wash. Oh well. It wasn’t like Esther would sniff his pants, but who knew? What were the chances? Maybe he’d get lucky. “Da da da da da …”
He stuck his keys and wallet into his back pocket. Then he pulled out a Budweiser six-pack from his tiny fridge.
* * *
That Rachel woman from the fourth floor was in the elevator. As Lenny walked past, she fluttered her lavender lids. With her dyed black hair, she looked like a Liz Taylor knock-off. She stared meaningfully into his eyes as she walked out of the elevator. Lenny stepped out behind her.
It was seven sharp. He prided himself on his punctuality. Ringing the doorbell of Suite 49, he began, “Da da da da da…” but stopped himself. No one likes a six-foot singing canary.
Esther Fein opened the door. Lenny stood in her doorway, holding a pair of black wool slacks over his arm, and his six-pack. He handed her the pants. “You offered,” he said.
“Yes, I did,” she answered, taking them from him.
Then he handed her the beer. “This is to express my heartfelt gratitude,” said like he’d memorized the phrase. “You look different.”
“I’m not wearing my glasses,” she told him. “I decided to try contact lenses.”
He examined her in the doorway. “You have nice eyes.”
Embarrassed, Esther smiled. “Come in.”
“Maybe you should put the beer in the frigidaire,” he suggested.
“Why not?”
Lenny followed the swish of Esther’s muu-muu dress that completely covered her body. Lenny strained to see where she might be within her floral tent, a waistline, perhaps, a buttock, but all he could see were her legs, which were very nice with surprisingly trim ankles, white high-heeled sandals.
Looking around her digs, Lenny whistled. Somehow she had fit several upholstered chairs, fancy standing lamps, and a brown velvet sectional sofa, not to mention, a crystal chandelier, into her suite. It was like a house in Queens! There were framed paintings on the wall and a small dining table, which was set with mats and cloth napkins.
“This is really classy!” he exclaimed. “And you’re only two floors above me.” He gave a whistle.
She laughed. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just the beer,” he said brusquely, then added, “Hey, I’m a bridge and tunnel kind of guy, raised in Canarsie. I’m still mad the Dodgers left Brooklyn.”
“I’m not impressed,” she told him. “I grew up in Bensonhurst. I think I’ll have a glass of rosé.” She poured his beer.
“Thanks,” he said, sitting down on a brocade chair with upholstered arms. There was a matching ottoman nearby. He put his feet up on it. Then he noticed his shoes were filthy. He dropped his feet hastily.
“Very nice indeedy,” he said, leaning back into the overstuffed chair.
Esther held a wine glass. “Cin cin.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I fixed your jacket. Just a minute.” Esther went into her alcove and brought it out. “Look.”
He took it from her and studied the brown lining, attached to the jacket with small, neat stitches.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said, truly touched. No one ever did anything like this for him, except his mother, Alice, who had passed away on Groundhog Day, ’72.
“It’s nothing.” Esther shrugged. “I always used to fix Jerry’s jackets and pants, sew his buttons, mend his socks. I miss doing things like that.”
“Jerry was your husband?”
She nodded. “We were married for over thirty years. I lost him three years ago to lung cancer,” she recited mechanically. “He smoked like a chimney on fire.”
Lenny had been about to take out his cigar, but thought better of it. “Sorry to hear that,” he said. “Is that when you moved into this dump?”
She turned to him. “You don’t mean that.”
“Why don’t you find yourself a one bedroom at Lincoln Towers?
“What? I have my friends,” she declared. “I’m happy here.”
“You make it look like a real home,” Lenny said, looking down at the Persian rug, the fancy vase with cut flowers.
“Thanks,” she said. “Besides I like Saul.”
“Me too. He’s a total lunatic though.”
“Who wouldn’t be after what he went through?”
Lenny nodded knowingly.
“Have you met his new wife?” she inquired.
“Luba?” He shook his head. “What about you?”
“I don’t think she comes to the hotel.”
“So you had a good marriage?”
“I met Jerry when I was eighteen. He was twenty-two, going to Brooklyn College on the GI bill. I was getting a degree in social work. We didn’t have any children,” she added.
“You a social worker?” he asked.
She nodded. “How long have you been driving a taxi?”
“Twenty three years, November, but I don’t work for no fleet. I have my own car. Purchased my medallion ten years ago,” he said proudly.
“Did you see that movie ‘Taxi Driver’ with Robert DeNiro?”
“I didn’t like it,” he said. “Gives us cabbies a bad name. That meshugeh shaving his head. I mean, not that there aren’t some nut jobs out there. I’ve met them all, and I never met anyone like that guy. That movie was sick.”
“It was an incredible character study though. Martin Scorcese is a genius …” she began.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but –” he interrupted. Then he gave her his winning smile. “I was promised something to eat.”
She looked at him. “I’ll check.”
His eyes followed her path to the kitchenette. As she bent over to open the oven, he spied a hint of flesh above her knee high stockings. Yeah, this was a big gal, but he had nothing against fleshiness, especially if it was in the right places.
All of a suddenly, a cloud of beefy steakness rose from the oven, wafted across the room into Lenny’s nostrils. He sat up as if struck. Esther carried a silver platter, placing it on the table.
“I hope you like London broil,” she said.
“With fried onions!” he exclaimed joyfully.
Lenny joined her at the table. It was set with real silver and good steak knives. He looked down at his fingernails, which were dirty. How had he missed them?
“Just a minute.” She went back to the stove, returning with a blue serving bowl. “And potato kugel.” She placed it in front of him.
“I died and went to heaven.” Lenny sighed.
“Would you mind slicing the steak?” she asked as she sat down across from him.
Lenny worked at the task with concentration. He forked three slices of meat for himself. Esther helped herself to a thin slice of meat. They ate silently for a few moments.
“Dis is delicious,” he said with his mouth full, steak sauce dripping from the side of his mouth. “Really!”
“I’m glad you like it,” she said, using her napkin to wipe the sauce on Lenny’s chin.
“I miss cooking,” she continued. “Everyone I know goes to restaurants. So do I. But sometimes I like to use my own dishes and silverware.”
“I miss eating good food like this,” he said, chewing loudly. “Thanks for the wipe down. Well, you can cook for me anytime, Queen Esther.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“Why?”
“Why do you call me that?” she asked.
“I can’t help it, Esther. Your name makes me think of Purim. In our spiel, I was always Hamen. He’s the one that everyone boos at.”
“Did you like that?”
“I didn’t mind.”
“You’re right, you know,” Esther admitted. “I was chosen to be Queen Esther, but I wanted to be Vashti. The evil one, who wouldn’t dance for the king. She was actually the first feminist in the Bible.”
Lenny tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound uncouth or coarse. “Aren’t you going to eat anymore?” he asked, eyeing the thin sliver on her plate.
“I’m on Weight Watchers,” she answered. “I can only have four ounces of beef.”
“But you look terrific!” Lenny said, gesticulating with his fork. “I like a woman who looks like a woman. I can’t stand those skinny bags of bones.” He took another bite, chewing loudly.
Esther took a tiny sip of wine. “More beer?” she asked, standing up.
“Sit.” He put his arms on her shoulders. “I’ll help myself.”
When he returned, he noticed Esther’s tears. “Are you crying?” he asked, staring at her.
She shook her head. “No. I’m just having trouble with my contacts. That’s why I never wear them.” She stood up. “I better get my eye drops.”
Esther threw her head back, poising the dropper above one eye, then the other. She closed her eyes, but they continued to tear. “Oh, this is awful!”
“What’s the matter?” He gave her his napkin.
“It burns.”
“So take them out.”
“I need two cups of water. Could you get them for me?”
“Sure,” Lenny said, rushing into her kitchenette. “Where are they?”
“The cabinet above the stove.”
He found two teacups, which he filled with water. Then he put them on the table in front of Esther. “Can I do anything else?”
She shook her head, keeping her eyes closed. Slowly, she bent over the cup, removing her right lens. As she did the same with the left, the lens slipped from her finger.
“Shit!” she cried. “Oh, excuse me!”
“What?”
“I dropped the lens.”
“Where?”
“I think it’s on my dress somewhere.”
“Should I help you?” Lenny scanned the expansiveness of her tent.
She nodded. “I can’t move or the contact will fall on the floor.”
He approached her awkwardly. “What should I do?”
“I’m going to pick up my skirt so maybe it will fall into the center.”
Lenny grinned happily as she raised the dark tent above her knees. Squinting, he patted the material, trying to find the tiny sliver of glass. There was much material and no lens.
“I don’t see it,” he said.
“Neither do I. Maybe it fell on the floor.” Esther stood up, carefully shaking the dress.
“Are they insured?” Lenny asked.
She shook her head. ”I’m going to check the carpet.”
“I’ll help you.” Lenny lowered himself to the floor.
For several minutes, they crawled on the carpet, feeling for the lens with their fingertips. Next to Lenny, Esther looked slight, feminine, even delicate. Once their heads met. They gazed at each other on all fours. Esther burst into a fit of giggles. “Will you look at us? I feel so stupid.”
“What about me?”
“It’s so undignified,” Esther cried.
“I’m almost sixty years old!” Lenny whooped.
“I’m no spring chicken either,” Esther giggled helplessly.
“We’re both much too old for this.”
Shaking with laughter, they fell into each other’s arms. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lenny lunged at Esther, giving her a big, messy tongue kiss. She responded, throwing her arms around him, shutting her eyes. For several moments, they kissed. Slowly, his right hand wandered over the tent of her dress until he reached the bottom of it. As he tried to reach beneath, his hand was met with an iron clamp. She held it there. As they continued to kiss, his free hand found her breast within the tent.
“Whoa! Wait a minute!” She scrambled on the floor, pulling away from him. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“You work kind of fast.” Esther sat up, straightening her tent. “I’m not ready for this.”
“For what?”
“Messing around.” She combed her hair with her fingers.
“Huh?”
“You know, petting. One thing leads to another… ”
“So kill me,” he said. “I’m hot and bothered.”
“I’m just not that modern,” she said, standing up.
As he struggled to stand up, a loud, piercing sound escaped.
“Excuse me! I should find your little boy’s room.” Lenny rushed out of the room. The smell remained behind. Esther found lilac freshener and sprayed the room.
After fifteen minutes, Esther called, “Are you all right in there?”
“Do you have any Alka Seltzer?”
“In the medicine cabinet.”
“Must have been the kugel,” he said as he joined her a few minutes later.
Esther pointed to his open fly. “Lenny, your fiddle case…”
“I’m such a shlemiel,” he said, zipping up. “You know, Yiddish has about a hundred ways to say shmuck, putz… They’re all words for the penis.”
“– Like the Eskimos’ words for snow,” Esther interrupted. “Actually I’m the shlemazel for losing my lens.”
“Did you find it?”
She shook her head. “I knew I shouldn’t wear them.”
“About before,” he began. “It was just too tempting with both of us on the floor that way…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Esther said.
“I’m really in no rush,” he added. “Besides I have another pair of pants –.”
“Just bring them to me,” she said passionately. “If you’re missing buttons on your shirts and jackets or need me to let out a seam …”
“Because you’ve done this for me,” Lenny declared. “I want to do something for you.”
“Yes?” Esther looked expectant.
“I know something about the horses,” he began. “Been playing ‘em for forty years. Anyway, I got a tip from a good source. Midnight Shadow. Favored to win, 5 to 1. I know the jockey. He says she has a real chance.”
“Are you saying I should put money on Midnight Shadow?”
“I’m placing my own two hundred.”
“I see.”
“Do you have any mad money because you could lose it,” Lenny said. “But you could make some real dinero.”
Esther thought about it for a moment. “I’ve never gambled in my whole life.”
“So live a little,” he said.
“Why not, Lenny?” she said mischievously. “I never take any risks.”
“Now you’re talkin’!”
She pulled a black wallet from a desk drawer and counted ten crisp ten dollar bills and handed them to him.
He whistled. “That’s a lotta change.”
“You only live once.”
“You’re not going to be in the poorhouse, right?” he asked. “Cause nothing’s ever a sure thing. But you could make some dough-re-mi.”
“What happens if we win?” she asked.
“Don’t count your chickens before you’ve been laid.” He grinned at his own joke.
“So now I’ll be a gambler.” Esther smiled. “I like you, Lenny, but I don’t believe in going all the way on the first date. Or at least, I didn’t the last time I had a date, which was a long time ago.” She touched his hand softly. “Please don’t stop trying.”
He grabbed her in his arms. She pulled away. “You said I shouldn’t stop trying,” he cried.
“Not now, silly,” she giggled girlishly.
“We’re only young once,” he said.
“So young,” she laughed.
“Two virgins.” He grabbed her again.
“Hold your wild horses,” Esther said, pushing him out by the shoulders.
“Speakin’ of horses, I’ll let you know about Midnight Shadow as soon as I know.”
“I’m excited!”
“Hey, my jacket! The one you fixed! I almost forgot –“
She handed his jacket to him. “I’ll do your pants tomorrow.”
He kissed her hand.
“Bonne nuit,” Esther said dreamily, opening the door for him.
He bowed out of the doorway like a goddamn prince. As he walked to the stairwell, Lenny started to hum. “Da da da da da …”
__________
Sonia Pilcer is the author of six novels including The Holocaust Kid. The Last Hotel has been published by Heliotrope Books. Visit Sonia Pilcer’s web site here.
