Editor’s Note: This is the 31st and penultimate chapter of Sonia Pilcer’s novel, THE LAST HOTEL, which the Edge has serialized weekly. We will be celebrating the completion of the serialization at the Lauren Clark Gallery on Sunday, June 28th. Stay tuned for more details on this event.
To read the 30th installment, with links to previous ones, click here.
Basement
Saul coasted down the Grand Central Parkway in his Midnight Blue 1979 Chevrolet Caprice. As he drove, he stroked the velour seat. He liked his car. It only had 34,000 miles. He turned on the radio.
“TEN TEN WINS, TEN TEN WINS, TEN TEN WINS NEW YORK, THE LATEST NEWS IS…” He turned up the volume. He opened the window. Ah!
To be out of the house at last. He was not meant to rest. To sit around and watch television. He hadn’t thought about it before, but he hated the house. Ruth had used a decorator and he’d never changed a single satin pillow. Same old avocado carpet, white and avocado brocade couch he never liked, the cut glass punchbowl on the crystal base. His bride deserved better.
As he shifted into the right lane, he tried to imagine living in Florida. Palm trees. Sunshine. He could put a down payment on a condo. They wouldn’t even have to sell their house. No. He shook his head as he slowed down. Not him. That was living death. Palm trees and all.
He turned off the expressway, approaching the Queensboro Bridge. He looked to the left, clear, and drove on the ramp to the upper level, where he could see the New York City skyline.
How many times had he made the identical trip to the hotel? Every morning for nineteen years minus weekends, and returned back the same way, every evening, five times a week. 52 weeks. 4,940 times. Minus vacations, days off. 4,800. And this time was the last time. He exited at 60th Street and turned up Third Avenue.
Yes, he’d sold out. Joined the other partners in the abandonment of the Last Hotel, which had always made money. But not enough for Jonah Last and his ilk. He’d given in, but at least he forced them to pay. Yes, pay. He wouldn’t go cheap. For his outstanding fifteen percent, he made them write a check for one hundred thousand dollars. The partners would die if they knew. But he wasn’t talking. The bastards. Besides, Saul knew it was chicken feed. They’d turn the property over for a million or two, flipping it like a golden pancake.
The Last Hotel would be gutted. The framed walls torn down, replaced by cardboard ones that halved the rooms. They’d be renovated with remodeled kitchens, recessed lighting, sheet-rocking. All that would be left was its shell.
But this was reality, he reminded himself. Realty. Saul was taking the money and getting out for good. He was a not a young man. He was not a strong man anymore. He had a weak heart. And there was his Luba. Though it was difficult for him to think of it, this time was for him, for them.
It had come to him last week. Just as he was getting ready to fight the partners again. He had argued to continue managing the hotel. That’s when the sky rumbled outside their house. A streak of lightning shot across the sky. He heard a voice. “Shmuck, you’re going to work your whole life?”
“What else is there?” he answered humbly. “A man works.”
There was thunder. “Live a little, shmegegge. Enjoy yourself.”
Enjoyment. What was that? What had he ever done for the enjoyment of it? Nothing. A man eats, sleeps, works, puts food on the table.
He thought of his daughter. Leah had come to see him at the house. She was polite to Luba. She even gave him a lesson in yoga, how to breathe and relax.
“Dad,” she had said to him afterwards. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
“It’ll take more than a little heart trouble to kill me.”
“I really –“ She had begun. He had no idea where this was coming from. “Actually I spoke to Dr. T after I found out.”
“You did?”
“He gave me a sense of myself. Of my good fortune to be your daughter.”
But when she offered him the marijuana cigarette, that was too much. He’d asked her if she smoked this. She shook her head, said she had bought it for him. He’d help her get an apartment, put down a deposit and the first month’s rent. She was a good girl. Meshugeneh. Yes. “We all are,” he said aloud.
The truth of it struck deep in his gut, in his chest and throat. Yes, he’d help her. She needed it. Bessie had told him about the gifts she received. Saul had figured out it was that junk collector, Fred, in Suite 62. Leah smiled when he asked her. Maybe they’d get together. Two meshugenehs.
He was walking away. No more fighting. No more going to court and standing on lines like an idiot. Their house in Queens was paid off. Both of them received German checks monthly. He’d have unemployment. He’d invest the one hundred thousand.
It was a hard thing to learn when you’ve worked since you were a child. But not impossible. He’d take his Luba to Aruba. “Luba to Aruba,” he said aloud as he drove. He didn’t even know where Aruba was. Where could they go? Israel. Of course. So obvious a choice that he was startled.
“At my age?” he said aloud. He could hardly read Hebrew anymore. He, who had been a cheder boy in Poland, knew nothing now. But he could study with Luba. She could convert. Go to the mikveh. She’d be his Jewess. They could live in Eretz Yisrael. Yes. That was a place that could use his energy or what was left of it. He drove up Broadway, turning at 72nd Street.
The search for a parking space began. When he came early, he could find one easily. But mid-day was a pain. For several minutes, he drove around the block, turned on Central Park West, to 73rd Street, continued, one more go around. Then he saw it from a distance, approached what looked like an honest spot. No hydrant, no weird signs. He held his breath like a hunter stalking prey. Yes, yes, it was a space! His space.
He moved forward several feet, about to back into the spot. At that moment, a car slipped into the space from the back. Saul couldn’t even imagine how he did it. “What the –!” He darted out of his car and approached the other car window.
A young man wearing very dark glasses looked at him. “Sorry, old man.”
“Don’t sorry me, you hooligan. That was my spot. Move your car!”
The man turned the wheel, switched his car off. He then stepped out. “We got there at the same time,” he said, walking away from Saul.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it!”
In the past he might have chased after the man, though he was probably thirty years younger, arguing. Now Saul began to sweat. His breaths, labored. He sat down in his car and remembered what Leah had shown him. He inhaled through his nose, filled his chest, then extended his belly. Slowly, he exhaled. Breathe in, breathe out. Again. 1-2-3- inhale, 1-2-3 exhale. Again. Breathe in, breathe out. “Close your eyes,” she had told him. “1-2-3- inhale, 1-2-3 exhale.” He sat like this for a few minutes.
When he opened his eyes, he felt calmer. Then he started up the car, moved forward, stopped at the red light. He did feel better. He would have to tell Leah. That yoga breathing lesson really helped him. Maybe even saved his life. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, continued driving until he found a space on Riverside Drive. Turned the ignition off. Then he lifted a large black bar, locking his steering wheel. He began the long, chilly walk uphill to Columbus Avenue.
The wind off the Hudson River battered him. It made him feel like an old man. He looked shrunken when he reached the hotel. He entered the lobby.
Pete sat on the turquoise vinyl couch.
“Still no work?” Saul asked.
“Hey!” He jumped to his feet. “It’s good to see you, old man?”
“So where are you moving to?”
“The Endicott Hotel.”
“Oh, I know the owner. It’s like this place. A little bigger. How much is the room?”
“Fifty dollars a week. Just a studio. My unemployment should cover that.”
“I’m going down to see Henry,” he said, pressing the elevator button. “Good luck to you.”
“It’s good to see you, Saul!” he said, sitting back down on the couch.
“Don’t you have any place to go to?” Saul barked, grinning broadly.
He took the elevator to the basement. It was once his basement. His fiefdom. He rang the bell.
Bessie came to the door. “Hello there, Mr. E!” She reached over and gave him a hug.
He pulled back, surprised.
“We worried about you,” she said, fussing over him.
“Okay, okay.”
“We didn’t know if we’d ever see you.”
“I’m all right. But I come to say goodbye to both of you. I couldn’t fight them no longer.”
“I don’t blame you,” Bessie said. “Enough is enough.”
“So where’s my man?”
“You’re asking me? Check the blackboard.”
“Does he write on it?”
“Yeah, just like you used to do it.”
Saul looked at the blackboard. He looked at his watch. Nothing written in the slot.
“Well, I’ll look for him,” he said.
“If I hear from him, I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said.
Just then, the elevator door opened. “Hey, Mr. E!” Henry cried out, an enormous smile spreading across his face. “Pete told me you were here. Hey, you’re lookin’ good.”
“I know I look terrible. But I wanted to come back. How are things in the hotel?”
The two men grasped hands.
“What do you think?”
“Don’t ask.” Saul shook his head.
“The residents are looking for other places.”
“Good.”
“They want me to stay since I know how everything works. Say they’ll keep me on. I can stay in my apartment.”
“Until they don’t need you,” Saul said.
“It’s rotten what happened, Mr. E.”
He shrugged.
“Didn’t you want to keep working?”
To make things simple, he answered, “Luba won’t let me.” He pointed to his heart. “Bad ticker.”
“Sorry about that.”
“If I don’t strain myself, I can live a long time. You’re not a young man, Henry. You should take it easy too.”
“I hear you.” He looked at his boss of so many years. “Mr. E,” he began, his voice faltering. “You’re a fine boss.”
“You seemed like a good man when you first came to see me at the hotel.”
“That was over eighteen years ago.”
“And I was right.”
Saul reached into his pocket. “Here,” he said, handing him a ring of keys with a flashlight.
Henry tried out the flashlight, which worked. He flashed his enormous smile. “This is cool. Thanks.”
Saul choked up. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said.
He got back into the elevator.
When he stepped into the lobby, he discovered a large cardboard box on his table. He figured it was a tenant’s mail-order package. He was about to shove it over, but looked at it first. SAUL EHRLICH was written in large block letters.
He sat down. He felt nervous as he opened the box. Could it be the hotel’s tax documents? Bills? Lying on the top were several issues of Jewish Daily Forward, English Edition. He examined them. “Must be from Pincus.” Next, he picked up a thick book: Critical Essays by French Feminist Writers, edited by Faye Meyer, Ph.D. What was this? A white satin garter with a note on Rachel’s pink stationary: “You’re still the most attractive man around.” Saul’s face was beginning to burn.
There was an autographed headshot of Monica in a frame. Reardon must have contributed a shot glass with KAMIKAZE the words EMERALD INN. Hana offered a manuscript of poems. Esther and Lenny, a pair of lottery tickets. Amber gave him a lock of strawberry blond hair, tied with a red satin bow.
A white envelope. He ripped it open. There was a Roy Rogers card signed by all of them.
HAPPY TRAILS TO YOU.
The Residents of the Last Hotel
He replaced each item back into the box. That they would do this. Then he carefully closed the box. Who organized this? All of them gave him such wonderful things. He choked up again, but not in a scary way. A heart feeling way. Like his chest was full. He took a deep breath, then another one. No one had ever given him a present like this. It moved him more than he could admit. He wanted to knock on each of their doors. His stomach started to groan.
That’s when Saul realized he was hungry. Health be damned. He walked down 72nd Street, carrying his box, to Gray’s Papaya. He ordered the special: two hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard, and a papaya drink for 99 cents.
Maybe he’d come back to the hotel later. Maybe he’d wait to see the Sofa Club. To thank them and the other people. “Dayenu,” he said to himself. Enough.
_____________
Sonia Pilcer is the author of six novels including The Holocaust Kid. The Last Hotel is now available at your favorite bookstore or Amazon.com. Visit Sonia Pilcer’s web site here.
