The Hayden,3

  I woke being able to see my cold breath.  Snow fell heavier against my lone window. My view was nothing more than the swanky deck of the high rise next door. Mahogany colored lawn chairs and potted plants encased by a 7 foot high chain link fence topped with giant coils of razor-wire to keep the lowers out. I would sometimes stare at the yuppies sunbathing from behind the fence like a prisoner looking out to the real world that he had no chance of being a part of.        My days were usually spent writing away on my old electric smith-corona or attending open auditions at the drab midtown studios. If I couldn’t start typing away almost immediately from waking, I left for the subway. My mind was usually filled with Her when I woke up, but this morning I jumped from the bed to my desk. Most of the pages littering my desk are nothing but boyish musings of her. I pecked out words until noon before I realized it might take me the rest of the day to clean up my neglected room. I hardly did laundry which made a permanent home on my floor, my small stove top still had dried ramen on it from months past along with a solid centimeter of grease, and my carpet had probably never been graced by a vacuum. I won’t start cleaning though until I do my cleaning ritual, which I do every time I clean—get neatly drunk. This required a run to the store. With the change in my pocket and the coins I found under my mattress, I had enough for a nice bottle of whiskey.       Bitter cold air swept under the twin wooden doors in the lobby. Javier was still on the clock from the night before, going through a dozen envelopes.      ”You Cartwright?” he said showing me a piece of mail.       “Sure ‘am.”       I grab the letter and split the top. A Kansas stamp and my parents letterhead sticker don the front. A 20 spot falls from the envelope to the floor. My mother the saint, again sending cash in the mail. It seemed she always knew when I needed it, she would get a huge letter from me for this one!     I turned around to head out and there She was. Standing behind me. She has short blond hair just below the ear.  Her eyes big and blue. I smile and she smiles back.      ”Hi.” she says in a absolutely heart breakingly gorgeous voice.        I don’t if was the whole pot of coffee I just drank or if it was because this was the first time I saw Her, but instead of simply saying hi back, I throw up that whole pot of coffee all over her. –Dabney Cartwright

The Hayden,2

          More times than not, New York threw me to the gutters and kicked me in the ribs. But sometimes, on a rare sometimes, it picked me up and dusted me off, straightened my tie and gave me a pat on the cheek, smiled and strolled by pleasantly.       During the mid-day, The Hotel Hayden would echo hall to hall of soap operas. The old and depressed watched them religiously, desperately trying to fill the silent void with voices. No matter that it’s low-rate Television, anything that sounds like life will do fine. I often had the urge to knock on their doors and be friendly, maybe listen to a story or two, since thats what old people do.        The people in the Hayden happened to be the forgotten, the uncared for. Some family member shoved them in here and most haven’t left since. More than anything they wish they could re-live the past, change that one thing that would have eventually kept them from this place. I was here at 21 so what does that say about Dabney Cartwright? I was here because it happened to be incredibly cheap. At 100 dollars a week, it suited my needs just fine. Didn’t matter that for the majority of the people here, it was a waiting room for the grave, just one last step, one last bed, one last pair of socks, one last address.-Dabney Cartwright

The Hayden

        I’m walking north up Broadway in the upper west side. Small bits of sleet fall on the tops of my ears stinging them like tiny Arctic wasps. The ground was slowly turning white and I had to grip with the balls of my feet to prevent me from falling. Cowboy boots are exactly desirable pedi-protection in the winter, but I wore them for the sole fact that they tipped me over the 6 foot mark. The Apple Bank building displayed the 10 degree weather and the 73rd street sign reminded me I still had six agonizingly frozen blocks to go. I pushed my scarf up over my mouth to heed the inevitable lip-chap.        The streets were practically empty, and for New York City it creepily loomed about me as a constant reminder that at any moment something bad could happen.         My stomach empty, my pockets barren and my bank accounts void of money, I turn the corner towards the Hayden Hotel anticipating the small amount of warmth my room would provide.