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. The small seven story pre-war hotel sat sandwiched between weathly 25 story monstrosities that seemed to loom above the lowers in order to show their status. Though I usually depised my humble abode I yearned for its small walls and poorly lit comfort, the tiny sink in the corner, the noisy radiator under the non-gasket sealed window. Trivial complaints compared to the frozen death outside. Javier manned the front desk, which meant I wouldn’t be hounded for back rent. I slipped quietly through the lobby, its pale-peach walls whose corners showed cracks of chipped paint, that met the water stained ceiling. When the antique cash register chimed open and shut, it was strangely like walking through a time portal. The elevator sat unused, for a monkey on a bicycle could get that car moving faster. I opened the door to the stairs and it groaned having been with out oil since the 1930’s The rooms went from shabby to liveable the higher you went, and with no units on the first floor, the second reigned as the dreariest floor on the block. By walking on the chipped and splintered floorboards one could wake the heaviest of sleepers. I pondered taking off my boots to quiet my steps, but feared shanking a veritable 2×4 in my foot.Seven units to my left and five to my right. Only half occupied. I rarely saw my floormates but was constantly aware of their presence. There’s FatThud whose obnoxiously heavy steps would sometimes shake the small mirror above my sink. I think he was three to the left. FlipFlap was two to the right and would only wear sandals, even during the coldest month. I would only hear him or her at noon, then again in the late evening. I was certain whoever they were, they hardly left the Hayden. ClipClop I was friendly with. On our first encounter, I ignored his hello and walked past him only to have him scream and yell at me for being so impersonal. I walked up to him expecting to show him how impersonal I could be, but all he did was hold his hand out, all needed was a handshake. Then he smiled an old chiseled smile and patted me on the shoulder. He was nothing but starved for attention. He would tell me stories about how he was suppose to be Gilligan on Gilligan’s Island but was beat out by Bob Denver at the last minute. Even after attending the Yale School of Drama with close mate Sam Waterston, he never got passed his bar-tending job that he still held down. ShufflScuffle got his name by loudly shuffling his way to FatThud’s door to yell at him about something in Puerto-Rican. FatThud would pound his fat-ass out his door and they would scream and spit in each others faces. It served as my alarm clock considering it happened every morning around 7 am. Then, always timed as well, She would open her door and clickty-clackity Her way to the elevator. Even though we were on the second floor and steps from the front door, She still waited for that slow monkey churned elevator. Once gone, I walked to the bathroom and could smell Her sweet waft on the whole floor. I constantly tried to picture what She looked like, closing my eyes and standing in the hallway if even for a few moments. The bathroom was seriously removed from the rest of the floor. It looks brand new with its fake black marble floor and shiny brass faucet and knobs. Some late nights I would turn the shower on hot and smoke a joint while reading a book in the warm misty cave only to open the door to blue dripped stained walls, cracked and crumbling molding and 11 layers of paint on every door. Incredibly dilapidated as it was it had immense character. The floor now was silent. The crack under FatThud’s door showed blurry moving images from his television set that was always on. I pictured him past out on the couch, junk food surrounding him and a pile of beer cans next to his sofa. ClipClap’s light was on and I knew if I wasn’t quiet he would be out in a hurry with a new story about his failed past. Her light was on. She was a night owl. I could knock and introduce myself, but that’s a tad creepy in the middle of the night. I opened my door, hitting the hall light switch off. Her small slit of light coming from under the door lit up the whole floor. I bundled in bed and tried to get comfortable under the mountain of blankets. I laid curled and remembered my goal I set when I first moved to New York. Every day do something new. Whether it be taking a different route to the train or taking a random subway line to an unknown stop and getting off spending the rest of my day finding my way back. Tomorrow though, I’m walking over to Her door and asking a complete stranger out on a date. -Dabney Cartwright
