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
