Dabney's Weblog

The Hayden,3

Nicholas Hulstine — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 02:50:36 +0000

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

Nicholas Hulstine — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 19:20:31 +0000

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

Nicholas Hulstine — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 21:55:37 +0000

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