The Chelsea Girls(86)
“We need to make a couple of minor changes,” said Stanley. He rifled through the pile of yellowed papers on his desk before giving up on whatever he was looking for. “There’s a rock group here, called something crazy like the Chipper Skulls. These bands, I can’t keep track of them anymore. Why are they so confusing?”
She shrugged, unsure of what this had to do with her. Better not to interrupt, as he’d make his way back to his point sooner or later.
“They want to rehearse but say the rooms they’re staying in are too small. I said to them, ‘We’re not a music studio,’ but they won’t listen, and told me they’ll just practice right there in the lobby. Can you imagine?” His voice rose an octave, a sure sign that he was irritated. “However, I think I’ve finally straightened it all out. You see, they need a large room to rehearse, and I thought we could do a little switcheroo.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, your room is one of the original ones. It wasn’t chopped up, and so for a little while, let’s put you in 732.”
“You want me to change rooms?”
“Just for a little while.”
She knew what that meant. He could get more money for her current room. A paying customer. Unfortunately, she had no lease to protect her, as his father had tended to not bother with leases after the first year, either unable or unwilling to deal with the paperwork. In any case, it wasn’t as if she paid rent, so she really had nothing to stand on.
She’d lived in the same room for so long, the idea of moving scared her more than she’d care to admit. Her parents had died within six months of each other a decade ago. This was her home. “But 732 is tiny, a cubbyhole. I won’t be able to fit everything in there.”
“Right. We can put some things down in storage, in the basement.”
No way. Stanley often offered new tenants a crack at whatever was in the storage room when they first came on board, in order to get in their good graces. She imagined some wasted poet fingering her favorite lamp with the beaded shade, or the subdued watercolors she’d picked up at the flea market.
“When do you need my room by?” Panic made her voice shaky.
Stanley ducked his head. “Is it too much? I’m so sorry. It’s too much. My father would be so unhappy with me.”
David Bard would also be unhappy at the way the more valuable paintings tended to disappear from the lobby walls every so often, most likely to enhance his son’s private collection. Stanley might be goofy, but he wasn’t dumb.
In any event, Stanley wasn’t going to change his mind, and she had nothing to negotiate with. “It’s fine.”
“Great, how soon do you think you can pull the trigger? We’ll have the staff help out, you won’t have to lift a thing.”
“I guess I can be out by the end of next week.”
He looked up into space, as if calculating some complicated algorithm. “How about Monday?”
“That’s three days away.”
“It’s an easy move, you won’t even notice the difference.”
Room 732 could barely fit a twin bed. The one time she’d been inside, invited by a choreographer whose name she couldn’t remember, Hazel had noticed that the curtains were stapled to the window frame. Stapled.
But she couldn’t leave the hotel. After all these years, it kept her connected to the heart of the city. Mr. Thomson still held his memorable cocktail parties, where a few times she’d spotted Arthur Miller and his third wife, a photographer, who lived in room 614. No one mentioned Hazel’s play, probably out of politeness, and that was fine with her. She’d refilled drinks and acted as an ersatz maid, passing around the canapés and delighting in the lively conversation between artists, filmmakers, writers, and composers. She didn’t mind being on the outside looking in, as long as they let her look, and as long as she still got to write. Luckily, Lavinia was still going strong, confined to a wheelchair but making appearances at the Lavinia Smarts Acting Studio when the mood struck, and between the lively gang at the Chelsea and her nightly forays to the theater, Hazel’s life was full, if not particularly joyous. And that was fine.
“Very well. I’ll start packing.”
“I’m sorry, Hazel. I promise it won’t be forever. Just until the band’s finished up. They might even play a concert on the roof this summer. If they do, I’ll make sure you get a ticket.”
She couldn’t imagine anything worse. “Thank you, Stanley.”
After her shift, she popped into Lavinia’s apartment, where her friend was dozing by the window, her gray hair almost translucent in the sunlight. She stirred as Hazel entered. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Hazel. Sorry to wake you, I’ll come back later.”
“No, no. Come, sit.”
Lavinia had grown thinner with every passing year, her bracelets flopping around her tiny wrists, often falling off onto her lap. Her eyes, though, were as sharp as ever, her opinions strong and strident. God help the acting student who showed up unprepared for class, as Lavinia’s thundering tirades were legendary in the theater community.
After the news of Floyd’s terrible death, as well as the injustices he’d suffered, spread throughout the theater district, the Broadway community banded together to mount a bulwark against the blacklist, with theater owners successfully employing actors who otherwise couldn’t get hired. The ever-changing list of producers behind each production, as well as the fact that no one knew if a show would run for three performances or three years, made organized boycotts too difficult, and so after that terrible year, the theater world began to flourish once again, unimpeded by the political machinations of Washington. Hazel, of course, was shunned from this support due to the scandal with Charlie, though even her pariah status had faded with time.