The Chelsea Girls(98)

Outwardly, I was Hollywood royalty. Inside, I was a nobody, just like Arthur had said.



* * *





I had the taxi pull up on the far side of Twenty-Third Street. The Chelsea Hotel, where I’d been embraced and felt safe, where nonconformists were the norm. When I came back to New York for a quick visit a few years ago, I put on glasses and a scarf and watched from the bar across the street until I saw Hazel appear. She walked to the newspaper stand, exchanged a word with the owner, then down the street to buy flowers, before disappearing back through the lobby doors. I knew exactly what vase she’d put them in, the white ceramic one with the narrow neck. I missed her so much.

This evening, I could see a few lights on, even at this late hour. Not surprising, in a building full of artists and musicians. I crossed the street and entered the lobby, which had hardly changed. There were more paintings on the walls, and some kind of awful papier-maché sculpture hung from the ceiling, but these were hardly a distraction from the room’s decaying Victorian splendor.

A man behind the counter looked up from a dirty magazine.

Suddenly, I was so tired. I motioned to one of the couches. “Do you mind if I sit here a moment? I’m waiting for someone,” I lied.

He shrugged. “Do whatever you like.”

If David Bard had still been alive, he would most likely have been up at this hour, overseeing a midnight installation of new carpet in the hallways so as to avoid paying union wages or some other ridiculous enterprise. He would have sat with me and talked on and on about the hotel, filled me in on the latest gossip. That would’ve been nice.

What was I doing here? I wasn’t sure. I suppose I wanted to feel part of Hazel’s world one last time.

The lobby door opened and a couple of young rockers stomped by in matching black boots. The girl, who had acne-scarred skin and a head of blond corkscrew curls, turned and scrutinized me. “Hey, I know you.”

I shook my head and pulled my hat lower. By now the booze was beginning to wear off. I’d have a terrible headache soon. “I don’t think so.”

“Sure, you’re that lady. My mom loves your movies.”

I nodded but didn’t answer. Luckily, her boyfriend hadn’t broken his stride, and she hurried off to catch up. A minute or so later, a high scream echoed down the stairwell, tapering off to a muffled yelp. I moved to the edge of the couch, ready to spring into action, but the desk clerk didn’t even look up.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

He stared at me as if I were the one who’d screamed. “Some junkies having a fight. Nothing I can do about it.”

I worried about Hazel living in a place like this. It no longer had the innocuous, creative vibe of the fifties. Today, a different kind of creature lurked about, desperate and dangerous.

I wished I had the courage to get up and knock on Hazel’s door, insist she invite me in. Tell her that I loved her.

The clock said five in the morning. I had four hours before I was due to be at the address Charlie had given me, downtown in Foley Square. In spite of the changes, it felt good to sit in the Chelsea, to feel part of the hotel once again. I thought of all the people who’d found their creative muse here, created poetry and plays, music and art. I had missed out on the best of it by heading to Hollywood, missed Mark Rothko, Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller, Jack Kerouac. What if I’d stayed, and not headed west to the antiseptic wasteland of Los Angeles? I could have been part of the legend of the Chelsea Hotel. Like Hazel would be, once her play was revived on Broadway and her career resurrected. No chance of that now, for me.

I rose and approached the counter. “Can I get a room?”

He looked at the wall of keys and plucked one from it. “How long you staying?”

“Just for one night.”

“It’ll be twenty-eight dollars and seventeen cents.”

“That seems like a very arbitrary figure.”

“Just saying what’s in the book here.”

“That’s fine.” I pulled the bills out of my wallet and counted out the change.

“You got any luggage? I can call a porter to take it up for you.”

I shook my head. “I’m traveling light these days.” I put my hand in my coat pocket, checking that my second-most important possession was still there. It was. The most important one was in my satchel: my diary, which I’d kept writing even after turning over the earlier pages to Lavinia. How ironic that Hazel didn’t write anymore, yet I’d never been able to stop.

“The room’s on the second floor. You can take the elevator or the stairs.”

“I know the way.”

Room 225 was in the west wing of the building, the door located off a side hallway. The hotel had been carved up since I’d been in it, larger suites divided into two—more profit and less space. The chamber lacked all of the glorious details of my old room, with just a twin bed and side table squeezed between two dingy walls. Something sharp had sliced through the lampshade, leaving a six-inch vertical scar. The stained-glass transom above the door was the only reminder of the hotel’s original elegance.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the bottle of pills, placing them carefully on the side table next to a smudged water glass. I carried the glass down the hallway to the shared bathroom and filled it up to the top.