2

The term historic hotel in the year of our lord Nineteen Ninety-Three clearly meant cracked paint and a spartan collection of Salvation Army furnishings. A twin mattress with a matching boxspring sat on a slightly larger wood frame, its sheets clean enough until he noticed stains on the pillowcases.

The only window hid behind thick, dark blue panel curtains with an AC unit stuffed into its narrow bottom pocket. Someone had broken a portion of the unit’s hard plastic knob and jammed a pencil into its slot, disabling the low setting.

The room’s shabbiness mattered little, for Andrew instantly loved the solitude it afforded. He stripped off his shirt and cranked the AC button—it had only two settings: OFF or HIGH. The forced air dried his sweaty forehead, and raising his arms, he let it dry his damp armpits.

Andrew then caught his reflection in the bureau mirror.

Oily golden locks lay heavy on his skin, shining with the day’s grime. The red blotch on his cheek had faded, but the whites of his eyes bore the tell-tale signs of crying.

He emptied his gym bag onto the bed and took inventory of his life. One violin, a white jacket, his high school backpack, a pair of jeans, and that old baseball shirt he had nagged his mother to buy for him until she gave in and bought the wrong team.

No toothbrush. Of course.

He jammed the room’s complimentary towel and paper-wrapped soap bar into his backpack. The door’s deadbolt inspired little assurance, so he retrieved his violin before entering the hall.

The floor creaked under his feet as a thin, pallid man strolled past with a wet towel draped over his shoulders. His darker friend lagged behind with a child-sized shower cap clinging to his bushy head.

“Man, I’ve been shitting mud for a week,” declared the lagger.

Andrew got into the bathroom before laughter erupted like a cataract. After his giggles subsided, he warily faced the toilet.

Blue detergent left a permanent border under the rim, and rust spots dotted the drainage hole like tiny turds that would never flush, no matter how many times you pulled the toilet handle.

He reached through the cotton shower curtain and grabbed the crusted handles, turning them both until they stopped. Water spit onto the tiled shower tray before blasting hard and releasing gentle steam. A puddle formed on the tiles, its bare center drain slurping noisily.

The soap bar had a weirdly floral scent and felt slimy when wet, but that didn’t stop him from scrubbing hard between his legs. Slipping the bar between his cheeks, he winced when it grazed his torn flesh.

Desperate, he dragged the bar over his dirty hair but could not build enough lather to clean it. Hot water sluiced over his shoulder blades, and he stood under its comforting warmth until it began to run cold.

When his wet feet touched the dirty floor, he made a mental note to add flip-flops to the grocery list. Clean boxers felt good, and he left the tiny soap bar in the shower after toweling dry.

Andrew returned to the room, tucking his violin safely under the bed. Sleep demanded his time, but hunger played a louder song.

He quickly pulled on the Phillies t-shirt and jeans, then slipped into his sneakers. Back in the hall, he gave the locked door a tug.

The late afternoon heat bore down on him the moment he stepped outside. He took refuge in the corner pizza shop, its air-conditioning more welcoming than its dry, unappetizing pies.

A heavy-set waitress approached the counter, her head jerking in a silent greeting. After ordering a child-size sweet tea, Andrew asked about nearby grocery stores.

“The closest is Jerry’s Quick Stop, but it’s a rip-off,” she said, scratching into her tightly spun hair bun. “The Food King on Tenth is worth the trip.”

Armed with a name and location, he eventually found the place after some time-consuming train hopping.

He got toothpaste, a body sponge, shower gel, and shampoo.

The flip-fops were a size too big, but he liked the fact that they were bubble-gum pink. His plastic carry-basket was getting heavy, but he still snatched up a container of macaroni and cheese at the deli counter. After deciding on a snack cake for breakfast, he drifted into the beer and wine section.

Like any New Jersey native, booze in the supermarket caught him off-guard. Another shock to his Jerseyan sensibility was the hefty price at check-out.

The subway platform contained too many bodies, so Andrew used the coins jiggling in his pocket to catch a bus on Forty-Second Street. He got off on Eighth and hopped another back to Astor Place.

Saint Mark’s lobby felt quieter with the clerk sleeping in his chair, and the gargoyle girls vanished. Upstairs, a couple of room doors stood open. Working residents had come home in his absence, and now their rattling window fans pulled tepid air in from the lobby.

Back in his room, Andrew turned the deadbolt and secured the chain. After a couple bites of his mac and cheese, he cuddled on the bed with his violin and forgot about brushing his teeth.

♪

He shot up in his bed, the backseat of his car center stage in his nightmare.

Sleeping with the violin left his chest sore, and whipping off his sheet left his slick skin vulnerable to the frigid air. Daylight glowed in the window, and checking his watch, he found Mickey’s hands saying twelve hours had passed.

Andrew got out of bed and put the violin back in its case. After shoving it under the bed, he gathered up his toiletries, locked his door, and shambled groggily to the hall bathroom in his pink oversized flops.

An atrocious smell struck him at the threshold, and as he steeled himself to enter, a woman pushed past and closed the door in his face.

Andrew returned to his room, defeated.

He closed his eyes on the bed and concentrated on the AC unit’s blowing fan. Counting to three hundred, he then ventured back to the bathroom.

Naked under the water, his matka’s phantom grousing whispered in his head.

You’re still too thin, Andrej, you should eat more.

Instead of sitting on your ass for another three days, you should get out and look for some work.

Back in his room, Andrew pulled on yesterday’s baseball shirt and jeans before leaving the hotel armed with a sensible list that included khakis and a button-down shirt for auditions.

Cooler mornings found the shops along Canal Street with their doors open. Wheeled clearance racks lined the sidewalks, baiting Andrew into buying a set of Adidas track pants.

In Manhattan, clothes were cheaper than food.

A sale on plain white t-shirts netted him three, and he bought a pair of black trousers that could go with any colored shirt. The shopping spree brought his funds down to a thousand even.

Back at the hotel, he wrapped a rubber band around his cash roll and tucked it into the violin case. Fishing out a musical trade paper from a discarded sales bag, he rifled through the symphony calls in the back.

One gig proved out of reach due to his age and skill level, so he skimmed the lesser vacant positions for restaurant musicians, mitzvah performers, and studio players. A job at the Russian Tea Room caught his eye. Growing up with a Slovak mother gave him a rough understanding of most Slavic languages.

Andrew’s hopes fell after reading the requirement: At least five years of classical training. Four years of high school and two years of part-time community college wouldn’t be enough for a competent ear, no matter how well he sounded in a group.

Finally, he came upon a listing for a dining room violinist at a restaurant called The Peninsula. No years of required experience meant they paid peanuts, but it was better than nothing.

Excited by the prospect, Andrew brought out his instrument and wedged the chinrest into his neck. Fingers pressed to the proper cords, he planted his feet on the floor and dragged his bow over the strings. Pushing and pulling, his digits danced along the violin’s neck to the notes of Brahms’s number 1 in G minor.

Suddenly, a muted voice shouted, “Turn that shit down.”

Then, someone yelled back: “Fuck off. It’s relaxing.” Andrew grinned and returned the instrument to its case.