Stanley continued in a pained tone, âwhat I pay in electricity? In taxes? And the unions, oh, the unions! Theyâre killing me!â
My father would reply with something like . . .
âUnions? Stanley, the only people who work here are guests you overcharged and who are trying to pay off their bills.â
Or . . .
âStanley, I renegotiated my rent a week ago.â
But nothing mattered, for the very next day, putting his arm around Fatherâs shoulders, Stanley continued.
âWhen you first moved in, I thought, âThis is a good man.â But I must be honest with you: Iâve been having my doubts. Every day I ask myself, âWould a good man, with a good family, pay his landlord so little?â It makes me sad to think that.â
This would be accompanied by a moistening around Stanleyâs eyes.
A man who preferred strong coffee in the morning to strong emotion, my father joined the person who hopped on the garbage cart.
But there was one person who didnât care about Stanley.
His name was Artie, and I met him for the first time one morning when I was waiting in the lobby for my mother to take me to school, and Artie came through the front doors. He was in his fifties, with thick dark hair, an athleteâs body, aJames Dean swagger, and, as I noticed when he passed, a flask in his back pocket.
Before Artie reached the elevators, Stanley appeared from behind the front desk.
âArtie, I need to talk to you.â
âYou do? Well, thatâs funny because I need to talk to you !â
âArtie,â Stanley pleaded, âcome into my office and we can discuss it quietly.â
âNo! Weâre going to discuss it here !â
Stanley touched Artieâs elbow, coaxing him toward the office. Artie shook it off.
âI know what you want, Stanley.â
âYou do?â
Artie pulled out his wallet.
âYOU WANT MONEY!â
Stanley waved his hands frantically as if to shake off Artieâs suggestion.
âArtie, please . . .â
Artie was now tapping his wallet against Stanleyâs chest.
â How much fucking money do you need, Stanley? What? You arenât rich enough? What? Living across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Fucking Art isnât enough for you? And you didnât even earn it! You got your money from Daddy ! An itty-bitty daddyâs boy !â
Artie moved in to finish him off, sticking his finger into Stanleyâs face.
â You tell me! Right now! HOW MUCH FUCKING MATZOH DO YOU NEED?â
âMatzoh? Artie, I beg you . . . .â
âYou heard me, Stanley, mu-cha-cha .â
âMuchacha?â
âWill this do, Mr. G-R-E-E-D-Y?â
Artie pulled something from his wallet and flipped it at Stanley.
âA tensky,â announced Artie triumphantly.
Stanley scurried back to his office.
Artie pulled the flask from his back pocket, took a swallow, and by the time it was returned to his pocket, he had, with his other hand, retrieved a bottle of mouthwash from his motorcycle jacket. Standing at the elevator, Artie took a shot, and then, just as the elevator door closed, spat the fluid in an effervescent green arc into the center of a nearby wastebasket.
MY BABYSITTERS
A DOLL IN a dollhouse. That was Jade.
Unlike other babysitters, Jade, who worked in the evenings, was available all day, and with her apartment in the hotel, it was very convenient.
Jadeâs apartment was decorated with wood paneling, marble floors, leopard skins, and rabbit pelts. Everything was comfortable. Very comfortable. Although her apartment had a balcony and faced the Empire State Building, her shades were always drawn. The apartment was lit with chandeliers, lamps covered in patterned silk shades, and candles. On the shelves was Jadeâs collection of stuffed quail, raccoons, foxes, and other woodland treasures. Bounding through this was an Egyptian sphinx and
Joseph Lance Tonlet, Louis Stevens