A Square of Air

“I'd like a square of air please for the night.”

“We have one cubed, on the ninth floor.”

“Do you have anything lower than that?'

“There's one on four. That's the smoking floor.”

“Do they smoke a lot there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I'll take the ninth floor.”

“Room 902.”

I was checking into the Excelsior Hotel. A leak was repaired in my bathroom and the handyman followed my directions and repainted the walls and ceiling with oil base paint. This was a mistake. I found out the hard way, I'm allergic to oil-base paint. Until I can be in my apartment without headaches and dizziness, I have to live elsewhere.

I slipped the key card into the slot, and opened the door. Everything was tastefully decorated in green and white and gold with dark mahogany furniture. I was higher up than I wanted to be but in this five-star I could no doubt relax for the night.

I tried finding the tissues. Every necessity was available, except tissues. Being too tired to call downstairs and complain, I took a shower, got dressed again, and lay down on the bed.

I stared up at the white ceiling and breathed. I heard the murmur of cars passing by the window on the street below. This neighborhood was home, twenty years ago. I lived down the block . . ..

“God damn it! Didn't I tell you to knock?”

“I did, but nobody answered.”

“That means YOU'RE NOT TO COME IN.”

“Well, why don't you wear your baseball cap when you want privacy?”

“Because you'd have to open the door to see if I've got the cap on.”

“Oh yeah…right.”

As long as I stepped into Jeff's sanctuary, I thought I had might as well stay there. I looked around. This was home for him. We had a huge three-bedroom apartment, but he stayed in this small space most of the time. He had everything he needed here except bed and refrigerator. The apple of his eye was the pinball machine. It was an original from the 1940's. It proudly stood in an alcove away from the supporting cast of desk, piano, files, and stereo.

He would spend hours playing against himself, tilting it this way and that. He would spend days repairing it, when he tilted it too hard or when it would just give out.

“Jeff?”

He continued looking at the yellow writing pad he held on his knee. His chair was swung to the side, so with peripheral vision he was able to see the Park. He almost always wore jeans. And of course, a denim work shirt, which his father always wore as well.

“Jeff?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want for lunch?”

“You're cooking for a change?”

“I thought I'd try.”

“Anything…anything. Sit down for a moment. I want you to read this.”

Jeff was tops in his field as a children's writer and educator but he wanted to do something adult. He had been writing this musical for some time now.

“Read the part of Margaret, and I'll read Jim.”

“Okay.”

“Nobody wants to do laundry; but everyone has to do it. That' why,,,”

“Go slower and more upbeat.”

“Nobody wants to do laundry…”

“Try it faster and more upbeat still.”

“Nobody…”

“ Try it faster with a smile. Try it not so happy – more matter of fact – try it…”

“That's enough!” I shouted and left the room. It had become tense and dark in there. Light only shone through his pen on the paper and I thought I saw the numbers on the pinball machine twinkling; but there was no light between us anymore.

His show didn't make it. After the reviews, Jeff went to Morocco for a couple of weeks; came home, broke his ankle; and asked for a divorce.

A couple of years later, we became friends.

I got up, to get some toilet paper, as a makeshift tissue. Then I found the tissue box hanging on the side of the sink; strangled between the sink and the loo. For such an expensive hotel, they sure made a simple thing difficult.

The Planetarium across the street was peeking through the trees. I got Jeff a chair there with some of the money he left me. His name is on it and everything. The chair is in the theatre where they have the space shows. “Passport to the Universe.” The planets and stars and galaxies are projected from a computer onto the dome ceiling. Jeff's chair is to the left as you enter and up a couple of steps, about four or five seats in. He can sit comfortable and enjoy the show. Then he can go back up to where the real stars are and compare. He has a sort of roundtrip, eternal ticket. Stars always meant a great deal to him. He was one, after all, in his field.

The next morning I decided to go someplace less expensive.

“I'd like a square of air please, for five days.”

“We have one on two. It overlooks Broadway.”

“That will be great.”

“Room 202.”

I was at the Quality Hotel. It was four blocks down from my apartment. I opened the door of the cubicle. There was a dark maroon-red carpet, with burnt cigarette holes. The wallpaper tried to smooth the ripples in the wall. There was a musty smell in the air.

It reminded me of Grandma's place in Portland, Oregon. Grandma lived in the Palace Hotel for a while. I visited for a week from Seattle, when I was about twelve years old. It was decorated to give a royal impression, but it limped towards Bohemian.

It had the same maroon-red carpets; walls that undulated; the same musty smell; but it also had my Grandma. She made her one small room waltz, with art and antique furniture and books and her presence.

At night, I would sleep on a pullout bed from the closet. She would sleep on the davenport by the large window. The bathroom and shower were down the hall. I was with Grandma, so I felt I was in a real fine place.

This Quality Hotel had tissues at least. I took a couple from the box, which was sitting on the television cabinet. Then I called downstairs and complained. There was no heat. They said they would turn up the boiler in the basement; and the maid brought me three extra blankets.

I turned off the overhead light, and lay down on the bed, in my street clothes, underneath the blankets. The lights from Broadway were blinkity-blinking through the window.

I rested half-awake and half asleep. I heard the muffled clickity-clicking of the subway underneath my pillow. The rhythm of the clickity-clicking kept in time to the blinkity-blinking of the lights from the street. Then I saw Grandma.

“What's the matter, Grandma?”

“I can't sleep.”

“I can't either.”

“I don't want to scare you but sometimes, I can't breathe at night.”

“Oh…can you breathe now?”

“Yes. Shall we have some Ovaltine?”

“Oh yes.”

We got up, turned on the lights and sat together at her six-legged table. Hot Ovaltine was much healthier for us than hot chocolate, Grandma said. It had vitamins and minerals in it. We talked about what we had done together that day. And then we talked about what we would do together in the morrow. Then we tried again.

“Nighty-night Grandma.”

“Night my darling.”

In the theatre, there's always one little light bulb burning onstage when the show isn't on. That's what you have to do in your heart: keep a little light burning. So that if the other person wants you to lift you up or wants to push you down, you can stand firm and keep the light shining between you. Then you can see your way and make a decision if you want to go up or down.

Maybe Grandma forgot to keep the light on and that's why she's alone and couldn't breathe at night. I know for sure, I didn't keep the light steadfast when Jeff got all upset. If only I could have …. And then I fell asleep. The lights from Broadway were still blinkity-blinking – teasing the chill of the night.