Michael’s first day at the desk was not his first in the hotel. In fact, he’d begun his time as a young veteran fresh off of the boat, having served in the Royal Air Force during the last two years of war, and a few short months following. He was no airman; his vision being far too gone to sight in a gun or handle an aircraft. He wore thick glasses of the sort which allowed him to view the world through a narrow fish eyed lens, and only as far out as a few yards. He served as a mechanic, and all-around hard-working grease monkey. He was strong, tall, and well spoken, and could handle himself in a rough situation, but was unfit for military duty. He was comfortable doing his duty for his country, and when he was finally freed of service, took the first ship he could board to America. He heard the new world calling and was eager to find his place in it.
Soon after his arrival, he’d begun seeking employment as a mechanic. The new world was certainly in a state of post-war celebration, reluctantly changing gear into a peace-time mentality. Jobs were abundant, and the economic situation seemed to be one which embraced an exciting new era of prosperity.
In spite of his impairment, he quickly found work as an auto-mechanic, and in short time had found himself working in Detroit, the heart of America’s automotive industry. The hustle and bustle was full throttle for nearly two decades, when, little by little the public demeanor changed for the worse, and the city began to falter. Michael held on for quite some time, before deciding to relocate himself to Chicago during the summer of 1962, seeking something new, a different life altogether. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he knew that it no longer involved grease and labour. At 45 years of age, he had saved nearly everything he’d earned, lived well under his means, and had never found much interest in marriage or family. His was a quiet existence, his evenings spent reading, his weekends reserved for entertaining and keeping the company of good friends. He was not much for alcohol, but did enjoy a glass or two here and there, as social obligations necessitated.
He was still a young enough man, he thought, unmarried and untethered. He had saved most of his money, and thinking long into the future, he decided to invest in himself, spending a small portion of his savings on night school classes, studying business administration and financial management.
He found a full time job at the Lexington House, which included a small furnished basement room nestled between the boiler room and the laundry, directly below the kitchen, and across from the keg room and cellar storage for the lounge and restaurant occupying the main floor of the building, beyond the once elegant foyer.
The building was as much a throwback to the elegance of yesteryear, and had not been renovated to keep up with the tastes of the times. He liked that about the old place. He’d lived and worked there as porter, earning his way up to hotel manager over a period of seven years, when the brothers who operated the lounge decided that it was time to retire. At once Michael asked what the new lease might be, and with a telephone call to his bank, and a lengthy chat with the brothers, he’d negotiated to take over the lounge, with a line of credit secured by his savings, and a small loan besides meant to give the place a bit of an overhaul, to shine it up a touch, add a little sparkle. Historical earnings were quite stable, and Michael implemented changes immediately. A year later the lease agreement with the restaurant came due, and he arranged a 51% stake in the restaurant’s ownership. with a percentage share of the receipts, a scaled increase in the lease amount over a ten year period, and direct oversight of the books and management decisions. The restauranteur, who had been pretty lax in his accounting and management of the place, initially put up a fight, since he had treated the place like his own private piggy bank for nearly two decades. With a change in management, and a new book-keeper and accountant meant to keep everyone honest, the added income to the house found Michael buying out his lassaize-faire business partner, and with his exit, another round of late night renovations breathed new life into the place. He put some of the additional income towards modernizing the equipment, and “fancying up” the façade, changing the menu, and hiring new staff, including a chef with an eye for detail. At first glance, nothing much had changed in any drastic way, but the feel and energy of the restaurant and lounge drew a new kind of patronage. The kind who were willing to spend money. Overall, Michael felt, the place seemed ... friendlier.
Michael remained on at the hotel as Concierge. Nearly a quarter of the building was occupied by permanent residents, some of whom were celebrated authors, performers, musicians and artists, others included high class escorts and courtesans of the city’s more ‘discrete’ clientele. One of the rooms was reserved for a tenant who had never set foot on the property, but had paid each month without fault for nearly fifty years. The room was dusted and tidied each week, and aired every few days, just in case it was needed. Michael made it a point to increase the rent, and issue a change in the lease which allowed for “use of the suite in cases of emergency booking”. A response arrived that the tenant would be willing to agree to the new terms, so long as they would receive notice by telegram should the room become unavailable at any point, so that they might make other arrangements, if necessary. The cheques continued to arrive, and, to date, the tenant remains to be seen.
Micheal settled into his new life quite comfortably, and presented himself as a mere desk clerk, serving his visitors and permanent guests with enthusiasm, no one being aware that his position was any more than that of a simple concierge. He enjoyed the little ruse, and saw to every detail himself, seeking to build the kind of respectability and historic reputation which only the finest of establishments could garner.
He remembers fondly the January day, in 1970, when a young Moses Levi strolled through the doors of the Hotel. He was dressed in a nondescript brown wool overcoat, blue jeans, sunglasses and a sun beaten brown fedora. Upon entering, he stomped the snow from his worn leather boots. He carried a typewriter case in one hand, and an old brown oilcloth duffle slung over his shoulder. He was young, early twenties. He was clean cut, short hair, short sideburns, unlike most of the young men his age, who wore their hair long, keeping to the hippy fashions of the day. His blue shirt was the button up kind, and had obviously been slept in.
As soon as his eyes adjusted, he walked towards the hotel desk where Michael had been sorting mail into cubbyholes underneath several hooks, some with keys, most without.
“Excuse me”, the young man announced himself, “Hello, sir. My name is Moses. Moses Levi. I’m here for a room. Someone might have called ahead for me? From Mr. Goldman’s office?”
Michael set aside a handful of envelopes, smiled and nodded, looking him over a second before opening up the large green booking ledger behind the desk.
“Goldman? Nothing here. Maybe he put it under your name? Mr. ...”, he paused, glancing again at the young man.
“Right. Maybe. Yeah, sure. Levi. L-E-V-I.”
“Thank you. No, nothing yet. That’s okay, though, I’m sure that we can give them a call and let them know that you have arrived. It’s the first day back to business after the holiday. I’m sure that someone might have overlooked it, or hasn’t gotten to it yet.” Michael waived his hand over to a seating area near the desk. “You may rest there a moment. I am familiar with Mr. Goldman and his lovely wife. They’ve often sent guests here. I’ll call for you. Please, have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.” With that, Mr. Levi sat nearby in a comfortable looking chair, while Michael flipped through a small black book he’d procured from under the desk. Mr. Levi pulled out a small pocket sized note pad and a ballpoint click pen, and scrawled out a few notes, looking around as he did so. It appeared as if he were taking down his surroundings, glancing up every so often, then back down as he wrote. Michael could tell that the young man used cursive, instead of printing. The pen hardly left the paper, as it would have with a coarser hand.
Michael made short work of the room arrangements. He’d called Goldman’s receptionist, since getting to him on his personal number on short notice might have proven difficult, considering the timing. She hadn’t yet been informed of any arrangements, as Mr. Goldman had not yet arrived back to the office from his holiday, and could not confirm anything, nor was she in a position to authorize anything without his written approval. She did say that she would get back to the clerk immediately upon confirmation, and asked that the guest be kept comfortable in the mean time.
“Excuse me, sir. Mr. Levi.” He announced, upon setting the telephone back down on its cradle. “It would seem that Mr. Goldman hasn’t left anything with his office, but his receptionist has assured me that she will get back to us immediately. She has asked me to keep you comfortable until she has had the time to make further arrangements. If you would like, I would be pleased to offer you a complimentary drink in the lounge, and can keep your luggage for you here behind the desk. I assure you that they will be quite safe in my care. Mr. Levi nodded in agreement, passing the bag and the typewriter case across the desk, whereupon Michael handed him two claim tickets. He directed Mr. Levi through a nearby set of doors towards the lounge, and picking up the telephone, called the bartender to serve the young man a drink, on the house.
Several hours passed, while Mr. Levi nursed his pint of beer. He made notes as he sat, filling page after page as the time dragged on. Beyond the window, the city streets were filling with snow as the northerly wind swept in from over Lake Michigan. The afterwork crowd began to slowly fill the room, regulars saddling up to the bar, couples and groups of friends and workmates taking up the booths and tables. The din of chatter and laughter filled the room, along with a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke. Mr. Levi continued to take notes, occasionally transcribing conversations, descriptions of the people, names of the regulars, and topics of interest. And still, he waited, patiently, his beer having gone flat some time ago.
The dinner crowd came and went, the snows beyond the big picture windows fell heavily against the vehicle lights coming and going on the street beyond, the traffic lights keeping time against the grey of the afternoon, and as evening came on, the grey darkened to black. The guests slowly began to clear out, the few stragglers wobbling towards the door as the bartender announced last call, and as if noticing Mr. Levi at the end of the bar, half a pint of stale beer in front of him, picked up the phone to dial Michael at the hotel’s front desk.
“Shite”, Michael thought to himself. He had completely forgotten about the young man, patiently waiting in the Lounge for a phone call which should have come hours ago. He reached for the black telephone book again, this time calling Mrs. Goldman’s home number. He’d only ever called this number once, many years before, when Mr. Goldman and a friend had celebrated something or another a little too heavily, and he’d forgotten his wallet, keys, and integrity at the office, and was nearing a point of inappropriate vulgarity that the police were likely to be involved. The matter was handled within a half hour, when she gathered up he and his celebrants into an awaiting car, and paid the bill with cash, leaving behind a handsome tip for the waiting staff. The line rang steadily for a few moments, and a sweetly aggravated voice answered, “Goldman Residence. I do hope that this is an emergency. You do realize that is nearly midnight?”
Michael cleared his throat quicky, covering the receiver, then wasted no time, “Yes, Mrs. Goldman. This is Michael, calling you from the Lexington. I apologize for the late hour, and any inconvenience that I may be causing you.”
“Oh! Michael!” she gushed, any aggravation disappearing immediately from her voice. “Yes, dear, what can I do for you?”
“Well, madame, you see, there has been a bit of an oversight at Mr. Goldman’s office. There is a young man here, a Mr. Moses Levi, who is waiting for confirmation that there ought to be a reservation for him, which is meant to be arranged on his behalf by Mr. Goldman? That is where my information ends, I’m afraid, and Mr. Levi has been waiting for a response since around Noon. He’s been incredibly patient, but ...”
Mrs. Goldman cut him off immediately, “Please arrange your best suite for Mr. Levi. Offer him my sincerest apologies, and do give him everything he may need. We will pay for anything and everything attached to his stay.”
“And how long will that stay be, madame?”
“Permanent. Bill us monthly, and be sure to add a fair gratuity for yourself and any wait staff. He is to be given the highest courtesy and care. Thank you. Should there be anything more, please contact me directly. And at any time. Do you understand?”
“Yes, absolutely, Mrs. Goldman. Every attention and courtesy. Thank you, Madame. And again, I apologize for the lateness of the hour.”
“That is perfectly okay. Once you have placed him in a room, please call me back with the number at once. Thank you. And be sure to provide him with a meal, I’m sure he must be famished waiting all this time. Thank you again, Michael.” With that, she ended the call, and Michael, looked down at the young man’s bags, then up at the array of empty key hooks. The only room available was permanently reserved for a long absent guest. For the time being, it would do.
Michael had a porter run the bags up to the room, and run a hot bath. He called the kitchen, which was already long closed. He called the bartender, and asked if there were any wait staff still available. A young waitress was helping to clear up the restaurant, and she was tasked with making a sandwich in the kitchen for Mr.Levi, no pork, Montreal spiced meat would be best. Lots of vegetables on the side, and a pint of whatever he’d been drinking in the lounge. Finally, he requested that Mr. Levi be directed to meet with him at the front desk.
“Well, sir, I must apologize. The day got away from me. I was finally able to confirm your arrangements, and I have been given to understand that you will be staying with us for some time, with all amenities, services, and courtesies available to you, upon request.”
Mr. Levi nodded, obviously tired, but still in good spirits. Michael passed him the ledger to sign for his room, and explained to him that their finest room has been made available until a more appropriate suite can be made available, and that they’ve taken the liberty of ordering a meal to be sent to his room, as well as the bath which has been drawn for him. Should he require, his laundry will be tended to by morning, and if he would like to place an order for breakfast, that he may call the desk at any time to do so. As Micheal led Mr. Levi to the elevator, he followed up with, “To be frank, sir, your position with Mr. Goldman’s firm must be of some value and importance, as they have only ever been known to house guests in the most, um, economic fashion, and then only then during the most prestigious of literary events.”
Mr. Levi smiled, hesitated a moment, “The Goldman’s are ...” he paused, as he found the right words, “generous, kind, and gracious. But me? I am of no regard. I am a writer, a mediocre writer, at best. Nothing special. Nobody of importance. Like yourself, I am here to be of service.”
As Michael opened the door to the room, handing Mr. Levi the key, and quickly giving the room a once over, smiled and bowed before leaving, “Sir, you must be one hell of a writer.”
He closed the door behind him, took a deep breath, and hastily returned to the desk to call in a late-night telegram via Western Union. “Chicago Lexington occupied 01/02 to 01/05 STOP”.
