His Master's Voice - Part four

His Master's Voice

Part four

Harry Buschman

The taxi driver was asleep in his cab with the motor running. His head lay back on the head rest and his mouth hung open. Thinking he might be dead, Shelley hesitated before knocking on the window but there were no other cabs at the station.

"Hello in there," he knuckled the window gently. "Hello! can you take me to the Paradise Hotel?"

The driver closed his mouth and wiped his chin. He saw Shelley's face in the window, stretched and unlocked the doors with the master switch.

"I got bags––they have to go in the trunk." The driver pulled a lever at the bottom of the door and the trunk door popped open.

"Help y'self chief. Ain't much room in there."

Shelley was able to squeeze his bag in the trunk which already contained two full sized spare tires, chains, pumps, a spare battery and a golf bag. He wrestled the steamer trunk into the back of the car.

"Where'd y'say y'wanna go, chief?"

Breathing heavily, Shelley replied, "Paradise Hotel."

"You got it!" The driver pulled out of the dingy station, turned the corner and pulled up in front of a dark and shabby bistro.

"This it? Jesus, it's just around the corner. Whyn't'cha tell me––I coulda walked?"

"2.75 chief, how'd I know you could walk?" As a token of his concern he added, "Don't forget'cha bag in the trunk."

Shelley stood on the littered sidewalk and read the blacked out neon sign. "The Cotillion Room." Above it, on the second and third floors was the hotel. A blinking red sign, (with the "e" unlit) read "Paradis." A door, just to the left of The Cotillion Room was outlined with green neon, and on the jamb next to the knob, a hand lettered sign read "push button for service."

He was glad Woody couldn't see this, he was used to going first class. It didn't take a lot of imagination to tell what class this hotel was, a two story flop house over a night club could only mean one thing. He pushed the button––nothing. On the third push the door buzzed and almost too late Shelley pushed it open and put his bags inside.

A flight of thirteen linoleum covered steps faced him. A dim wall light hung half way up. It appeared as though the fixture had at one time held a gas flame. The stairs were too narrow for Shelley to carry the bags at his side, he had to go up sideways like a mountain climber, one step at a time.

He turned at the top of the stairs and tried to get his breath. It was broad daylight outside, but in here it might well have been the dead of night. The top half of a door opened to his right and a bald headed man in an undershirt poked his head out.

"Mornin'. Wadd'ya want?"

"I'm looking for a Mr. Charoni." Shelley looked up and down the dark hall. From one of the rooms he could hear a man and a woman arguing. One of the doors opened and a man in his underwear walked out and down the hall in the direction of the bathroom, scratching his backside on the way.

"I'm Charoni .... Buddy Charoni. Who're you?"

"I'm Shelley Lewis, the ventriloquist. My agent sent me up. I'm a fill-in for the band. Do you put shows on in here?"

"Oh yeah, he called––Kahn, I think. Jewish fella. You Jewish?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Oh, nuthin'. Charoni lit the stub of his cigar with a wooden match. "Don't see many of em' down here, is all. What'cha ask me?"

Shelley had to think back a bit. "Oh, yeah, I asked if you put on shows here."

"Downstairs in the Cotillion Room. It's part of the hotel. I own it. It's open from 8 to 3:30. The band plays right through––get ten minutes off every hour. You got the ten minutes. You gonna stay here in the hotel? I'll give you a good rate, say fifteen bucks for a room on the third floor, it's quieter up there. Not so much comin' and goin', know what I mean?" Charoni opened the lower half of the door and came out in the hall. "Put'cha bags up there and come back down and we can talk over your act." He fished in his pants pocket and came out with a key. "Here it's 304."

Shelley put the key in his pocket and picked up the bags again. The stairs to the third floor were just as steep and narrow as the ones below. Again, Shelley had to climb them sideways. Worn rubber stair pads stopped at the third step, and the rest of the climb was bare wood. He was exhausted when he reached the top and sat on the top step with his bags behind him. He looked down the narrow hallway. A light was burning in the communal bathroom and gave just enough illumination for him to read the numbers on the doors. He pulled the key from his pocket and found No. 304. From the look of the key it could have opened every door in the hallway. He opened the door and went back to get his bags.

The room smelled as though it hadn't been opened in years. A queer mixture of dust and mouse shit. This was apparently the room in which the "e"-less sign hung in the window. A dark green curtain was pulled down over it. Shelley opened the shade to let the morning light in––there wasn't much. The window let in the north light and offered a pigeon's eye view of the railroad station. He could see the Pullman car he and Woody had slept in. It would sit there all day and be picked up by the returning train from Buffalo.

He opened the steamer trunk and lifted Woody out. Before depositing Woody on the bed, he checked it for vermin.

"There y'go little fella. Wadd'ya think of it?"

"I think y'hit bottom, Shelley. We s'pposed to stay here?"

A maple chest of drawers stood beside the bed. It was covered with dust. The drawers inside were lined with yellowed newspaper. The top was burned and the wall above it showed a sooty stain half-way up the ceiling. Looking at the electric outlet next to it, Shelley could see that some electrical appliance had shorted out, for the wall was blackened there as well. He could visualize some previous roomer cooking a can of Dinty Moore, having it boil over onto the hot plate and start a fire.

A single lamp with a paper shade hung from the ceiling in the center of the room––there was no light bulb in the lamp.

"You been in the business .... what is it now, Shelley, thirty years?"

"Twenty five."

"Whatever. You're probably worse off now than when you started, y'know that?"

Shelley got up and opened his bag. He unfolded his brown suit and went to the closet to hang it up. There were three wire hangers and an empty Budweiser can on the top shelf. He hung the suit up and went back to his bag. He took out his shaving kit and his straight razor.

"I'm gonna go down the hall and shave."

"Wadd'ya shavin' again for? You don't have'ta shave, y'just shaved on the train. Fifteen minutes ago––y'just shaved."

Shelley looked closely at Woody. How much like a wife he was. He remembered all his wives asking him questions like that. Questions he couldn't answer. Constantly asking him, "Where y'goin' now?" "Stay here, you got work to do." "When are y'gonna fix the washer in the kitchen sink?"

"I like to be clean shaven. I don't like to feel stubble on my neck. Sometimes I shave three, four times a day."

He picked up the nubbly little face towel that hung over the foot rail of the bed and walked out.

"Wait a minute, Shelley! You bastard, I know what'cha up to––come back here. What about me––y'always thinkin' about yourself!! Goddamn it Shelley, you come back here now, y'hear me?!!!.

He walked into the bathroom and closed the door firmly and got out the razor––he could no longer hear him.

The end

©Harry Buschman