Up in the Old Hotel

« 1 2 3 4 View All»

Up in the Old Hotel, by Joseph Mitchell

When Luke grades papers, he does so with his feet up on his desk, leaning back in his wooden chair. He holds an inkwell pen in his right hand and jots notes in capital letters on countless double-spaced essays. In his office, a stack of stapled and annotated paper sits like a crumbling mountain to his right on the floor next to a few dead flies and more than a few blue rubber bands. Luke’s sharp shoulders almost touch his hairy ears, and his mouth moves slightly as he follows arguments and decides on their most appropriate conclusion. His notes are extensive. For almost each and every essay he will touch this day and the next and the day after that, Luke smothers black ink and coffee rings on each page. Then, he types a one-page letter and signs it “Best Wishes, Luke.” In fact, Luke writes extensively on just about everything. He keeps schedules in black ink on his left hand, red notes in a leather booklet, diagrams of his happiness and stress on coffeehouse receipts, names of good books on anything he can find.

When I found him in his office, he appeared relaxed when I knocked on his door, his feet up, his pen frantic.

“Howdy, Luke,” I said.

“Well hello there, Michael,” he said with his eyes wide.

“I just wanted to stop by and say hi.”

“Thank you very much. Now is not so much the time, Michael. I got quite the stack of papers to grade. I’d love to get together soon. Maybe when the quarter ends…” and breathes heavy through his mouth. Then shakes his hair and taps the pen on his knee.

“Cool. No worries. I’ll talk to you soon.”

By his office door, on a tack-board featuring a photo of a bald man in bathtub, Luke displays his weekly schedule. The spaces not taken up by class, meetings, and Thursday’s Hiking Day, are full of loopy letters making up student’s names. Some need a meeting to go over papers. Some need to talk about home, roommates, God, a girl. Others just want to go have coffee to hear what he has to say and to really be listened to. I look for space to put my name. But there is none. I start to leave.

“Michael. See any movies lately?” Luke asks.

“Yeah. I saw the one we were talking about a while ago. The sci-fi one. I saw it at the Crest.”

“My son and I saw that one too. Very good. Very very good–”

“Best action movie I saw all yea–”

“Michael,” Luke says, remembering the papers and the deadlines. “Okay, sorry, back to work. Take care, now”

“Will do, Luke.”

I didn’t see Luke for a long time after that. Then, I got an email, early in the morning.

Michael, guess what?  I bought you a little present – don’t get too excited, because it’s from Goodwill.  It’s sitting on the dictionary stand up against the window in my office (it has your name on it).  Best wishes, Luke.

In the empty office the next afternoon I found a large paperback book exactly where Luke had said. On the front was a note with my name on it. All capital letters. Black ink. Two dots on the I. The book was Joseph Mitchell’s Up in the Old Hotel. It was a book of all of his profiles and essays, collected and ordered in small type and tight margins. I stood in Luke’s office and flipped through the stories of non-celebrities I had been reading and had enjoyed for their clear words and obvious respect for those who never asked for much, those who never thought they should have gotten much of any from anyone them, but who deserve all of their content and tired bodies could hold. The stories that were nothing but hard and eloquent lines on scratch paper, those stories and people made to last forever from double-dotted I’s and best regards and full pages. And in the final section, “Joe Gould’s Secret.” As I walked down the hall from Luke office and turned down the stairs and over the flat grass outside, rubber shoes kicked on the sidewalk and I hummed a song I didn’t know.

« 1 2 3 4 View All»