The Wellcrest

           The Wellcrest was an unusual place to work. I had started when I was nineteen as a bell boy, back when I was trying to “figure it all out” as if life’s unanswered questions could be solved by escorting surgeons and CEOs to their rooms, toting their monogrammed luggage and mistresses behind. Mr. Carter conducted my interview.
            “Have you worked in the hotel industry before…Matt, is it?”
            “It’s Max,” I said.
            I looked around the tiny office he had brought me to. It looked nothing like the rest of the hotel. The walls were covered in decaying striped wall paper, a thick layer of dust covered the file cabinet’s surface, a plant sat wilted in the corner although I was pretty sure it was fake. Mr. Carter sat at a desk made of cheap wood with his elbows digging into the newspapers stacked there. He wore emerald green pants with a matching jacket, The Wellcrest uniform, only his jacket had a wider lapel than everyone else’s because he was the general manager. He looked up at me, putting down my limited resume.
            “Well, whatever. “Have you worked in the industry before?” was my question.”
            “No, sir,” I said.
            “Do you have a keen sense for the area?”
            “Not particularly sir, I just mov…”
            “Do you have a knowledge of elevator safety?”
            He looked at his nails and sniffed violently causing the wrinkles in his forehead to protrude as his eyebrows lifted with his nose.
            “No”, I said growing increasingly aware I wasn’t going to get the job.
            “Can you lift a thirty pound suitcase?” he said, sighing.
            “Yes, sir.”
            He stood up slowly, using the cushioned arm of his chair, and extended his arm which resulted in a limp handshake.
            “Great. You’re hired.”

The Wellcrest was a decent looking hotel. It certainly wasn’t The Plaza but it was decent. The building was built in 1908 out of solid brick. Today, that brick is faded and slightly crumbling but we made it work. A green, freshly vacuumed rug always hung out of the front door on the cement leading guests under the matching green, domed awning propped up by golden rods cemented into the ground that always sparkled thanks to me. The hotel had an expansive main floor where the bar, lounge, ballroom, and dining room were located. The main elevator was to the right of the front desk and carried guests to one of the five floors which occupied about 55 rooms, ten of which were suites. Each room was relatively large and relatively well kept. I would learn soon after I started that this wasn’t the hotel you took your wife to on your anniversary and your kids to on your family vacation but instead the hotel you visited when you and someone who wasn’t your wife wanted to get away for the afternoon.

Mr. Carter began my “training” the Monday after my interview. We walked through the main floor as he lazily pointed to each area as we passed.
            “The dining room is through those double doors. Dinner is at 5:30 because the only people who eat in there are 93. Mr. and Mrs. Schlurman and they’re about to buy the farm any day now,” Mr. Carter said, crossing his fingers.
            “They eat here every day?” I asked.
            “Every god damned day,” he said.
            We passed the bar and the lounge which was an erratic blend of old and new furnishings. The bar top was made of dark, cherry wood with mitered corners and there were rows and rows of full bottles against the wall. There were worn couches the color of pine trees, the cushions discolored where people had sat for the past 60 years. On side tables, under a shag carpet, were bubbled lamp shades sitting on wooden bodies emitting light through the floral synthetic fabric. In the corner sat a piano made of ebony, its lid propped open exposing the silver wires inside.
            “At about 8 o’clock the bar starts to get some action,” Mr. Carter said as we approached the front desk, “whatever you see… ignore it. Eyes ahead.”
            I stared at him as he organized keys into the square slots against the wall behind us.
            “Whatever I see?” I asked.
            “Whatever. Whoever. Eyes ahead.”

The first night on the job wasn’t the worst I’ve ever had. Mr. Carter trained me in elevator safety: “keep the guests calm”, he said, “But if they don’t shut up keep them in there a little longer even after it’s fixed. I don’t need to hear that.” Then, he trained me in the art of luggage carrying: “Pick it up, drop it off. Don’t let it drag.” Finally, he told me if a guest had a question, he informed me they rarely do, answer to the best of my ability and if I didn’t know the answer: “don’t send them to me. Lie.”

That evening began with the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Schlurman at 5:25. Mrs. Schlurman walked behind her husband at a glacial pace. Her back arched as she shuffled, the pearls around her neck swung side to side. Mr. Carter exhaled deeply when he saw them.
            “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Schlurman. Table for two?” he asked lazily.
            “We’ve been coming here every night for 25 years, Carter and every night you ask the same question,” Mr. Schlurman spoke at the same pace his wife walked, “and it’s always just the two of us.”
            “Follow me,” Mr. Carter said.
            Mr. Schlurman looked up at me before entering the dining room.
            “New boy, Carter?” he asked.
            “Yeah, he’s new,” Mr. Carter said, looking at his watch.
            Mr. Schlurman looked me up and down and took off his maroon fedora before speaking.
            “I like my scotch dry,” he told me.
            “He’s not a waiter, Mr. Schlurman,” Mr. Carter said sighing, “He’s the bell boy.”
            He looked me up and down again and said, “Well, I still want it dry.” He started to walk again and yelled over his shoulder, “Come on, Gladyce. We don’t have all night.”

It was never easy for me to stand still. A bell boy is supposed to stand completely still with his arms behind his back but Mr. Carter never held me to it. I stood next to the front desk waiting for Mr. Carter’s return when a woman walked into the hotel. I straightened up waiting for her to approach the desk to check in but she took a quick turn into the lounge. I tried to remember what Mr. Carter had said, eyes ahead, but I couldn’t help it. She walked past the faded couches and nodded to the bartender who was drying glasses behind the bar. She approached the piano and took white sheets from her purse balancing them in the notch of wood above the keys. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders in thick waves before she tucked it behind her ear. She sat on the bench and the wood creaked. She smoothed the blue chiffon of the dress in her lap and it fell to the floor and hung around the piano bench. She straightened the sheet music. Her fingers hovered over the keys before she began to play. Mr. Carter returned to the front desk knocking me out of my daze.
            “Take them God. They’re ready,” he said looking up at the ceiling.
            “Are they really that bad?” I asked.
            “They’re a nightmare. The man must have 97 hats, he wears a different one every night. I only put up with them because they’ve spent thousands and thousands of dollars here over the years,” he said, straightening his lapel.
            “Who is that woman?” I asked.
            Mr. Carter looked up and down again quickly before answering.
            “Oh, that’s Sheila,” he said, rubbing out a stain.
            “How long has she been playing here?”
            “Long time. She’s highly requested,” he said, not looking up.

Just then a man walked through the front doors. I straightened up again but when Mr. Carter didn’t I relaxed. He was older with graying hair but didn’t walk like the Schlurmans. His suit was fitted around his gut and his shoes squeaked on the tile when he walked. He walked into the bar and promptly sat on the first stool with a direct view of Sheila. The bartender brought him a drink without being asked but the man never took his eyes of Shelia.

At one point in time the Wellcrest was a beautiful hotel. Or so I’ve heard. Mr. Carter said that before he came to work here it was most popular hotel in the city among the elite. The hotel held banquets with tables covered in white linen and gold accented china. The doors to the ballroom were always open and big band, swing music flooded the lobby. Somewhere between then and now, something changed. Mr. Carter said it was the war. I think the employees just got lazy. I imagine Mr. Carter working in The Wellcrest during its prime, escorting guests in the right direction, smiling, and his lapel crisp. I looked over at him leaning against the front desk, his right foot crossed over the other, using his tongue to get something stuck out of his teeth. Before I can ask more about the old Wellcrest, the front door yanks open and a lanky woman is headed for the front desk. She wore a short, orange dress with a black peter pan collar that covered only half of her protruding collar bone. Her black boots made her even taller and reached the middle of her thigh. This time Mr. Carter straightens up.
            “Stay here and man the desk,” he says through gritted teeth, “I’ll be back in about an hour.”
             Before I can protest he has swung himself around the front desk and headed for the elevator where the woman is already standing. He wrapped his arm around her tiny waist and looked over his shoulder before slipping into the elevator. While he was gone I checked in a man in his 50’s, and a woman who could have been his daughter, with no luggage. I brought Mr. Schulman his scotch because for some reason he requested I bring it and I helped Mrs. Schlurman out of her chair when they had finished their dinner. The elevator dinged and out stepped Mr. Carter and the orange dress. She walked to the front door with a black duffle in one hand as she fixed her hair with the other. Mr. Carter smoothed his lapel from behind the desk and looked out into the lobby.
            “Who was that woman?” I asked.
            “Eyes ahead,” he said.

The next night wasn’t much different. Mr. Schlurman wore a blue fedora and his wife wore dainty gold chains. Shelia had on a red silk dress and the man who watched her wore the same suit as before. And when the boney woman arrived she wore white. This time when Mr. Carter went upstairs with her he took something wrapped in a brown paper bag from under the desk with him. There was nothing to do while Mr. Carter was gone. No one requested a drink and no one checked in so I stood and listened to Shelia play from behind the front desk. I watched her fingers move swiftly over the keys and her body sway to the music she made.

Tonight, the man who watched her got up from his seat at the bar and moved closer to her. He walked over to the piano slowly with his drink in his hand. The gold liquid rocked back and forth against the sides of his glass coating them in shimmer. When he reached the piano he put his drink down on hard. Now standing behind Shelia he bent over so his face was next to hers. She tried to move but he grabbed her bare shoulder, his fingers making dents in her skin. Her fingers slid against the wrong keys altering the melody. He dipped his head into her neck and whispered something in her ear. The music stopped entirely until he stood up straight. She inhaled and her fingers began to move. Gershwin. He traced his finger from one shoulder, across her bare back, to the other before retrieving his drink and walking back to the stool where he sat, with a smirk on his face, to watch some more. He looked around the rest of the lobby and eventually met my gaze. His smirk disappeared and he returned a cold stare. I looked down quickly and began fidgeting with papers that had been left under the front desk. What was first a diversion tactic had now caught my attention. Bills and letters covered in red stamps had been shoved under there. Past due notices, foreclosure warnings, money transfers. I felt a hand on my shoulder and I jumped.
            “What are you doing?” Mr. Carter asked.
            “Nothing, nothing. Looking for… a key,” I stammered.
            “Well, it’s not under those,” he said as he gathered them up while watching the white dress walk out of the hotel, black duffle in hand. He took the stack and placed it under his arm walking around to the other side of the front desk, like he was a guest, and leaned over.
            “If you’re smart, you’ll keep quiet about these,” he whispered.
            Avoiding his stare, I nodded and glanced past his shoulder into the dining room at the table where Mr. and Mrs. Schlurman have their dinner. Mr. Schlurman had his face three inches from his soup and hadn’t noticed his wife’s face laying in hers.
            “I think Mrs. Schlurman is dead,” I said, deadpan, “Maybe we should do something.”
            “We could,” he said and then walked with his stack of secrets into his office.

This went on for weeks. Shelia kept coming to play her music and the man kept coming to watch. To touch and to terrify. I kept coming to work and pretended not to notice when Mr. Carter disappeared into the elevator with paper bag, wrapped stacks of money tucked into his lapel and a tiny waist in the crook of his arm. Shelia never said a word and neither did I.

I did wonder though about the poor schmuck Mr. Carter was stealing money out from under. Someone probably spent their whole life building this hotel and now look at it. Everyone in town knew it as a pay by the hour hotel. We could have probably kept it cleaner. And its reputation was shot since a woman had recently died in her soup. I thought about the owner of this pathetic place sitting alone in their house somewhere faithfully believing that everything they built was being well taken care of. My thoughts were interrupted when Shelia walked through the door. She carried the same purse with her sheet music poking out. She looked up before she turned into the lounge and smiled at me while tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. She sat down on the bench and it creaked. She fixed the sheet music above the keys and smoothed her dress and she began to play. Berlin. Like clockwork, halfway into her second song, he appeared at the bar with his drink in hand. He got close again, leaning up against the side of the piano to watch her. When she didn’t look up he walked over and stood behind her, pressing the front of his body into her back.

I heard Mr. Carter’s office door slam behind me and he walked to the front desk where he would wait for his coconspirator to come sauntering through the front door. He counted the green bills and organized it into stacks in front of me now, instead of in his office. Pretending to ignore the fluttering paper in his hands I asked about the man in the lounge.
            “I told you, keep your eyes ahead,” he said still counting.
             I looked into the lounge and saw Shelia trying to squirm and arch her back so she wouldn’t be touching him. I didn’t want to stay quiet anymore.

“Shouldn’t we do something? I mean, he’s sick.”
“We should,” Mr. Carter said.
He packed the money into a paper bag and folded it tightly just in time for his guest to appear at the front door.
“Well, why don’t we?” I said impatiently.
“Because he’s the owner of the hotel,” Mr. Carter said and disappeared into the elevator.