Chiaroscuro

So I'm checking out of the Washington Square Hotel, where I've been staying for most of the last month while I worked on a series in Soho.  As Marcus Tullius might say, I pass over in silence how strange it is to be living in a hotel in my native city.  But as I say, this morning I am checking out and decide to kill some time with a couple of poached eggs in the hotel restaurant.  As you will fully appreciate, I don't want to schlep my two suitcases into the restaurant, so I think: Why not have the hotel hold onto them for an hour?  You see, I am a real traveler, with a sophisticated sense of what one does in hotels.

After the eggs, I return to the hotel lobby.  I ask the lady behind the desk if I can pick up my bags, whereupon she pulls out a large and battered walkie-talkie that clashes fetchingly with her sequined chartreuse minidress.  "Storage," she says, with some authority.

About five minutes later, a truly massive black man in maintenance coveralls and thick glasses walks out into the lobby.  At least 6-5, and pushing 300 pounds.

Him: Storage?

Me: Yep.

You have to understand that there is no smiling whatsoever as we exchange these words.  Neither of us is taking the situation lightly.  He has his job to do; I have my bags to retrieve.  This is not something to smile about.

Him: What color are they?

I see what he's getting at, and I appreciate his professionalism.  Of course there were tickets attached to the suitcases when I checked them.  They had numbers on them, and I have just handed him my tickets, which have the same numbers on them.  This is part of the tradition when it comes to checking bags.  But I may be witnessing an evolution in the tradition, where people dealing with the whole storage thing are realizing it's far more efficient simply to have the bags described in language.  In the not-too distant future, I suspect numbers will fall off the tickets like an obsolete appendage, and soon after that the tickets themselves will vanish altogether.  It's an exciting time.

Honoring the moment for what it is, I ask myself: What color are my bags?  This is a question I seldom ask myself, and honestly I'm not asked it very often by others.  This will require some concentration.

Me: Black ...

Him: Black...?

Me: and ...

Him: Yeah?

Me: and ... black.

Him: Two bags, right?

Me: Right.

Him: One is black, and the other is black.

Me: Exactly.

A pause while he, still looking at me in the most unironic way imaginable, assesses the situation. Then:

Him: I want to thank you for differentiating between those bags so precisely.

Me: Don't mention it.

As he leaves, he throws me a ponderous nod, and I feel that somehow we have bonded, as men, as men of different colors but similar world views.  That there is a certain respect that has passed between us that perhaps can only experienced in the lobby of a boutique hotel.

Only then do I allow myself a barely discernible smile.