I typed the words, "cheap hotel rooms NYC," into a search engine and found my match.
The short, fat lady in the elevator was wearing a blue moo-moo, no shoes or socks, and swore at me under her breath when the elevator stopped to pick me up. The doors opened, and she mumbled a profanity just loud enough to ensure I heard it but soft enough to leave the possibility for denial. There wasn’t away way this lady would deny the profanity, though. We rode the elevator down from the eighth floor. When we passed the third floor, she grabbed onto the walls, spread her legs, and started to moan in pain. I thought, Oh my God, she’s going to give birth. The short, fat lady started to sway a little bit and proceeded to utter racial slurs. I started to focus on my breathing. I hoped that the elevator wouldn’t break down, and I transferred all of my positive energy toward the elevator’s ability to speedily descend floors. The elevator stopped. I had a brief moment of elation, but that feeling of relief was short- lived, as I realized we stopped on the second floor and not the lobby.
A tall, blond, and seemingly nice young man was standing beyond the elevator’s doors, and I tried to make eye contact with him. I attempted to open my eyes wide enough for him to detect a sense of panic or receive the message that he should wait for the next one or take the stairs. He smiled, walked in, and in a British accent said, “hello, good morning.” The young man was wearing a bright blue T-shirt, plaid shorts, and a camera around his neck. His appearance stood out in sharp contrast the the old, fat lady’s dull blue moo-moo. I think he realized something was amiss in the elevator because he positioned himself directly in front of the closed doors and didn’t move. The short, fat lady began to mumble disturbing things about “foreigners, the color blue, and tourists.” The young man didn’t acknowledge the lady’s attacks, as he remained stoic for the rest of the ride. I wanted to reach out and inform him that we, New York, are not like this lady, but the very thought of simply breathing without the short, fat lady’s permission terrified me.
Finally, we reached the lobby. The young man dressed in blue exited right away, I followed immediately, and the short, fat lady wandered out of the elevator. She moved at a pace that could only be equated to that of a pained snail. She was eager to exit the elevator. There were two people waiting to board and ascend the floors of the Carter Hotel in the warped mechanical box. The short, fat lady waddled about a eighteen inches into the lobby’s main area, grabbed her lower gut, and ran back into the elevator as the doors were closing. I stood in the Carter’s lobby, watched the little numbers above the elevator’s doors light up...2....3....4.... I turned, looked for the man with whom I shared a priceless ride, and ventured onto the street.
