Simon crosses 94 and the Curtis Hotel looms suddenly. The brown brick is slicked with grime and stained with rust from the oxidized window casings. Simon gauges the approaching structure. It never had a proper launching, and despite the grand plans its architect had envisioned, it was built the same way the city took shape—in ill-formed stages. Still, it used to be a good hotel. The limestone sills are worked into nice relief, but not over-worked. The flesh-colored corner stones contrast the brown brick to make the building look secure but not scary or fortress-like. As with all good hotels, the architects saved lavishments for the interior so guests felt included, pampered instead of awed.

Simon pushes open the brass-plated oak doors and enters the lobby. There is less light and he stands at the entrance until his eyes adjust. Despite recent renovations the lobby smells of mold and rotting newspapers. The air is glazed with cigarette smoke. The tan carpet is shreft of the class and elegance its pile suggests. It is spotted and worn, with what looks like dried vomit or blood ranging from the desk to the front door. A rubber mat has been laid over the carpet at the entrance to protect it from the snow and salt, but the slush slips over the edges to pool on the carpet like dried semen. Two men sit in quiet conversation on adjoining couches whose red velvet clashes with the tan carpet. The walls had originally been paneled in wood but successive decorators had painted them first red, then gray, and finally, in desperation, covered them with paisley wallpaper, like throwing a blanket over a corpse. The paper splays from the top of the wall in unreachable and hopelessly cob-webbed corners.

The lobby is united in neither theme nor color. The decorators, like poor parents, tried to pave over their mistakes with new approaches to discipline but gave in too soon so that their child bears all the scars and none of the good effects of their efforts. Simon looks over at the desk and realizes that a clerk has been standing perfectly still behind the counter all the while, his ill-fitting red vest blending too well with the wall behind him. He casually watches Simon.

Simon shifts, aligning himself to the clerk like a compass finding north, and ambles slowly over to the counter. He clears his throat and places his hands palms down on the aged wood but quickly withdraws them when he sees that his long nails sport crescents of gray-black dirt. The hotel clerk says nothing. Simon clears his throat again. The clerk blinks.

“Hi,” mumbles Simon, “I’m here to see about some work.”

“Here?” the clerk asks.

“Yeah, here. Umm, I was supposed to talk to the maintenance manager.”

“Dougan.”

“What?”

“His name’s Dougan.”

“Okay,” offers Simon.

The clerk unclasps his hands from behind his back and folds his arms across his chest.