Hope's Imperfection

Chapter 4: Lizzy

By the time I landed in New York City it was getting late. I decided I would find a place to stay and approach Ms. McIntosh at her address in the morning. I was an eighteen-year-old man in New York City, looking for a hotel room at nine o’clock at night, but I had spent quite a bit of time in The Big Apple with my family and was confident in my ability to get around safely. I decided to use a pay phone and call the Marriott hotel near Penn Station in midtown to make a reservation for the night, all the time wondering about the credit limit on Grandma’s debit MasterCard.

It took me an hour to get to the hotel from the airport but the train was fairly direct. Penn Station in New York City is huge. Forget Grand Central. This is the terminal for the city, and every manner of humanity awaits trains from the platforms to various and sundry destinations all over the eastern seaboard.

I like big cities. I enjoy the energy and the anonymity. I always feel hidden amongst the tall buildings and although they make others nervous, they make me calm.  Intimate spaces are what I have trouble with, especially when they involve people I know.

A simple smile at the check-in counter bridged the awkwardness of such a young man checking into a hotel using his grandmother’s credit card and a recently procured driver’s license from the MVA of Maryland…on my second attempt.

I opened up the room, spread out the junk food purchased from the lobby, and released my grandfather’s guitar from its knapsack. I started off nice and quiet as I always do, but soon I was loudly strumming the chords of my favorite folk songs. I must be the only 18-year-old boy in America that plays John Prine and John Hammond songs for fun.

After a few hours and I drifted off to sleep….

Midtown in the morning was busy. I repeated my routine from the day before in Montreal. I checked out, stowed bags in the lobby, and procured a map to guide me to 52nd Street. Montreal and New York could not be more different. Montreal in quaint; New York is over the top. Noise competes with noise until a cacophony is reached that only New Yorkers can endure for extended periods. And no pretty French girls asked me for directions though one tough-looking lass, hurling obscenities with a thick Brooklyn accent, nearly ran me over.

I reached the apartment building at 9:30 in the morning and deciphered the code for Ms. McIntosh’s unit.  I buzzed her apartment and awaited a response, realizing that I had not planned out what I might say if she answered. Still, I was confident in my ability to charm if diplomacy was required.

“Hello,” responded the intercom.

“Ms. McIntosh, my name is Philip Stanhope. I wanted to ask you some questions about the diary you purchased in Montreal.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

“I’ll come down,” said the voice.

I waited patiently, sitting on a bench along the sidewalk facing the building, for about five minutes until the front door to the apartment building opened. 

A blue-eyed, fair- haired, middle-aged, woman walked towards me, and I used a smile to show that I was about to embark on a friendly conversation. She introduced herself as Lizzy.