Christmas time was busy as usual is the south of market area of The City. The jukebox hotel jutted up above the rich and the poor like it has since the year of the last big quake. Apparently it barely shimmered, survived without a scratch unlike the Marina District, and has been host to several Christmas’s since. And like most days of the holiday season there were people of every type everywhere. Except today was a special day, the last day, Christmas Eve.
The covered parking lot was full of Jaguars and BMWs. Parking valets rushed to help the glittering crowd. Christmas: busy, exciting, everyone in a good mood surveying the lobby decorations, inhaling the breakfast buffet, setting aside work and calendars for the day of expectation. Jesus’ Birthday.
The lobby doors opened and shut as new guests entered. Women in bright coats, men in suits or Levis, kids from out of town in sweat shirts and tennis shoes. Everybody wore everything and it all looked as comfortable as Christmas Eve should. It’s San Francisco, you can wear a t shirt to the opera. Or shorts in an expensive hotel.
Outside, the crowd on the street parted as a thin, old man in an electric wheelchair slowly powered down the sidewalk, close to the towering granite of the hotel walls. His wheelchair was a land yacht. It bristled with every item needed to live on the streets of The City. Extra clothing was bundled at the driver’s feet, a cooler lashed to the side for food and drink, and a radio taped to one of the arm rests with it’s aerial dangerously protruding. A small stove and water bottle was perched on a metal tray across his middle. Various bags and parcels were dangling here and there as though he were a traveling salesman from a time past, wheeling into town to sell the rubes on the latest kitchen technology. Across his legs was a sleeping bag, dirty from many years of continuous use. The occupant hummed softly to himself as he steered by the Christmas walkers, looked at no one but the sidewalk pavement, the wheelchair lurching a little each time he corrected his direction to avoid some element of an invisible obstacle course. At the marbled entrance to the grand hotel, right in front of an exiting white Lexus, he veered at 90 degrees toward the door marked for wheelchairs. The door opened as if by magic to make way for this urban juggernaut. He went down the ramp into the lobby and slowly maneuvered, by fits and starts, the motor of his chair whirring and groaning, into a line to check into the hotel.
The atmosphere in the in the hotel lobby suddenly changed. There was an undercurrent stirring. “Who is that?” a women murmured in her appliqued sweatshirt and dangling gold jewelry, twisting around to look as if a gorilla had entered the lobby and was standing in line to book a room. A homeless man was in their midst. It was one thing to walk by the homeless in their squatting patience, panhandling in store entrances, while walking to an alley way San Francisco bistro. But to have this small old man, bearded and malodorous, in this separate reality of a Christmas time hotel lobby was very different.
The ubiquitous alms cup was lashed to his chair in an inviting place, out on a little ledge that protruded to the street side of his world if he hugged the buildings, or the lobby side now as he lurched forth in line. A few donated, not knowing what else to do. He acknowledged no one. Spoke no thanks. Just pushed forward on the wheelchairs joystick until he reached the desk.
A young man looked down from behind the counter. He had dark, perfect hair and wore a perfect grey suit which evoked quiet. “May I help you, sir?” he said.
There was no response from the man in the wheelchair, but he began fidgeting and fussing around with his bundles. “Would you like a room?” the young man asked.
The homeless man’s movements became more deliberate. He poked into a bag tied to the brake handle of his wheelchair and produced a $10 bill. From his sleeping bag he slowly plucked two $5 bills. The camp stove was upended, the bottom removed, and several dollars of change clanged onto the tray. From his cup was dumped a little silver, several ones, and a neatly folded $20 bill. The back of his radio was removed, in it were stashed film containers. He removed the lids, pulled the money from within, which was folded in tight origami-like designs. Some were in cubes, some in triangles, some even folded into hexagons. The wheelchair driver began to unfold all of his folding money.
The crowd in the hotel continued coming and going, drinking, eating, talking, waiting. But everyone was aware of this imponderable old man. No one stared, but everyone looked, just for a second at a time.
No one stared except for the desk clerk. He had the homeless man fixed in his gaze. One could almost see a little sweat breaking out on his brow. He knew the right thing to do: wait, be patient.
The new guest finally had all his money piled in front of him.
“A room on the 22nd floor, with a Bay Bridge view, is $245 per night. Would that be acceptable, sir?” asked the clerk.
“Un-hunh,” said the no longer, temporarily at least, homeless man. He placed the neatly stacked bills on the counter, along with a jangle of change. The clerk commenced counting. $250 even.
“Under what name should I register the room?” asked the clerk.
“Burt,” was the reply.
The clerk typed on the computer for a moment, then looked up. “Please sign here on the registration form Mr. Burt.”
The clerk handed Burt the registration card and his 5 dollars. Burt didn’t sign but gave it back to the clerk. The clerk gave him the key card anyway, no reason to cause a fuss on Christmas Eve. He figured he would sign it for the wheelchair bound man. Just Burt.
Then, slowly, the wheelchair with Burt aboard pulled away from registration desk like the Queen Mary leaving dock. As soon as he cleared the desk and the many quests standing in line, he made a quick and deliberate, battery powered dash for the elevators. The doors to the his lift were opening just as Burt entered the marbled hallway where several elevators converged. His chair turned right at a sign the declared “Sky Lounge-Closed for Private Event.” He looked up at the arrow over the elevator door, seemed satisfied by whatever he saw there, and proceeded into the lift. Another passenger asked Burt which floor he wanted. “22,” Burt said. His floor was punched in and off they went, several other guests and Burt. Going up.
The calm, grey suited young man had meanwhile called up to the 22nd floor to request that someone be available to help Burt and to warn the staff that a unusual guest was coming their way.
The elevator slowed and stopped at Burt’s floor. The doors whirred open, Burt’s wheelchair lurched a little and then went forward, swerved left and powered down the hallway. He slowed, turned, and stopped at each room door in the corridor. Burt sat in his chair at each door, peered at the number, found it wrong, turned again and headed off. From behind him a bellhop approached, passed him a little, and as he looked at the next number said, “Good afternoon, my name is Carol, and I am here to assist you. Please follow me to your room.” Carol made eye contact with Burt, he didn’t seem to protest, so she headed off down the hallway. Burt turned, pushed forward on his joy stick, and followed.
Carol led Burt down the hall until she found his room, stopped, and held out her hand for the card key. “Sir, please give me your key and I will open the door.” Burt ignored her and squared himself to room door, inserted the card, listened for the mechanism to work, grabbed the handle with one hand to open it, and pushed forward on his joy stick with the other hand to force the door open with his wheel chair. Carol reacted by pushing the door out of the way of the chair so it wouldn’t get scratched, and said to Burt, “This way, sir.” He was already in the room, whirring toward the bed.
Burt took one look at the bed, large color TV, writing table, mini bar, and let out a “Hunh.” He then grabbed the TV remote from the writing table and turned on the TV, scanning the channels until he found a kid’s station running a Bugs Bunny cartoon and left if there with the sound turned up. Carol stood in the little hallway, watching Burt. Wondering,
Burt then pushed the joystick back, did a quick little turn, and went forward into the bathroom. He took in the oversize marble tiled bathtub, the large tiled floor in front of the tub, the pristine low flush toilet, the grand mirror, and the vanity with the little bottles of unguents and shampoos, and the strange appliance in the corner, the bidet. He then motored up to the bidet, reached out and pulled the handle. It flush. Burt uttered another, “Hunh.”
Carol, still wondering, began to back out of the hallway when she observed Burt push the tray in front of him to the left and remove the armrest on the right side of his chair. He tossed it into the corner of the bathroom, pulled the sleeping bag off of his legs, and piled it next to the armrest. Under the sleeping bag, on his lap, was a canvas bag. He lifted up the canvas bag and tossed it over his head into the hallway. It landed next to Carol.
“Sir, you dropped something,” Carol said, a little bewildered. She then looked down and noticed that the bag had spilled its contents: clean underwear.
“Hunh,” was all that Burt said. Then he proceeded to take off his clothes. Slowly he removed his shirt and threw it onto the pile in the corner. Then he took off his t shirt, his belt, and then he unzipped his pants and looked over at Carol. Carol pulled the in-house radio from her uniform pocket.
“This is Carol in room 2219. I need assistance right away, 2 people if possible. Please respond.”
Almost no time elapsed when a man’s voice came back, “This is Jason. I’m on the same floor. I just saw a janitor. I’ll grab him and be there right away.”
By that time Burt had turned on the bath water and was trying to haul himself out of his wheel chair into the bath tub, his pants still mostly on his limp legs. Jason and the janitor showed up just as he was ready to hit the floor, a little off his mark of the tub. Jason looked at Carol, they both looked at the janitor. Burt was groaning a little, trying to muscle himself with his arms into the tub. Carol yelled to Jason, “Do something.”
“What should I do, Carol?” Jason asked.
“You’re a concierge, aren’t you, help the guest.”
“Ok.” Jason gestured to the janitor that they help Burt. They went into the bathroom, where Burt was sliding off the chair onto the floor. Jason asked him, more out of protocol than anything else, “Can we help you into the tub?”
“Un-huh,” Burt replied.
Jason and the janitor began removing Burt’s pants, adjusted the water for temperature, and gently set him into the tub. Burt looked at them, smiled a weak smile with the corners of his mouth, and said “Uuuunh.”
Jason and the janitor went out of the bathroom, into the hallway of the room. Carol was still there.
“Let’s go out into the corridor for a minute,” Jason said.
“Yeah, let’s, we’ve got to talk about this,” replied Carol. The janitor didn’t have anything to say, he just nodded his head.
They walked out of the room. Carol asked Jason, “Do you think he’ll be ok in there?”
Nobody said anything for a second or two, then the janitor muttered “I hope so, we probably shouldn’t have even helped him.”
“And what was are alternative, make a big fuss and haul him out of the hotel because he wanted to take a bath?” asked Jason
Carol butted in, “So what now?”
With the help of Jason and the janitor Burt was now out of the tub, back in his clothes, and in clean underwear. He sat in his chair by the mini bar. The cartoon channel was still on though turned down until it could barely be heard. He wheeled over to the bed, grabbed the TV remote, pointed it toward the TV, and raised the volume to too loud. Then he wheeled over to his pile of stuff and pulled a paper sack from inside his sleeping bag. He removed a small caliber hand gun from the bag and put it on his lap, wheeled back toward the mini bar, and turned toward the TV. He picked up the gun, put it inside his mouth, and continued watching the cartoon. He saw the Road Runner create a dangerous detour for the coyote that led him off a high cliff. Wiley Coyote sped off the cliff, thinking he was just about to catch the Road Runner, stopped in mid air, looked at the camera, and plummeted a thousand feet to the ground. He hit with a little puff of dust. The Road Runner appeared and said to the camera, “Beep Beep.” The cartoon was over. Burt waited with the gun in his mouth for the next cartoon come on the TV, but only got a commercial. The commercial was for a kids 4 wheel drive radio controlled toy car. He watched the commercial until it was over, noticing the mini bar out of the corner of his eye. He took the gun out of his mouth, put it back in the paper bag, and then back into his sleeping bag. Burt wheeled over to the mini bar.
Burt took the key off the table and inserted it into the small lock on the mini bar. He opened the door, took a look inside, and muttered, “Hunh.” His first small bottle was Courvoisier with smokehouse almonds and a few bites of Ghirardelli dark chocolate. He then opened the small Mondovi cabernet and drank that with a carefully wrapped and un-carefully unwrapped cappuccino truffle. Burt took it all in. There were little packages of Carr’s crackers, perfect with the Jack Daniels, and Planters salt peanuts to go along with the minute bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. A mini bar size bottle of macadamia nuts went well with the bottle of Bacardi rum, as did the green olives and the Tanqueray gin. This was not just a mini bar but the vessel of Burt’s greatest feast.
This went on for a couple of hours. The contents of the bar were all either consumed or tasted. Burt was drunk, stuffed, dead tired, and happy. He whirred himself over to the queen size bed, flopped himself half onto it, grabbed the head board, and pulled. In a few minutes of grunting and wheezing he was on the bed. And then he was asleep.
The next day Burt awoke just before checkout time. The TV was still on the cartoon channel, no sound, just the flickering light. Burt pulled himself into his chair then whirred into the bathroom to reload his chair with his land yacht’s gear. The arm rest went back onto the chair, the small tray onto the arm rest, the sleeping bag back across his legs. He reclaimed his camp stove, his radio, and his sack of dirty clothing.
Burt then backed out of the bathroom, pushed over on the joy stick, pulled up to the room door, grabbed the door handle, turned it, and reversed the chair to open the door. Out in the hall Burt hugged the left wall just like he did in the street, his tin cup on his right.
In the lobby the scene was serene, almost deserted. After all it was Christmas day. Only foreign tourists were in the hotel now. Anyone staying there to visit relatives in the City was doing so. The presents were all opened. Kids were disappointed or overjoyed. Parents were done with Christmas morning and thinking about preparing dinner. There were only a few people at the lobby counter when Burt wheeled up to checkout.
Burt bumped the wood counter with his chair, made a little scratch that no one would see immediately, and handed his key up to the desk clerk.
“Would you like to check out, sir?”
Burt gave his usual answer, “Un-hunh.”
“Please fill out this card for us,” the clerk said as he handed it to Burt.
Burt handed the card back. The desk clerk took it and began to ask him for some of the information from the card. “Did you make any long distance calls, sir?”
“Un-unh,” Burt replied.
“Did you use any items from the mini-bar?”
“Un-hunh,” replied Burt.
“What would those be, sir?” asked the clerk, who now began to understand that he would have to be patient. Burt of course made no reply, rather just looked up at the clerk. At that point the desk clerk realized that he would have to call up to the floor and request an inventory, which he did. He explained to Burt that it would be a few minutes wait.
Quickly an automated inventory appeared on the clerks computer screen. Every item on the list was checked off. The clerk made a double take. What he saw was indeed there.
“The inventory shows that all the items in the mini-bar were used,” stated the clerk.
Burt looked up as if that was not unusual and agreed, “Un-hunh.”
The clerk thought to himself for a moment. “Sir,” he said, “that comes to $224.75. I see that your room has been paid for. How would you like to pay for this additional charge?”
Burt stared up at the clerk with opaque eyes. The clerk looked down at him. Nothing was said. The desk clerk began to fuss with some papers.
“Unh?” said Burt.
“There are extra charges for food and drink. How would you like to pay for them, sir?”
Burt stared at a spot to the left and above the clerk, up by the ornate Asian style drawing above the registration counter.
The clerk said, “Sir?” Again no response from Burt. Then the clerk motioned to the desk manager to come over.
The manager walked up in a perfect grey suit and said, “Is there a problem?” in a low tone to the clerk.
The clerk took the managers arm and walked back from the counter so that Burt would not hear their conversation. He told him the story, concluding with “And I would guess he has no money to pay the extra charges.”
The manager went up to the counter and took in what he saw. Burt was in his chair covered with his Gypsy gear, staring up at the drawing. He asked Burt, “Did you have a good stay, sir?”
Burt moved his gaze toward the manager and said, “Un-hunh.”
The manager then said, “Please have a good Christmas, and come see us again.”
With that Burt put his chair in reverse, swung it around, and headed out the door. Out on the street he hugged the wall, with his cup on the outside of his chair, and headed down the street to one of his usual spots to wait for the day to warm.