Legends of the Chelsea Hotel by Ed Hamilton

Author:Ed Hamilton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Da Capo Press
Published: 2010-05-11T16:00:00+00:00

Two Thefts: Ethan Hawke at the Chelsea

I

Maxwell was an old man, probably mid-seventies, with a potbelly and thinning gray hair pulled back from his forehead. Though he was generally disheveled, his clothes unwashed, his shirttail out as he shuffled through the lobby on his way to the deli for a 40-ouncer of beer, sometimes he was more lucid than other times. At such times I would often sit with him in the lobby and flip through some of his photographs, which were always nicely done, professional; Maxwell was well known in the art world, and in the fashion world as well, which is where he made his mark in the sixties and seventies, shooting magazine layouts.

One evening I was walking down the stairs. Maxwell was skulking behind the doorframe, and when he saw me coming, he came out into the elevator lobby. “Come here for a minute,” he said, motioning for me to follow him into the hallway. “I have something I need to tell you.” He spoke almost in a whisper. “I have to tell somebody.”

I had something to do and so I was kind of annoyed. “What is it?” I asked, impatiently.

“They’ve been gassing me,” he said. “And injecting me.” He made a motion as if injecting his arm with a needle.

“Who has?” I asked.

“That I don’t know.”

“Why would they do this?”

“So they can steal my photographs, of course,” Maxwell said.

“They make a lot of noise going through my things, and they have to be sure that I don’t wake up and catch them. Of course they’re very careful to put things back the way they found them, so that then I might think that I’ve just mislaid the photographs. But I’ve set traps for them, and so I know when something has been disturbed.”

Huddled together in the dark corridor, we spoke in conspiratorial tones. I was wary of getting pulled into Maxwell’s world of delusion. Still, curious, I played along. “Why would they want your photographs?” I asked almost in a whisper.

“Well, it’s very good work. They can’t do work that good themselves. That’s why they need it. For their careers, you see. To advance their careers.”

I nodded my assent. I could see that he was going to have all the angles figured out on this one.

“I wouldn’t reveal this to just anyone,” he said, leaning in closer and placing a hand on my shoulder. “But I have a feeling that you know about such things.”

I didn’t say anything, but I was becoming uncomfortable and I wished I could find some pretext to tear myself away.

“I need to put a stop to this theft,” Maxwell went on, “which is ongoing, by the way. And I wanted to know what you thought I should do about it.”

“Why don’t you tell Stanley?” I suggested, facetiously. I was referring, of course, to our illustrious proprietor, Stanley Bard. “Maybe he can look into it.”

“Oh, he would be glad they were doing it! He wants to get rid of everyone who’s been here for a long time so he can rent out their rooms at a higher rate.

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