Trying to Float by Nicolaia Rips Page B

mother. “Get out before they start stealing your detergent.”
    Stanley poked his head out from his office and waved to us.
    As we walked, I thought to myself, “This is really happening; we are finally leaving the hotel.”
    Outside, my dad stopped walking, took a deep breath, and spun around to face the entrance, just as Stanley and Steve, the engineer who had worked at the hotel for decades, emerged from the entrance. Stanley seized my mom’s hand and gave it a few vigorous pumps, then turned and did the same with my dad and me. After exchanging greetings, Stanley promptly showed us the way back inside the hotel.
    Our first stop on Stanley’s tour of vacancies took us to the seventh floor.
    â€œYou are going to love this one!” he said, directing hisexcitement to my mother, for whom he had genuine affection. As we shuffled in to take a look, Stanley turned to my father and said, “You know . . . you’re getting a good deal, these rents are below the Plaza.” I had never had the pleasure of visiting that establishment, but I didn’t think that visiting dignitaries would appreciate uneven floorboards, chipping paint, and a permanent malodor.
    With each apartment, my parents murmured the appropriate “oohs and ahs” and asked Stanley and Steve the standard questions: do the fireplaces work (Stanley yes, Steve no), is it noisy (Stanley no, Steve yes), and who are the neighbors (Stanley, “an elderly artist and her invalid husband.” Steve, “Crazies”—a raucous former inhabitant of a halfway house and the man she met there). My parents weren’t bothered by any of this, and after a serious exchange with Stanley about taking the apartment, went off to examine the bedrooms and kitchen.
    I might remind you that we didn’t actually need to see the apartment: a floor above ours and in the same line, it was nearly identical.
    As soon as my parents were far enough away, Steve confronted Stanley.
    â€œExcuse me, Stanley, you realize that someone lives here? I think we should wait until David comes.”
    David was Stanley’s son. He ran the day-to-day operations of the hotel, and it was understood that David would assume control when Stanley retired.
    â€œDon’t worry about David,” Stanley replied, “he’s not coming.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI fired him.”
    â€œYou fired David?” Steve’s eyes bulged and his head jerked back. “Why?!”
    â€œIf you must know, I fired him because he said ‘fuck you’ to me. No one says ‘fuck you’ to me!”
    â€œAre you kidding, Stanley?” I say ‘fuck you’ to you all the time.”
    â€œOkay, okay. But you’re an exception.”
    â€œWhat about Artie? He says ‘fuck you’ to you every time you ask him for the rent. And Jerry and Nathan, they say ‘fuck you’ on a daily basis.”
    â€œThat’s right. Artie only says it when no one else is around, Jerry and I grew up together, and Nathan’s too young to know better.”
    Nathan was the son of a bellman who had worked for Stanley’s father.
    â€œMy rule is that you can only say ‘fuck you’ to me if you said it to me when I was a kid or if you are a kid or if nobody else is around. It’s a three-part rule.”
    â€œI can say ‘fuck you’ to you?” I inquired.
    They ignored me.
    â€œSo anyone can say ‘fuck you’ to you except David. Am I right?” Steve asked.
    â€œIf you keep this up, I’m going to fire you, too.”
    My dad wandered back into the living room, his head tiltedback to examine the ceiling sconces. “Excuse me, is there room service here?”
    â€œNo, Michael, you know that!” Stanley was getting flustered.
    My dad considered this carefully, then shrugged. “Fair enough.”
    Steve, meanwhile, was heading out the door.
    â€œWhere are you going?”