Shakespeare probably never used more than twenty-five candles at a time either.
The room had a chair, a dresser and a bed. Some of the rooms had closets, but mine, being a seven-dollar-a-week room, had nails driven into the wall for clothes.
I stood this hole for six weeks and moved out as a result of two stimulating experiences during the sixth week. The first happened on an unusually warm October night. There was no air in the room and I was lying awake, listening to the tubercular coughing of a man across the courtyard, when there was a knock on my door. Since I knew nobody in New York but the ten men and one woman in the seminar with me, none of whom was likely to knock on my door at 1 A.M., I decided it must be a telegram. I climbed out of bed, put on my bathrobe and opened the door. A large, beefy middle-aged man stood staring at me. He gazed from the curlers in my hair down past my blue-and-white-striped pajama-and-bathrobe set, to my bare feet.
“You Dolly?” he inquired.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong room number,” I said. He looked me over carefully again.
“You open for business?” he asked.
It took me a few seconds to understand him. Then I slammed the door, locked it, pushed the overstuffed chair in front of it, armed myself with a scissors and stood shaking, waiting for him to batter the door down. I knew the difference between rape and prostitution, but at one in the morning in that rooming-house room I wasn’t sure he did.
In a minute or two I heard his footsteps down the hall and a knock on another door. I heard the door open; then it closed and there was silence. I climbed back into bed and lay staring watchfully at the barricaded door till I fell asleep.
Next morning I woke up with hives. The hives got worse all week. On Saturday night I woke about 3 A.M. to find a wild thunderstorm in progress and the wind blowing the rain in on my bed. I got up, switched on the light and began to strip the wet top sheet off the bed. As I did so, two shiny round black objects scurried across the bottom sheet and they weren’t hives.
It took me half an hour to pack. I could have packed all I owned in fifteen minutes but it takes longer when you’re having hysterics. At 3:30 A.M. I hauled my luggage—a suitcase full of clothes, my Girl Scout camp duffel bag full of books, and my portable typewriter—down the four flights of stairs and out the front door. I dragged everything to the corner of Amsterdam Avenue. The rain had stopped and I stood there wondering what to do next, when a cruising cab saw me and pulled up. The driver leaned out and surveyed my tearstained face.
“Whatsamatta, honey?” he inquired.
“I had bedbugs,” I said. “I moved out.”
“Couldn’ya waited till morning?” he asked. “They wouldn’ hurt ya!”
He got out and put my luggage in the cab and when I climbed into the back seat, he said:
“Where to?”
“I don’t know,” I quavered. “I’ve only been in New York two months. I’d like to move out of this neighborhood if there’s any other neighborhood I can afford.”
He was careening down Amsterdam by then and without slowing down, much less stopping, he turned clear around to stare at me.
“Didn’ you know you were living in a red-light district?”
“No,” I said. “What is it?”
He turned back to his driving, shaking his head.
He turned east on a dingy West Side street and came to Central Park, shot through the park to Fifth Avenue and on over to Lexington and careened down Lexington.
I’d never been east of Fifth Avenue before. Even at four in the morning, staring bug-eyed out of the cab window, I could see that the driver had brought me into a noisy, dilapidated, hopeful New York I hadn’t known existed.
“I like it over here,” I thought. And over here I’ve stayed ever since.
“I’m takin’ you to a woman’s hotel,” he said. “It ain’t the Ritz but it’s respectable. You stay there till you know your way around.
The room had a chair, a dresser and a bed. Some of the rooms had closets, but mine, being a seven-dollar-a-week room, had nails driven into the wall for clothes.
I stood this hole for six weeks and moved out as a result of two stimulating experiences during the sixth week. The first happened on an unusually warm October night. There was no air in the room and I was lying awake, listening to the tubercular coughing of a man across the courtyard, when there was a knock on my door. Since I knew nobody in New York but the ten men and one woman in the seminar with me, none of whom was likely to knock on my door at 1 A.M., I decided it must be a telegram. I climbed out of bed, put on my bathrobe and opened the door. A large, beefy middle-aged man stood staring at me. He gazed from the curlers in my hair down past my blue-and-white-striped pajama-and-bathrobe set, to my bare feet.
“You Dolly?” he inquired.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong room number,” I said. He looked me over carefully again.
“You open for business?” he asked.
It took me a few seconds to understand him. Then I slammed the door, locked it, pushed the overstuffed chair in front of it, armed myself with a scissors and stood shaking, waiting for him to batter the door down. I knew the difference between rape and prostitution, but at one in the morning in that rooming-house room I wasn’t sure he did.
In a minute or two I heard his footsteps down the hall and a knock on another door. I heard the door open; then it closed and there was silence. I climbed back into bed and lay staring watchfully at the barricaded door till I fell asleep.
Next morning I woke up with hives. The hives got worse all week. On Saturday night I woke about 3 A.M. to find a wild thunderstorm in progress and the wind blowing the rain in on my bed. I got up, switched on the light and began to strip the wet top sheet off the bed. As I did so, two shiny round black objects scurried across the bottom sheet and they weren’t hives.
It took me half an hour to pack. I could have packed all I owned in fifteen minutes but it takes longer when you’re having hysterics. At 3:30 A.M. I hauled my luggage—a suitcase full of clothes, my Girl Scout camp duffel bag full of books, and my portable typewriter—down the four flights of stairs and out the front door. I dragged everything to the corner of Amsterdam Avenue. The rain had stopped and I stood there wondering what to do next, when a cruising cab saw me and pulled up. The driver leaned out and surveyed my tearstained face.
“Whatsamatta, honey?” he inquired.
“I had bedbugs,” I said. “I moved out.”
“Couldn’ya waited till morning?” he asked. “They wouldn’ hurt ya!”
He got out and put my luggage in the cab and when I climbed into the back seat, he said:
“Where to?”
“I don’t know,” I quavered. “I’ve only been in New York two months. I’d like to move out of this neighborhood if there’s any other neighborhood I can afford.”
He was careening down Amsterdam by then and without slowing down, much less stopping, he turned clear around to stare at me.
“Didn’ you know you were living in a red-light district?”
“No,” I said. “What is it?”
He turned back to his driving, shaking his head.
He turned east on a dingy West Side street and came to Central Park, shot through the park to Fifth Avenue and on over to Lexington and careened down Lexington.
I’d never been east of Fifth Avenue before. Even at four in the morning, staring bug-eyed out of the cab window, I could see that the driver had brought me into a noisy, dilapidated, hopeful New York I hadn’t known existed.
“I like it over here,” I thought. And over here I’ve stayed ever since.
“I’m takin’ you to a woman’s hotel,” he said. “It ain’t the Ritz but it’s respectable. You stay there till you know your way around.
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