Authors: Meredith Greene
The alley running behind the Waldorf teemed with people at all times of the day and night: kitchen assistants carrying bins of vegetables and fruit, bakery vans, carpet cleaners, linen delivery trucks and the occasional security guard. Michelle smiled as she spotted Samuel, a fatherly guard she had come to know fairly well. From almost day one, the older man tended to look on Michelle as his responsibility.
“Miss Michelle,” he said, tipping his cap. Michelle smiled at him.
“Samuel... you are valiance, itself,” she replied, shifting her packages in order to shake his hand. Laugh lines deepened around the man’s eyes as he returned her smile.
“I see y’ have Chinese tonight,” he commented, walking with Michelle to one of the back entrances. Swiping his card, he opened the door for her. “Mabel was getting worried y’ weren’t eatin’ enough.”
Michelle chuckled. She’d only met Samuel’s wife a few times but was inclined to stand a bit straighter when the stout, matronly woman was around. After just a few minutes, however, the severe facade melted and she’d fussed over Michelle like a mother hen. Once, the woman had Samuel bring her a care-basket, with canned food and such, but Michelle refused it; she had no kitchen to bake or cook and nowhere to store cans. She did appreciate the thought and wrote a note saying so, sending it back--via Samuel--along with a single rose (cut discreetly from the Waldorf garden courtyard.) From then on Mabel’s deliveries consisted of cookies, with the occasional fresh loaf of bread.
“I have fruit today, as well,” Michelle said, holding up the paper bag of apples. “She needn’t worry. My parents taught me how to take care of myself.” Walking through the door, she turned back to Samuel. “Please tell her how I adored her raisin bread. It was simply delicious.”
Samuel nodded, his face taking on a wistful expression.
“I know,” he said, sadly. “She wouldn’t let me eat any of it; says it’s bad for my diet.” He patted his belly affectionately. “I may have been forced to commandeer a few slices of yours, though,” he added, his eyes twinkling. Smiling, Michelle nodded goodbye; she chuckled all the way down the service hall.
The air grew in humidity and warmth as she neared the kitchens. Walking forward in the dimly lit hallway, faint scents of rosemary and garlic filled Michelle’s nostrils. A half-smile formed on her face at the familiar sound of the sous-chef arguing with his boss. A loud, metallic clang sounded out and the head chef began screaming obscenities. It was one of the few moments Michelle was grateful for not taking French lessons, though she could guess at what was being said. Stepping aside, she allowed two kitchen assistants to dart by her, trying to escape the chef’s wrath. Ducking into the stairwell Michelle climbed quickly to the second floor.
The hotel’s cheapest rooms were short on space, but pleasant nonetheless. Michelle's room looked out over the top of the maintenance ‘shed’ in the corner of the garden courtyard. Rarely did she see anyone but the cleaning crews in here. Not many people actually rented the tiny rooms, unless all others were full. Using her key card, Michelle let herself into her room; she let out a sigh as the door closed behind her. Her eye rested on familiar things: the gray carpet, the bed with its deep-red linens, potted flowers growing by the open window, the diminutive antique table and the tall, cherry armoire. It felt good to be home.
Closing the window against the night, Michelle drew the curtain and began her nightly habits: her battered boots were removed, wiped down and placed carefully in the bottom of the armoire, her coat hung up and the other clothing bundled into the laundry basket. Michelle’s tiny bathroom boasted a toilet, pedestal sink and a slender shower, one just big enough for someone like her to squeeze into; the big plus was the hotel’s boiler system: never-ending hot water. At the end of the day, it was pure bliss just to stand under such cascading heat and let it wash away the grime of the street. After her shower Michelle dressed in yoga pants, her Stanford sweatshirt and slippers. She put her wet hair back in a pony tail and picked up her key card and laundry. The second floor had a small laundry ‘room’ at the end of the hall, hidden in a converted closet with folding wooden doors. Checking the inside for clothes Michelle set her wash going and walked back to her room, reveling in the quiet.
“If I didn’t have to go outside to make money, I’d gladly make this my hermitage,”
she thought. The idea rather appealed; beside Samuel and Mabel she really had no one to worry about, nor was there anyone to worry about her. Here, at least, she had a small measure of secluded comfort.
Back in her room, she turned on the miniature CD player adorning her night-table. Lovely strains of Chopin’s Piano Concerto #2 filled the air and Michelle sat on the floor by the bed. Reaching under her bed, Michelle pulled out a leather portfolio. She sifted through the drawings inside and found the 12:06 man’s portrait. She held it up as if it were a fragile thing. Michelle thought it was probably her best work. Somehow she’d managed to capture that radiant smile from nothing but memory. Smiling back at the picture she slid it once again into the portfolio, fastening up the nickel buckles.
Michelle held the briefcase a moment, inhaling the faint smell of leather. The portfolio had been a gift from her father on graduation day. The charcoal pencils and fine pens had come from her mother;. They'd known, somehow, that she’d kept her passion for art amid the myriad accounting classes and volumes of tax law. Michelle’s eyes misted over. She put the portfolio away.
Looking at the hotel writing desk she smiled at the collection of pictures set up there: a photo of her parents on their wedding day, a picture of them smiling over her as a baby; a snapshot of her as a child standing by her Uncle Oscar, almost lost in the huge sombrero he had brought from Mexico.
Standing up Michelle turned the music down and glanced at the clock; her laundry would not be done for another twenty minutes. Looking around, she wished she had a teapot, or some kind of kettle. She missed tea; she missed a lot of things. Michelle’s eye drifted to the unopened Chinese food on her desk. Smiling, she grasped it and sat down on the floor again; the spicy aroma cheered her up immensely. The egg rolls were especially good. Michelle ate, gladly abandoning the realm of self-pity and want.
Tossing the empty food containers away down the hallway garbage chute, Michelle caught a glimpse of a family checking into a room far down the hall. A small boy and his parents smiled at each other, talking excitedly as they maneuvered their suitcases into the door; they looked happy. The solitary observer felt lighthearted just looking at them until the moment their door shut; the hall suddenly looked barren. Michelle went back into her room quickly. Loneliness had been her only companion for the last four years, but at times she heartily resented its presence.
Lying in bed some hours later, Michelle listened to the slow jangling of a janitor’s cart as it passed her door. In the distance an ambulance siren rang out over the never-ending sounds of moving cars outside.
“I am lonely,” she whispered into the dark; she felt it so acutely it was almost painful. Michelle thought briefly of the 12:06 man, of his cerulean eyes and brilliant smile. “...and, I’m a coward,” she admitted, smiling to herself.
There had to be a way to signal the blue-eyed man she so admired, to let him know she existed; a subtle way… one that did not require heroics. She would give almost anything to see him smile at her. Peering over the edge of her bed, Michelle could just make out the portfolio. Perhaps it was time to let her portrait see the light of day.
“It’s worth a shot,” she murmured; she was tired of being lonely. She was tired of merely existing. Lying back on her pillow Michelle smiled as Sleep danced its slow steps around her room.
TWO
Early the next morning Michelle traveled along her normal route to work. Anticipation gave new energy to her steps, today. She wore her patched coat and a brown, corduroy skirt, with thermals underneath. Her boots were clean but scuffed, her dark red hair all tucked beneath her floppy-brimmed, canvas hat; a gray scarf and mittens rounded out her ensemble.
“If this next week goes well I just may have enough money to shop at the illustrious Goodwill Store… for my ‘winter wardrobe’,”
Michelle thought. The notion made her smile.
Walking along at a brisk pace, she arrived at her corner. Panhandlers did not find this location desirable due to the fast pace of the passers-by. The pedestrians did stop for pictures, however, their eyes caught by a cartoon or drawing; even the most stern-faced individuals seemed to want a bit of brevity in their lives. Having set up her display Michelle pulled out a larger, wrapped picture from her bag. She slid the thin package behind the display, out of sight.
Through the morning hours the stream of foot traffic did not lessen. For the first time--since she began selling portraits on the corner--Michelle found herself unable to concentrate on her sketch-pad. She fidgeted and nervously bit her lip. At noon, she could wait no longer. Fetching the mystery package out, Michelle pulled the wrapping from the blue-eyed man’s portrait; she fixed it to the display with care. She placed it at a top corner, where it had the most advantage of being seen.
Scanning the oncoming crowd, Michelle glanced at her watch. 12:05. Michelle wondered if he’d even see the portrait, let alone recognize the picture as himself. It wasn’t much of a flag, but at least she had raised it. 12:06... her mouth went dry. Michelle picked up her water bottle and took a small sip, keeping an eye on the moving crowd. People walked forward--seven or eight deep--each keeping an inch or so of ‘personal space’ around them. Michelle realized her heart was racing.
“Stop,”
she silently chided herself.
“Calm down. He’s just another person walking to lunch.”
Taking a deep breath she watched, waiting.
He was late. Michelle’s hazel eyes searched the crowd at a faster pace. 12:08. She wondered if she’d chosen the one day to bring her portrait that he decided to call in sick. Another two minutes went by. Michelle’s felt her heart sink in disappointment.
Then--through the crowd--she glimpsed his face… but it was instantly obscured again by a group of moving pedestrians. Sitting up, Michelle felt a smile creep over her mouth as she waited for the man to come closer; he walked somewhat slower than the other travelers. The crowd parted and the reason for his tardiness suddenly became clear; walking next to Michelle’s mystery man was an elegant older woman, beautifully dressed. She held onto the man’s arm and spoke to him with a smile; he inclined his head to one side as if to hear her over the sounds of the street.
The woman’s face seemed similar--in feature and form—to that of the blue-eyed man. Michelle assumed the lady was his mother. Her artistic eye missed nothing. The older woman was well-dressed, her manner and walk exuded English sophistication from her deep-red suit-dress and black, fur-lined coat, to her button-up boots and tasteful garnet jewelry. She was easily a matron of considerable status.
Looking at her, Michelle felt conscious of every stain and hole in her clothing. Even the scuffs of her shoes seemed to leap out into view like never before. The older woman’s face seemed kind but Michelle just wanted to disappear, feeling every inch the bedraggled street artist. Eying them from under her hat brim, Michelle watched as they walked closer. The man from Michelle’s portrait must have said something humorous as the older woman laughed and then looked around with a smile.
Something next to Michelle caught the lady’s attention; she paused, her face dressed in mild surprise.
“Oh, no,”
Michelle thought. She had forgotten all about the portrait. Ducking her head down, Michelle squeezed her eyes shut, the last remnants of bravery draining away; she prayed that the lovely, rich lady and her gorgeous son would just keep walking.
A few seconds ticked by. She opened her eyes again. Two, polished boots stood in front of her mat.
“That picture there William,” said a pleasant voice above her. “It’s you! I am certain of it.” Michelle wanted to hide, or fall into a sidewalk crack... anything but look up.
“Ahem…”
A man cleared his throat somewhere far above Michelle’s head. Inhaling a rather large breath, she peered up from under her hat. She had a long way to look. Blue eyes met her gaze; their color appeared different up close... as inviting as pictures of tropical coastal waters in a travel magazine. The man’s expression reflected momentary surprise, then amusement.
“My mother favors this picture,” he said, pointing at the display. Michelle glanced at the woman next to him. The lady smiled.
“Well, aren’t you a dear,” she murmured in a soft voice, a gloved hand to her chest. Michelle blinked. Under the lady’s kind gaze she felt unduly juvenile. With her hair all tucked away she knew she probably resembled a teenager, more than a woman in her twenties.
“The sign says five dollars,” came the blue-eyed man’s voice again. “It does look uncannily like me, I’ll admit.”
“Five dollars?” his mother repeated, still looking at Michelle. “It’s worth much more than that, my dear. Really well done. How nice it would look on the ballroom wall... I could never get you to sit for a portrait.”
“Dammed waste of time,” the blue-eyed man said, grinning. “That’s what cameras are for.”
“He walks by here, each day at 12:06,” Michelle heard herself saying.
“Where the heck did that come from?”
she thought. She bit her lip to keep more words from coming out. The blue-eyed man’s eyebrows rose slightly. His mother clapped her hands together.
“I knew it!” the lady said, happily. “It
is
you... a mother knows. Would you be so kind, my boy? I’ve no paper money with me and I don’t suppose she takes checks.” The man chuckled at her enthusiasm and dug in his pocket for money.