The hum of
In the fake marble and peeling gilt lobby, the desk clerk snoozed in a chair. He leaned back so far I thought he had a good chance of breaking his neck. A security guard, a sleek young Latino with carefully ironed uniform—the cleanest sight in this shabby establishment—said “Good evening, sir,” and looked me over. As I waved and stepped into the orange glare of West Forty-Third he smiled with brilliant molars and traced me with his eyes. At three-thirty AM Manhattan seemed about as quiet as it gets. Traffic groaned and stalled at the traffic lights, sirens complained, and a surprising horde of pedestrians tripped drunk or stoned along Broadway.Read More!