Archive
01/09/12 - (1)
Hotel Folios
A modern-day desert wanderer, nomad — That was my overachieving dad, my garment-manufacturing dad, That stranger, when I was a very young boy, Who carved out almost no space in my sense of place, So that when I do attempt to remember his presence in my life, On York Drive, until I was seven, then Glenridge Avenue, till ten, I almost can't, for the life of me, the life of him.
My first nine years belong to my mom. She was there for all my needs, took care of the house, everything. Dad was away, on business, whether out of town or downtown, Committed to two mistresses — Biltwell and the road — Though always devoted only to his wife, his darling Charlotte. When he was home, I might see him at the dinner table, Before he'd retire to his bedroom, to read trade papers . . . maybe not.
That he was as industrious as a beaver, during the wartime forties And for the latter half of that decade, when all prosperity broke loose, I've documented, just this afternoon, in my mom's basement, For a random handful of his old hotel folios I found surviving, silently, in one of his myriad manila folders, Apparently waiting for my curious eyes to spy and translate them — Their dates, explanations, charges, and balances due — into Saul . . .
St. Moritz, New York, July 20–22, 1942; Hotel Pierre, New York, September 4–12, 1944; The Warwick, New York, October 16–18, 1944; Savoy-Plaza, New York, February 19–23, 1945; St. Moritz, New York, September 24–30, 1945; Palmer House, Chicago, November 10–15, 1945; Hotel New Yorker, New York, January 14–19, 1946;
Savoy-Plaza, New York, February 14–18, 1946; The Mayflower, Washington, D.C., March 10–11, 1946; Savoy-Plaza, New York, April 15–19, 1946; Savoy-Plaza, New York, May 13–16, 1946; The Biltmore Hotel, Los Angeles, February 16–21, 1949; The Town House, Los Angeles, June 15–19, 1949; Hotel Statler, Cleveland, June 23–25, 1949.
Sitting in the desk chair my dad vacated a few years ago, Perusing these time-capsule artifacts, I realize, palpably, just how much of an absentee dad I really had, How busy he was, providing for me, my mom and sister, Babs, Just how focused he was, on succeeding, Making his family comfortable, prosperous, secure, Affording us opportunities for education and leisure he'd missed.
But these precious few hotel folios, From among the hundreds and hundreds yet buried down here, Keep speaking to me, long after I take them home, Speaking to me, in my dad's voice, of what really drove him, The truth underlying the truth of his constant travels: His work was his purpose and his passion and his soul . . . His other family, the one from which he was never absent.
01/09/12 - (1)
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