The Rand Hotel: Tales of Block E, #1

By William E Burleson

Jack is a Vietnam vet who had hit rock bottom. He's still got a long way to go, but now things are starting to look up — he's off the junk, has a room at the Rand Hotel and works temp most days. Best of all, his long-estranged blind father has come to visit. Jack wants to impress, so he decides to fluff up his situation by embellishing on what the old man can’t see. How can that fail?

It’s 1979 on Block E, the center of a woebegone Times Square-type district filled with characters of all stripes — hookers and the homeless, addicts and drug dealers. But the streets also belong to the hopeful, the many people wanting so much more. The Rand Hotel is one of the Tales of Block E, three stories of people in a place and a time long gone but not forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flexible Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386640325

Book preview

ONE

I HELD THE DOOR OPEN. Okay, Pop. Watch your step.

He tapped around with his cane, figuring out the door jamb, and in he went. I offered him my arm, and he held on lightly.

Dominic! I said to no one. Nice to see you. That’s okay, we’ll find our way to my usual table by ourselves.

Ruth, the cranky old manager, looked at me from across the room like I was crazy, shook her head, and went about her business.

Pop and me walked over to a booth. I put my hand on his shoulder and guided him down to the wood seat. I sat down across from him as he folded up the cane—who knew those things folded up so neatly?

You’ll love this place, Pop. This is the finest Italian restaurant in the city.

Thank you, Jack. You didn’t have to do that for me.

Only the best for my pop. I fiddled with a packet of Sweet’N Low.

It smells wonderful in here. He took a loud inhale and smiled. Garlic. He sat stiffly, head up, small, round sunglasses reflecting the light hanging above. Tell me what’s going on.

It’s quiet for Tuesday evening. What I saw were mostly the usual suspects: a half-dozen men alone with coffee, several older couples, and one table with four young men and women dressed in polyester and wearing platform shoes. Other than the disco kids, all the rest belonged at Little Brothers for the Poor. Everyone here is dressed to the nines, Pop. Suits for the men, nice dresses and high heels for the ladies.

Oh, I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so underdressed. I should have known. He sported an old brown suit worn with age and a striped silk tie. He was the best-dressed person in the restaurant.

I had on jeans, dirty tennis shoes, and a sweat shirt with holes on the elbows. I, too, would fit right in at the soup kitchen. Don’t you worry about a thing, Pop. I know these people, and they know me. They don’t mind.

What else? What else do you see?

If Pop weren’t as blind as a mole in an eclipse, he would have seen that the place once had class, both in its interior and in its customers. By ’79 it was worn linoleum, worn wood booths, worn everything. There’re candles in old wine bottles at every table, covered with wax dripped down the side. White tablecloths. Linen, I’m sure.

Pop felt around the booth. We don’t have a tablecloth, and I don’t think we have a candle.

That’s why this is my table, Pop. I asked them not to put down a tablecloth. It just gets stained with tomato sauce, and I hate to see that.

That’s very thoughtful of you, Jack.

And the candle, well, it makes me sneeze.

You always had allergies.

I never had allergies.

Gents, Ruth, the grizzled battle-ax manager, said. How are you doing tonight? Her lipstick was crooked, and the lines on her face were growing deeper—she was as worn as the restaurant. I wished we had gotten Sharon, the pretty one. She was nice, and sometimes she let me slide on paying.

Magnificent, Pop replied. I’m in town to visit my son here.

Isn’t that just wonderful. She obviously couldn’t care less, twirling a pen over her order pad.

My name is Bogdan Boguslaw. Please call me Dan. You, of course, know my son.

Oh, I know him all right. She gave me the skunk eye.

I hadn’t seen Pop in twenty years, since I was eight. Weird. I could see myself in him. The same square head, same big nose, same