Marathon Man

Sloooow night, tonight. First incident of note, 11:54 p.m. Sweaty, disheveled, fat man in a white t-shirt comes in breathing quite hard. He is fairly wide, but he has an even more markedly protruding gut. He seems somewhat in shock. He hands me a note with the name and address of the Hotel Idiotica scrawled on it.

"I just walked from the last hotel I tried," he gasps. "All the way from Madison Square Garden!" He bends over with his hands on his knees for a bit, then rests his forearms on the front desk ledge. He seems to take it as a general affront to decency that he has been required to walk that far.

Unfortunately/fortunately, I have to tell this man the same thing I have already told a number of far more athletic/realistic people tonight, namely that we are out of rooms.

The fat man looks at me as if I've just opened the door to the courtyard where he will be court-martialed via firing squad. "From Madison Square Garden," he pleads.

"You could try this place a couple blocks up, " I volunteer and hand him a card, "Or about 100 other places in Times Square"

"How far is that?" he demands; he steels himself for a moment after I tell him it's two blocks.

"I walked from Madison Square Garden," he reminds me one last time before he turns to leave. Now usually when someone looks for recognition from me for their Herculean labors of touristry, like watching TWO Broadway shows back-to-back, or shopping at Macy's AND Barney's in one day, I manage to project a genuine sense of awe, and that's what I'm expecting to do this time, but when I dig deep for my indulgent smile, I find that it's just not there.

"That's really something, " I say to him as he leans expectantly over the counter, in a voice that's so empty I even surprise myself. Then, back to my usual saccharine goodness, "Bye-bye now!"