Pete Hamill - Tabloid City

TheWorld.com.

Elwood keeps talking fast, excited now, all about the changing business model, the market share, the younger audience, about availability on electronic readers, about the way the Times now has more hits on its website than it has daily sales, and how the Wall Street Journal is charging money for access and… Briscoe has heard it all before, from all sorts of people, and he flashes on Elizabeth Elwood all those years ago in Paris, her enthusiasm, her sense of possibility and purpose. She never once used the phrase “business model,” although she surely had one. Elwood keeps talking, clicking on a traffic jam in color video, on the sports section, on style and gossip and how you could blow up the pictures of the stars and print them out.

Then both are silent. Elwood turns to Briscoe, who remains standing.

— So?

— It looks good.

Briscoe turns away, hands in his back pockets.

— That’s all? Elwood says.

He rises now, the computer locked on the home page.

— We need the Saturday paper, Briscoe says. We need a chance to say good-bye.

— Sam, you don’t get it, do you? It’s not good-bye. On Monday morning, we say hello. There’ll be no good-byes. We’ll have ads starting Sunday morning on New York One, and every day next week. Right after the weather! Channels Two and Four too. It will be a media sensation. The first month will be free to everybody, then they pay six bucks a month. We’ll be out in front of the pack. We’ll—

Briscoe walks to his chair and lifts his coat.

— Good luck, Richard.

— What? I want you to be part of this, Sam.

— You mean, you want me to be the guy that lays off people?

— There have to be layoffs, Sam. But you are the World.

Briscoe buttons his jacket and smiles.

— Richard, I’m a newspaperman.

He walks to the door.

— Where are you going?

— I’ve got to make some calls. I don’t want my people to hear about this from some fucking blog. And I have to get my lawyer to call your lawyer about severance and all that. Good luck with everything.

He salutes the photographs of Elizabeth Elwood and walks out.

9:20 a.m. Consuelo Mendoza. Chelsea Hotel, Manhattan.

She waits for the light to change, because she always obeys small laws, and when it’s green, she crosses Seventh Avenue. In the distance, Consuelo sees the sign for the Chelsea Hotel, which looms large and brown and dark. It’s on the south side of 23rd Street, but she stays on the north side. The cold wind blows hard from the river. Her breath makes small gray clouds.

She stops in front of a clothing shop but doesn’t look into the window. She stands with gloved hands jammed in her coat pockets and stares at the hotel. This is surely the place whose name he wrote on that piece of paper long ago. That time when he went to New York and came back with his wife and broke her heart. Fifteen years ago, when she was still almost a girl. If you need anything, Señor Lewis said, call me. Three days after he returned with his wife, Consuelo fled to Huajuapan, eight hours on three different buses, full of anger and bruised pride.

On this cold New York morning, she doesn’t know if he is here, and both the anger and the pride have long vanished. Who can insist on pride if the children will end up on the street in the rain? She called the hotel anyway and it was still the right number but the man who answered said that Mr. Forrest was still sleeping, try later. So he was there, and still alive. Y pues, estoy aquí . I’m here. He’s here too, up in one of those rooms with their iron balconies.

Consuelo knows he must be very old now. Un gringo muy viejo . He was old back then too, but full of life. Staring at her nakedness in his studio, wearing shorts and sneakers behind his easel, drawing or painting her breasts, her waist, her buttocks. Her long hair. Her uncallused feet. Her hands. Laughing about how hard it was to sleep now in his cama de piedra. His bed of stone. Singing songs by Don Cuco, singing about the anillo de compromiso, the engagement ring, and wailing, full of lonely hurt, “ A dónde estás?” Oh, where are you?

Si necesitas algo, llámeme, he said. If you need anything, call me. Those were his words that time, when she thought he would come back alone, to her.

She thinks: I need help now, Señor Lewis.

A job.

Or a loan.

Now.

Fifteen years later.

She waits, as people go by in both directions, most hurrying, some strolling, more people in twenty minutes than she’d see in Huajuapan in a month of fiestas. Taxis honk and cars too, and the buses push hard, bullying the others. On the sidewalk, nobody bumps into anyone else. They turn sideways, or pause, or stop. But nobody challenges another to get through. A black man with one leg swings by on crutches. Two light-skinned Latinas go by giggling but Consuelo can’t hear the jokes. They are walking quickly so Consuelo knows they have jobs that must start at ten. Nobody looks at her. Ni modo, Consuelo thinks. No matter: I want it that way. I am nothing to most people, to all but a few. Raymundo. The kids. My friends. But she doesn’t move from her place in front of the clothing store, afraid now that if she sees Señor Lewis he too will not know who she is. For good reason. She is no longer the girl he painted long ago.

Then she gathers herself. She walks to the corner of Seventh Avenue, waits again for the light, crosses with a dozen other people, and moves right on the south side of 23rd Street. She goes past the main entrance of the hotel, which is flanked by brass plaques. She peers casually through the glass doors to the lobby. People talking. A desk at the far end. She walks on. Then stops, and turns and walks back, through the doors. Nobody turns to look at her. A young woman is talking to the balding man behind the desk. His beard is trimmed. He wears a necktie and a jacket. Behind his glasses, he has kind gray eyes. She removes her gloves and shoves them into her coat pocket.

— Thanks, Jerry, the young woman says, lifting mail and a newspaper. I’ll see you later.

— Sure thing, he says, as the woman steps into a waiting elevator.

Then he looks at Consuelo.

— Can I help you, ma’am? he says.

Consuelo clears her throat. It’s hot in the lobby.

— Yes, please, she says. I wan’ to see Mr. Lewis Forrest.

The man behind the counter shrugs.

— I’m afraid he…

— Please, Consuelo says. I’m an old friend from Mexico. He painted me many times. I nee’ to see him, please.

The man squints at her.

— Y’know, I think I’ve seen his paintings of you, señora.

— I was much younger then, she says, and smiles a thin smile.

— So was Mr. Forrest, the man says, and laughs. Much younger.

— But he’s here?

— Yes. He just doesn’t answer the telephone.

— Please, I—

The man squints harder.

— Tell ya what, he says. Just go up there and knock on the door. What the hell? It’s eight-oh-two.

— Thank you very much.

She turns to the elevator, presses the button, her heart beating faster now. The doors open. She steps in. The doors close. She presses 8. The elevator jerks, and starts up, rising slowly. Consuelo thinks of getting off at 8, waiting for a moment, then leaving again. The doors open. She steps out.

The hall of the landing is wide and high and badly lit. There is brown wood everywhere, with doors all shut. In the center of the hall, she can see the railing of a staircase. She steps to the railing and looks down. It seems to be descending into hell, or at least purgatory. There are paintings on the walls as far as she can see. She turns away, fighting off a shiver of dizziness. She hears footsteps on stone, from another floor. Then she walks to the first door on her right, sees the number, sees the next, and starts walking toward the bright rectangle of window light at the far end. The numbers must start down there with 802. She can hear talk from the rooms, the sound of a television set, classical music, laughter.