Chapter 1

I remember the first time I visited the Adler. It was December of 1963. The nation was still reeling from the assassination of JFK, and wondering what LBJ's "Great Society" was going to look like... and cost. My parents and I were on holiday at the bequest of Mother's only brother, Uncle Mordecai. It's a hard name to forget-- Mordecai Yarkony. To me, that arrangement of syllables, in itself, just sounded like money. The man was downright wealthy.

Uncle Mordecai was in the hotel industry, though he'd made a name for himself in Florida, not in New York where the Adler was located. Father was never a fan, though I don't know why. He tried not to let on, but I knew; and I was only ten. There was little chance a ten-year-old's perception had surpassed that of a multi-millionaire's, and that's probably why Uncle Mordy tried so hard to impress father with his knowledge of sports and union affairs and automobiles--the things common men talked about. However, try as he might, Uncle Mordy's grotesque wealth always seemed to eclipse any of their commonalities. The only thing that made them seem the slightest bit relatable to each other was that thick, northeastern, Jewish accent.

When common men spoke of baseball, they spoke of players' statistics and wagered bets on upcoming games. Uncle Mordy was more likely to speak of trips to Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, and New York to watch the games in person; his experience with union matters was gained from the opposite side of the negotiating table; and the automobiles he spoke of were more likely to come from Europe than Detroit. Likewise was the case when out little family climbed the grand steps to the Adler Hotel and entered the main hall, where common folks gawked and rich people felt right at home; and someone like Mordecai Yarkony might let slip his intention to purchase those grand steps, the main hall, and everything else around us. He'd heard Bernie Weider was ready to retire, which meant the Adler would be available... to the right buyer.

It took eight and a half years to convince Mrs. Weider that she, too, was ready to retire, and in March of '72, the Adler bore the Yarkony family name, and we were invited to the be a part of the occasion.

"What's the point?" father asked. "There's only one Yarkony left in the family!"

"Mordy's still a young man, Poopy, he'll meet someone. You'll see."

"Don't call me Poopy; these walls here are probably paper thin."

"Oh, don't be so negative, Benjamin. The walls are just fine."

"Fine as a widow's web. Everything in here is at least thirty years old. They still have claw-foot tubs, for crying out loud; and look at that, there's a sink in the bedroom here--what's that about?"

"Oh, just stop it now. Did you know that Roosevelt stayed here? I don't think a U.S. President would be okay staying in a room with thin walls."

"Don't be naïve, Vi, they just say that these old presidents stayed here to make the hotel seem more important here. It's a marketing gimmick, nothing else," he concluded. "I guess I can't blame you, though. This whole town here was built on people being kinda stupid. 'Take a dip in the magnesium spring, it'll cure your glaucoma! Have a drink of the water, it'll cure your rheumatism here! Oh! It'll do wonders for your Hepatitis! Ooh, are you jivin' it yet?'"

"Yes, I'm sure Eleanor Roosevelt was just sitting in a natural mineral spring, looked over at Franklin there and asked him if he was 'jivin it.'"

That's how their conversations would expire, and recur the next visit, and the next, for years. As a kid, I always loved the long carpeted hallways. You could run until you just ran out of energy. Something about the hallways-- I used to pretend I was racing someone. The finish line was last door of each floor--whether it was 242, 342, or 442--depending on which floor was hosting the event.

On our fourth visit, age thirteen, room 324, I couldn't sleep at all on our second night, and I went out into the hall to run off some extra energy. Running at night was different--you had to be quiet--not so you didn't wake up the other guests, but because you didn't want to get in trouble for waking up the other guests. The easy solution: socks only. The hallway was just light enough I could avoid running into anything left outside of any rooms, or into any other late-night hallway dwellers. I'd start at one end, with my imaginary opponent lining up beside me, then Ready, Set, Go. We'd race as quickly and as quietly as possible, thick carpet squishing beneath eager, socked toes. Make no mistake, a slip would mean disaster. Some speed would have to be sacrificed when approaching the main staircases. We'd whip around them with the grace of gazelles. I'd cut off my opponent, forcing him behind me lest he slam into the banister. Sometimes he'd return the favor, leaving me struggling to catch up.

At the end of the hall, we'd be neck and neck, every time. Sometimes I'd pull head, sometimes I'd fall behind, but it was always a split-second's difference between us.

"Nice run," I'd huff, hands on knees, quietly catching my breath.

"You, too."

Freeze.

My breath caught in my throat, my eyes grew into saucers, but I couldn't move them--right, left, up down--nothing worked. I couldn't move--not for lack of ability--I dared not. I shuddered to consider it. Burning lungs forced me to inhale short little breaths. Reason suggested, finally, that it must not have been real. I decided to speak.

"Best two out of three?"

Silence...

Silence...

I breathed hard and deeply, stopping to listen at the top of each breath.

Silence...

My eyes searched the darkness around me, terrified I'd see something there.

Silence...

"I'm tired. I'm gonna go back to my room now."

Nothing.

I willed my legs to take tiny steps, which grew into a hurried walk, which grew into a run. I forced my way into room 324 and shut the door behind me, locking it.

That was the first, and only, strange occurrence I experienced at the Adler until the Summer of '72. For most of us born in McCarthy time, the 70s were spent in much of a blur. I was spared from the worst of it when Uncle Mordy offered all of us positions at the Adler. Mother was ecstatic, Father was opposed, and I was on the fence. I'd been thinking about college. In fact, the only reason I hadn't signed up for classes already was because I didn't want it to look like I was doing it to avoid the draft. This became an article of contention between my father and Uncle Mordy. Father was not big on "taking charity," but we all knew he could use the boost in salary. The arguing was just a formality.

"I'm not taking hand-outs, Mordy. I don't need 'em."

"It's not a hand-out; it's a job offer. When have I ever given anybody a hand-out? Come on, Mrs. Weider ran the place for twenty-seven years. The place practically runs itself, but I need someone there with management experience. You'd be doing me a favor."

"Yeah, what about Stephen? He's been talking about going to college. If he can't stay at home, there's no way he could afford it, and he sure as hell isn't gonna be driving back and forth everyday."

"What's college going to teach him that he doesn't already know, or that he can't learn on the job from his old man?"

"I don't know, maybe how to do some other job--a better job."

"What's wrong with the hospitality business?"

"I don't know. Nothing."

"Well, what other business is he interested in?"

"I don't know. He hasn't said."

"So, it's either going to cost him, and you, a lot of money for him to go to some college to learn about a business (which he has shown no interest in) or he can get paid a nice little salary and learn about this here business (which he has also not shown any interest in). Look, Benjamin, come work for me. In two or three years, you'll have the place running on automatic. If Stephen isn't down with it, college will still be there. This position, on the other hand, isn't going to always be there. If I hire someone else, then Stephen decides he's not down with the college thing, what am I going to do, fire my guy just to make room for you?"

"Of course not."

"Of course not. Benjamin, take the job. I'll put you up eight, ten, twelve months, in a two-room suite--the three of you. You'll work salary and Violet will work to pay for the rooms--long enough for you to save up to get a little place of your own. Stephen can save up, too, while you teach him the ropes. After a year, you'll have enough saved up to get your own place here in Sharon Springs, and if Stephen wants to go... take college classes or something, he'll have money saved up to get a place somewhere. Whad'ya say?"

With the argument ritual summed up, we packed up and moved into the Kennedy Suite, which was actually a three-room setup where we didn't have to always be in one bedroom or the other. It was a sweet deal. Nobody else at the Adler had a deal like that. Say what you will, it was a hand-out-- and we were grateful for it.

But it didn't last long. Mother passed in '75. She'd worried every day that I'd be drafted into the war. After America withdrew our troops, she worried even more. The worst fighting took place after the peace treaty was signed, and she had it in her mind that we'd start sending soldiers back in after the treaty had been breached by the Communists. Two years later, after Saigon fell, knowing I was safe from the draft, Mother's worries about the Vietnam War were behind finally her. Four days later, she left the rest of her worries behind.

Precisely one hundred weeks later, Father suffered a major heart attack and took his place alongside her. They said he'd died of a broken heart, but closer to the truth, he died of guilt. He'd been the smoker, but Mother got the cancer. He concluded he'd doomed her to a life of stale-smoke hugs and ash tray kisses, topped off with a slow, agonizing death at the end of a short life. It tore him apart.

December of '77, I turned twenty-four years of age, and Uncle Mordy left me in charge of the 150-room, five-story, luxury Adler hotel. That's when things got weird.

Next chapter -- theprose.com/post/741543