Sitting alone in the banquet hall, I can’t help but think, I know this smell.
Antibacterial soap.
Citrus.
And old water that I used to wash away the evening laughter, spilled drinks, and half eaten hors d’oeurves.
From the kitchen comes the smell of New York.
The smell of Maine.
It’s the smell of unserved duck and bison left out for the wait staff to take home.
Here, at the LA Proper, it smells exactly like the Wythe Hotel, in it’s unforgettable daytime gloom.
Where as a porter I’d use a damp cloth to clean the sconces. Blue liquid to clean the high-tops. And a pink substance—no one knew the specifics of—to mop the weathered floors.
Where as a porter I learned to bite my tongue, leave my pride at the door, and accept the minimum wage for minimum effort.
Ah, what sights there are to see in Brooklyn, and be there no better way than to see them than for 600 dollars a night!
Ah, what local fare there is to taste off the butchers block in Maine—Rosemont Market— where I too learned that minimum effort guaranteed minimum results—pairing cheese with port. I sold ribeye no Mainer could afford.
Where as a deli clerk I trained under a butcher who dreamed of owning his own knife shop and who secretly loathed his private affairs.
What lies between the swinging of an open/closed door, but a thousand emotions, a thousand dreams, and a thousand questions—we choose not to solve.
Yet here, in the banquet hall, I’m sure I know this smell.
And it serves as a vast reminder—that time is fragile, and outlook is imperative.
To know exactly what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it.
To take the bad with the good, and know nothing is permanent.
Words Of An Average White Male 