Willie Low-man

Check in at the hotel took close to an hour. First they put me in a room directly across from the ice machine, the Shackleton 9000, a cantankerous rattler that had not been serviced since the Shah was in office.

My second room was adjacent to an open air vent that ran the length of the building. Despite the fact that I was on the 26th floor I could hear all the festivities of the Rothstein Bar Mitzvah on the lower mezzanine banquet hall.

My third room, quietly tucked in the corner (I was assured) was an upgraded deluxe suite. It shared no adjoining walls. The kind of room favored by quiet-seeking businessmen, like myself, and traveling flamenco dancers, like the man in the room above me.

I have read all the Dale Carnegie books. I try to be as deferential and pleasant as possible. I don’t do that creepy flirty thing that so many middle-aged men attempt.

For whatever reason, I just think that when I walk into a hotel, the receptionist doesn’t see me, or my cherubic face, or my abiding belief to do unto unto others as I would have them do unto me, I'm convinced they see this…