Chapter Six- Alan the Bell Hopper

  “Come right down this way, Alan. We’re going to take you to the notorious founder of the Hotel Hightower himself, Harrison Heyford!” said a bell hopper with thick brown hair.

        A slick young man with gray streaks in his brown hair turned around from looking out of a window on the top floor of the hotel and said, “Greetings, Alan How-Ever-You-Pronounce-That-Last-Name. I am Harrison Heyford the founder of this splendid hotel. I mean, you have to admit, the Hotel Hightower is absolutely gorgeous! I adore it! Anyways, let’s get on with the interview!”

        “Yes, we shall, sir!” exclaimed Alan, “This is my big chance to make something out of myself, you know? This is the big shots!”

        “I was just like you one day, but then I became rich!” chuckled Harrison Heyford, “Now, let’s get on with it! Why do you want to work here in the biggest hotel in America?”

        “Well,” Alan pondered, “I’ve never stayed here because I live down the road, and I don’t have nearly enough money, but I always dreamed of coming down here and staying a night! If this is the closest I’ll get, I’ll take it!”

        “Fair enough,” murmured Harrison Heyford under his voice, “What made you fall in love with the place, Alan? Personally, it was always the grand fountain in front of the hotel with the statue of me, of course,”

        “It was always from the architecture, from the very beginning,” stated Alan, “The place is so beautiful, a Palace of Versailles to me, and I thought of how wonderful it must be to be in there. I heard it was like staying overnight in a fairytale castle, only better,”

        “It is,” said Harrison Heyford writing down something on a document, “Now, what adjectives would your co-workers describe you as in the workplace?” 

        “I’m always happy to be here!” mentioned Alan, ‘They might call me productive and assistive as well!”

        “Perfect!” explained Harrison Heyford continuing to write down something on the document, “All we need to do is get an interview with your parents to see who you really are beyond what you tell us,”

        “All OK by me,” Alan said cheerfully, ”I’m glad to be part of this beautiful hotel,”

        “Yeah, perfect,” said Harrison Heyford purposely ignoring Alan, “George! Schedule me a meeting with the uh… the Lisiewicz’s tonight. They live in an apartment building, apartment 4A in the Holt Apartment Complex down the street.

        A bell hopper strolled by, jotted a couple notes down in a notepad and booked down to the elevator across the hotel. “Thanks for coming, Alan, we’ll see you tomorrow to let you know if you got the job or not,”

        Alan went into an elevator with a piece of old paper in his hands, in his hands was everything that Harrison Heyford himself wrote during the interview. Things, like meet at noon and be dressed in formal attire, were scribbled all over it in sloppy handwriting.

        Harrison Heyford was quite the man, thought Alan, he seemed to be in his own world the whole time he talked. Somehow, he created this whimsical dream of a perfect hotel when was just a teen and built a monument on New York Harbour in 1901. Working there just seemed magical.

        Alan walked out the front door and headed straight for the streets with his handy dandy shoe shining kit. Might as well make some extra money while waiting for tomorrow.

        Alan sat down at his stool and thin wiry man already sat down before Alan set up. “Whitmore Wyretang,” said the man combing his black wiry hair, “Name’s Whitmore Wyretang,”

        Alan didn’t seem to care about the man sitting in front of him, just another consumer of goods, he saw those people every day. That included everyone in the world.

        “Nice to see you, Whitmore, here to get your shoes shined, sir?” asked Alan starting to prepare the shoeshine bottle. 

        “Yes,” Whitmore said in his boring voice, “Please hurry though, I have to be somewhere,”

        “Where are you going, sir?” asked Alan as he started to finally shine Whitmore’s shoes.

        “Well, my family owns a small Asian restaurant that serves all sorts of dim sum and sushi,” rambled Whitmore, “They actually added this new sushi roll that’s to die for, anyways, my ma is having this booked-out event in our restaurant for a party of rich oil men. I believe they run Fralligan Oil Co, Lubart Oil Co, and Well Oil Co. They’re very famous businessmen anyways, and they’re going to our restaurant to discuss over a breach of contract that Well Oil Co made. It was big news, make multiple headlines on Sunday. I remember I was at church when I heard the news. Anyways, we’re serving them our best including pufferfish. We’re a little weary about the pufferfish because of how poisonous they are. We hope nobody tries to eat them because we don’t know how safe it is. Anyways, I have to be there real quick,”

        “Interesting,” noted Alan half falling asleep, “I’ve never been to this place, I bet it’s good. Never had Asian food before,”

“You should try it,” rambled Whitmore again, “It’s called Fu Sung’s Asian Eatery. We opened in 1891. My ma opened it, she’s Slovenian, after my pa died. My pa was from China so he gave ma the inspiration for opening an Asian restaurant. After that, my ma used pa’s old recipes to make the food here. Dragon rolls, xiao long bao, shrimp tempura, Peking duck, bento boxes, pad thai, all that good stuff. He left his recipes for us after he died of lung cancer, sad tale when I was 5. The place’s decor needs a little fixing, but I think the place is still the best Asian food in New York,”

“That’s a bold statement,” said Alan, “I personally don’t know how many Asian restaurants are in town, but this place I’ve never heard of called Fu Sung’s probably isn’t the best in all of New York,”

“That’s silly,” marked Whitmore, “We have a Japanese restaurant across the street called Sakura, and they’re food isn’t even good. I’ve tried it. The reviewers might love it, but I think it tastes like trash. Their manager, Nagasuri Nyoto, is so crazy. She says our food tastes like �"み (gomu) whatever that means,” 

        “So, the lady who runs Sakura is Japanese, but your ma is Slovenian?” asked Alan, “Wouldn’t the Japanese person make the better Japanese food,”

        “NO!” exclaimed Whitmore, “I feel like my shoes are done being shined. Here’s your penny, and here’s to never seeing you again.