Impress Ho, Tell

Wand'ring over to the other side of the tracks. Past the brewery. Past the fenced in lot that nobody, not even the squirrels visit.
This despite the abundance of luscious hazelnuts that grow there.

The funny thing about hazelnuts is that they are so very small... yet the pods that house them are enormous and surrounded by juicy wet green flesh. But we can not dwell here... the story is elsewhere and beyond the vacant lot. Beyond the lanes of tenement slums and rottweiler pits. Beyond the cafes and greasy spoons that have no kitchens only vending machines. Beyond and attached to all of this is The Empress Hotel.

I have been there recently and only once but I'm sure that I will be there again. It's halls' width can barely contain two men without their luggage. I have yet to be ushered into one of its rooms but if the interior is anything like the exterior I imagine them to be squalid things. Beds composed of human detris. This is the kind of suicide hotel you hear about in Leonard Cohen songs.

There is no room for me here. I must make my exit.

Down in the lobby... this is a different story. This is the Empress Hotel. But... these grand sweeping steps.... these cleaner windows and an awning so large and burgundy and in good repair that I wonder if this is the same Empress that housed and oppressed the poor.

That Empress had tight angular stairs. This Empress has elevators.

That Empress could only be accessed through the back door of slums. This Empress opens onto a great and grand modern boulevard... you can see the polytechnicque on the other side of the park o rama.

Changes are afoot in the Empress.

I have never been inside its rooms, but if the interior is anything like the exterior, then I imagine large bay windows and polished brass and Sealy Posturepedics and free bathrobes. The kind of suicide hotel that Leonard Cohen writes his songs in. 

The liasion publique knows you by name, and though you can't remember her name, you do remember her braces. Even she is undergoing renovation. She is pregnant and would LOVE to talk but she is working now and one of her charges has a problem. Him and her, those people you never liked, they're acting as mascots... didn't you used to do that? Didn't you used to dress up as Tarzan? And what exactly are they... as mascots, I mean. 

A few hours later you might guess... Empress Prostitute and Her Royal Pimp... but that doesn't make any sense either. Why would the Empress hire mascots that looked like Street Walking Professionals... especially if they don't really look like either the professionals themselves or their stereotypes. Him and her and their problem...
she doesn't just have a run in her stocking...
somebody has cut her thigh...
a horizontal cut of three inches...