funny how you start to remember things,” he said in a subdued voice. “I’ve been in this hotel before, you know, but I haven’t thought about it for a long time. Not for years.”
“You must have been pretty young if it happened so long ago,” Nashe said.
“Yeah, I was just a kid. My father brought me here one weekend in the fall. I must have been eleven, maybe twelve.”
“Just the two of you? What about your mother?”
“They were divorced. They split up when I was a baby.”
“And you lived with her?”
“Yeah, we lived in Irvington, New Jersey. That’s where I grew up. A sad, crummy little town.”
“Did you see much of your father?”
“I barely even knew who he was.”
“And then he showed up one day and took you to the Plaza.”
“Yeah, more or less. I saw him once before that, though. The first time was a strange business, I don’t think I’ve ever been so spooked by anything. I was eight years old then, and one day in the middle of the summer I’m sitting on the front steps of ourhouse. My mother was off at work, and I’m sitting there by myself sucking on this orange Popsicle and looking across the street. Don’t ask me how I remember it was orange, I just do. It’s like I’m still holding the damn thing in my hand now. It was a hot day, and I’m sitting there with my orange Popsicle, thinking maybe I’ll get on my bike when I’m finished and go over to my friend Walt’s house and get him to turn on the hose in the backyard. The Popsicle is just starting to melt on my leg, and all of a sudden this big white Cadillac comes inching down the street. It was a hell of a car. All new and spanking clean with spiderweb hubcaps and whitewall tires. The guy behind the wheel looks like he’s lost. Slowing down in front of every house, craning his neck out the window to check the addresses. So I’m watching this with the dumb Popsicle dripping all over me, and then the car stops and the guy shuts off the motor. Right in front of my house. The guy gets out and starts coming up the walk—dressed in this flashy white suit and smiling this big, friendly smile. At first I thought it was Billy Martin, he looked just like him. You know, the baseball manager. And I think to myself: why is Billy Martin coming to see me? Does he want to sign me up as his new batboy or something? Jesus, the shit that goes flying through your head when you’re a kid. Well, he gets a little closer, and I see that it’s not Billy Martin after all. So now I’m really confused, and to be honest with you, a little bit scared. I ditch the Popsicle in the bushes, but before I can decide what else I’m going to do, the guy’s already in front of me. ‘Hey there, Jack,’ he says. ‘Long time no see.’ I don’t know what he’s talking about, but since he knows my name, I figure he’s a friend of my mother’s or something. So I tell him my mother’s at work, trying to be polite, but he says yeah, he knows that, he just talked with her over at the restaurant. That’s where my mother worked, she was a waitress back then. And so I say to him: ‘You mean you came here to see me?’ And he says: ‘You got it, kid. I figured it was about time we caught up on each other’s news. The last timeI saw you, you were still in diapers.’ The whole conversation is making less and less sense to me now, and the only thing I can think of is that this guy must be my Uncle Vince, the one who ran off to California when my mother was still a kid. ‘You’re Uncle Vince, aren’t you?’ I say to him, but he just shakes his head and smiles. ‘Hold onto your hat, little guy,’ he says, or something like that, ‘but believe it or not, you’re looking at your father.’ The thing is, I don’t believe it for a second. ‘You can’t be my father,’ I say to him. ‘My father got killed in Vietnam.’ ‘Yeah, well,’ the guy says, ‘that’s what everyone thought. But I wasn’t really killed, see. I escaped. They had me
“You must have been pretty young if it happened so long ago,” Nashe said.
“Yeah, I was just a kid. My father brought me here one weekend in the fall. I must have been eleven, maybe twelve.”
“Just the two of you? What about your mother?”
“They were divorced. They split up when I was a baby.”
“And you lived with her?”
“Yeah, we lived in Irvington, New Jersey. That’s where I grew up. A sad, crummy little town.”
“Did you see much of your father?”
“I barely even knew who he was.”
“And then he showed up one day and took you to the Plaza.”
“Yeah, more or less. I saw him once before that, though. The first time was a strange business, I don’t think I’ve ever been so spooked by anything. I was eight years old then, and one day in the middle of the summer I’m sitting on the front steps of ourhouse. My mother was off at work, and I’m sitting there by myself sucking on this orange Popsicle and looking across the street. Don’t ask me how I remember it was orange, I just do. It’s like I’m still holding the damn thing in my hand now. It was a hot day, and I’m sitting there with my orange Popsicle, thinking maybe I’ll get on my bike when I’m finished and go over to my friend Walt’s house and get him to turn on the hose in the backyard. The Popsicle is just starting to melt on my leg, and all of a sudden this big white Cadillac comes inching down the street. It was a hell of a car. All new and spanking clean with spiderweb hubcaps and whitewall tires. The guy behind the wheel looks like he’s lost. Slowing down in front of every house, craning his neck out the window to check the addresses. So I’m watching this with the dumb Popsicle dripping all over me, and then the car stops and the guy shuts off the motor. Right in front of my house. The guy gets out and starts coming up the walk—dressed in this flashy white suit and smiling this big, friendly smile. At first I thought it was Billy Martin, he looked just like him. You know, the baseball manager. And I think to myself: why is Billy Martin coming to see me? Does he want to sign me up as his new batboy or something? Jesus, the shit that goes flying through your head when you’re a kid. Well, he gets a little closer, and I see that it’s not Billy Martin after all. So now I’m really confused, and to be honest with you, a little bit scared. I ditch the Popsicle in the bushes, but before I can decide what else I’m going to do, the guy’s already in front of me. ‘Hey there, Jack,’ he says. ‘Long time no see.’ I don’t know what he’s talking about, but since he knows my name, I figure he’s a friend of my mother’s or something. So I tell him my mother’s at work, trying to be polite, but he says yeah, he knows that, he just talked with her over at the restaurant. That’s where my mother worked, she was a waitress back then. And so I say to him: ‘You mean you came here to see me?’ And he says: ‘You got it, kid. I figured it was about time we caught up on each other’s news. The last timeI saw you, you were still in diapers.’ The whole conversation is making less and less sense to me now, and the only thing I can think of is that this guy must be my Uncle Vince, the one who ran off to California when my mother was still a kid. ‘You’re Uncle Vince, aren’t you?’ I say to him, but he just shakes his head and smiles. ‘Hold onto your hat, little guy,’ he says, or something like that, ‘but believe it or not, you’re looking at your father.’ The thing is, I don’t believe it for a second. ‘You can’t be my father,’ I say to him. ‘My father got killed in Vietnam.’ ‘Yeah, well,’ the guy says, ‘that’s what everyone thought. But I wasn’t really killed, see. I escaped. They had me
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