have stayed in Chicago, finished college, and taken a steady job. Maybe I could have gone into Pop’s automobile business with him and he wouldn’t have killed himself. I could have married Annie Parsons and had a family of my own . . .
Have a nice life, Ned Giles,
Annie said.
There . . . I have just finished weeping, sitting in the car parked on the side of the street in Douglas, Arizona, on my seventeenth birthday bawling like a damn baby. It’s the first time I’ve cried for my parents . . . the first time I’ve cried for myself . . . and now I’m all hollowed out.
5 APRIL, 1932
Douglas, Arizona
When I read what I wrote yesterday, I’m ashamed of feeling so sorry for myself, for being such a big crybaby. So much has happened in the past twenty-four hours that everything is different now. I hardly know where to begin. If I hadn’t promised to always be honest in these pages, I’d cross out my entire last entry.
After I’d had my little cry, I started the car up again and drove on into town. Because it was my birthday and because I was feeling so blue, I decided to treat myself to a hotel room, a bath, and a steak dinner. I had no trouble at all finding the Gadsden Hotel at the end of Main Street. It’s a grand five-story stone building that seems completely out of place in this scruffy little border town.
It’s even grander inside, and as soon as I walked in I could see that it was way beyond my means. I stood in the lobby craning my neck at the exposed balconies that spiral upward from a massive central staircase built of white Italian marble. The stairs lead to a mezzanine framed by four enormous marble columns decorated in gold leaf and spanned by a forty-two-foot-long Tiffany stained-glass mural. The lobby was full of Great Apache Expedition volunteers, milling around or sitting chatting in islands of plush velvet furniture.
The desk clerk was a slender, dapper fellow dressed in a dark suit and bow tie. I was dressed myself in dungarees and a T-shirt, and he raised his eyebrows when I walked up, sizing me up quickly and professionally as one clearly unsuited to such luxury. I know the look, and I know from my experience working at the club that the only people capable of being snootier than the rich are those who work for the rich.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked with an imperious English accent, making it clear from his tone that he probably couldn’t.
“Yes, I’d like a room, please,” I said, trying to appear older than my years, and somehow magically better dressed.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?”
“Not exactly.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“No, I don’t have a reservation.”
“
Ummm.
Pity.” He pursed his lips and made a show of consulting the register, running a dry, papery finger swiftly down the page. “We’re terribly busy, sir,” he said. “You see the volunteers for the Great Apache Expedition are beginning to arrive.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here myself,” I said. “I read the flyer at my club in Chicago and thought I’d come down here and see about signing on.”
“You’re a member of a private gentlemen’s club, then, are you, sir?” he asked, looking up with raised eyebrows.
“Well, not exactly a member,” I admitted. “I worked at the Chicago Racquet Club. I’m hoping to get hired on in a paying position with the expedition.”
The desk clerk smiled knowingly. “Ah, yes, of course you are, sir,” he said, “you and everyone else in town.”
“I’m a really good photographer,” I said.
“Yes, sir, I’m quite sure you are,” said the desk clerk. “Nevertheless, I’m afraid that I have nothing available at all tonight.”
“You’re completely full?”
“It would seem so, sir.”
“Would you have a room for me if I was a member of a club rather than an employee?” I asked.
“Dashed unfair, I know, sir,” he said. “But I have strict instructions to hold the remaining rooms for expedition
Have a nice life, Ned Giles,
Annie said.
There . . . I have just finished weeping, sitting in the car parked on the side of the street in Douglas, Arizona, on my seventeenth birthday bawling like a damn baby. It’s the first time I’ve cried for my parents . . . the first time I’ve cried for myself . . . and now I’m all hollowed out.
5 APRIL, 1932
Douglas, Arizona
When I read what I wrote yesterday, I’m ashamed of feeling so sorry for myself, for being such a big crybaby. So much has happened in the past twenty-four hours that everything is different now. I hardly know where to begin. If I hadn’t promised to always be honest in these pages, I’d cross out my entire last entry.
After I’d had my little cry, I started the car up again and drove on into town. Because it was my birthday and because I was feeling so blue, I decided to treat myself to a hotel room, a bath, and a steak dinner. I had no trouble at all finding the Gadsden Hotel at the end of Main Street. It’s a grand five-story stone building that seems completely out of place in this scruffy little border town.
It’s even grander inside, and as soon as I walked in I could see that it was way beyond my means. I stood in the lobby craning my neck at the exposed balconies that spiral upward from a massive central staircase built of white Italian marble. The stairs lead to a mezzanine framed by four enormous marble columns decorated in gold leaf and spanned by a forty-two-foot-long Tiffany stained-glass mural. The lobby was full of Great Apache Expedition volunteers, milling around or sitting chatting in islands of plush velvet furniture.
The desk clerk was a slender, dapper fellow dressed in a dark suit and bow tie. I was dressed myself in dungarees and a T-shirt, and he raised his eyebrows when I walked up, sizing me up quickly and professionally as one clearly unsuited to such luxury. I know the look, and I know from my experience working at the club that the only people capable of being snootier than the rich are those who work for the rich.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked with an imperious English accent, making it clear from his tone that he probably couldn’t.
“Yes, I’d like a room, please,” I said, trying to appear older than my years, and somehow magically better dressed.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?”
“Not exactly.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“No, I don’t have a reservation.”
“
Ummm.
Pity.” He pursed his lips and made a show of consulting the register, running a dry, papery finger swiftly down the page. “We’re terribly busy, sir,” he said. “You see the volunteers for the Great Apache Expedition are beginning to arrive.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here myself,” I said. “I read the flyer at my club in Chicago and thought I’d come down here and see about signing on.”
“You’re a member of a private gentlemen’s club, then, are you, sir?” he asked, looking up with raised eyebrows.
“Well, not exactly a member,” I admitted. “I worked at the Chicago Racquet Club. I’m hoping to get hired on in a paying position with the expedition.”
The desk clerk smiled knowingly. “Ah, yes, of course you are, sir,” he said, “you and everyone else in town.”
“I’m a really good photographer,” I said.
“Yes, sir, I’m quite sure you are,” said the desk clerk. “Nevertheless, I’m afraid that I have nothing available at all tonight.”
“You’re completely full?”
“It would seem so, sir.”
“Would you have a room for me if I was a member of a club rather than an employee?” I asked.
“Dashed unfair, I know, sir,” he said. “But I have strict instructions to hold the remaining rooms for expedition
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