The Concierge and the Brachiosaurus

The Concierge and the Brachiosaurus

The scene was the concierge desk at a young, hip and happening hotel in Lower Manhattan, where the young, hip and happening concierge found himself confronted with a tragically unhip, and neither young nor noticeably happening, hotel guest.

Photo by URI MERON on Unsplash

“So what you’re looking for,” the concierge repeated, just a little uncertainly, in order to be sure he was understanding the guest correctly, “is a store that sells … newspapers?”

“Newspapers,” confirmed the guest. “From all over the nation and all over the world. And magazines too. There used to be lots of stores like that, right here in New York City.”

Discreetly, the young, hip and happening concierge pondered the necessity of such an establishment.

“And that was … all they sold?” he probed.

“Well, I think they sold other things,” said the guest. “Candy bars and lottery tickets and such. But the main business was newspapers and magazines.”

The concierge had been particularly trained to support the whims of his guests, no matter how bizarre.

“If newspapers were what you wanted,” he agreed supportively, “then I guess you wouldn’t need to buy much of anything else, right?”

“Although sometimes,” said the guest, “if you were there at the end of the month, they’d give you a deal on leftover dinosaur food too.”

The young, hip and happening concierge smiled nervously. He was mostly sure that the guest was aware that she was joking; but three years of working in Lower Manhattan had taught him that it was never wise to assume anything very much about anything very much at all.

“Anyway,” said the guest, “I’ve found there’s one on Mulberry Street, and all I need from you is to ask you to point me in the right direction.”

The concierge perked up: no matter how inexplicable the object of the journey, giving directions around town was one of his specialties.

“Mulberry Street’s not too far at all,” he said. “You make a left when you leave the hotel; you cross Park Row, you walk through City Hall Park, and make a right on Broadway. That should take you ...”

There was the briefest of pauses while he contemplated the exact nature of the guest’s mission.

“ ...there,” he finished politely.

Mysteriously, the guest appeared have found something in his directions that amused her.

“Oh, but what a disappointment,” she chuckled, merrily. “I didn't get to ask you how I get to Broadway.”

The concierge had learned that older guests at the hotel did not always remember to engage their brains too much earlier than noon.

“You make a left when you leave the hotel,” he repeated, obligingly. “You cross Park Row, and walk through City Hall Park, and it's right there.”

Incomprehensibly, this appeared to amuse the guest still more.

“I know,” she said. “I just wanted to ask you how I got to Broadway.”

The concierge had also been trained in patience.

“You make a left at the hotel door,” he said. “You cross Park Row, walk through City Hall Park, and it's right there.”

“Yes, I understand that,” said the guest. “Thank you. Make a left, cross Park Row and walk through City Hall Park. But what I was really looking forward to asking you, was …”

She paused, struck a pose, and assumed a waggish demeanor.

"How do I get to Broadway?" she chortled. “You know?”

The concierge had been warned about guests such as these.

“You make a left,” he said, “when you leave the hotel. Then you cross Park Row. Then you walk through City Hall Park. And it's right there.”

The guest was now shaking her head.

“Yes, I get that,” she said. “But that’s not the answer, you see, is it?”

Although the concierge was originally from Lincoln, Nebraska, and secretly still kept a bottle of Dorothy Lynch salad dressing hidden behind the cans of plant-based protein drinks in his refrigerator, he had been working at the young, hip and happening Lower Manhattan hotel for three years now, and felt he could reasonably be said to be familiar with the area surrounding it.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I can assure you …”

“The classic answer,” said the guest, “to ‘How do I get to Broadway?’ is ... "

She struck an even more waggish pose and inclined her head at a comical angle.

“P-rrrractise!" she cried, joyfully.

She stood up, stretched her arms to an imaginary audience, and beamed in grateful acknowledgement.

“Ba-da-boom!” she concluded triumphantly.

There was another pause while the young, hip and happening concierge and the tragically unhip guest stared at each other in dawning dismay.

At last, the concierge pulled himself together.

“No,” he said firmly, because one principle that he had brought with him from Nebraska was that there were times when simple firmness was called for. “This is how you get to Broadway. You make a left when you leave the hotel. Then you cross Park Row. After that you walk through City Hall Park. And you’re right there.”

He stopped and looked sternly at the guest.

“Do you understand me?” he asked.

The guest met his eyes and sighed as her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I do,” she submitted sadly. “I turn left when I leave the hotel. I cross Park Row and walk through City Hall Park. And Broadway’s right there.”

She stopped for a moment and appeared to be on the point of saying something else, then thought better of it. Her tragically unhip torso sagged as she shrank a little into her painfully pathetic navy blue Lands’ End thief-proof zip-pocketed travel vest.

“Thank you,” she whispered meekly.

“You're welcome,” said the concierge. He inclined his head graciously. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” agreed the guest, and made her mournful way out of the hotel and into the bright New York air.

The young, hip and happening concierge leaned against his young, hip and happening desk and wondered how soon he could respectably take his vape break.