Chapter 9 - The Fifth Avenue Hotel

According to Boy: The Fifth Avenue Hotel no longer exists—at least, not under that name. At some point after Evie and I moved out of New York it was converted into very nice (read: "expensive") condominiums.
But, in 1968, the Fifth Avenue Hotel served New York University as a source of graduate housing. I suspect that the hotel was owned by the university, but I do not know that for a fact. I paid $300 per month to live there. Even by 1968 standards, that was a bargain.

The hotel was located on the northwest corner of Fifth Avenue and Ninth Street, just a few short blocks north of Washington Square. I could not have hoped for a more convenient address. I could walk to my classes in about five minutes. The elevator ride from the third floor to the street took just about as long as the rest of the trek.

The rooms were small, but nicely furnished. There was a sleeping area containing twin beds, and two small desks; a small bathroom, and an even smaller kitchen. The closet was just large enough to hang a few clothes, and to store a couple suitcases. I had a roommate—Fred (not his real name), who was a graduate of Georgetown.

One of my favorite memories of all time occurred at the Fifth Avenue Hotel—that’s where I was living when Evie visited for the first time. I got her a room on one of the upper levels. We had just made love. I had never imagined anything blowing my mind like that. She knew it.

She had known for some time that I was in love with her. But after making love that day, she knew that she owned me totally—heart, mind and body.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, still trying to get my mind wrapped around what had just happened. Evie walked out of the bathroom, and stood in front of me. She placed her right hand on my shoulder, and lifted my head up so our eyes met. "Do you love me as much as I love you?" She asked.

Evie was always a wise person. She knew the answer before she asked.

You could enter the hotel from two directions—off Ninth Street, and off Fifth Avenue. If you entered off Ninth Street, you would turn left immediately. This would take you to the elevator. There you would find one of a few ladies who served as operators. When not transferring people up or down, the operator would often be talking to the man who sold newspapers.

If you wished to use the elevator, you would simply get on, and the operator would join you (if she were not already on the elevator) and ask, "Floor please?"

"Three, please," I would respond.

She would then crank a lever, which would close the large outside door, then she would close the brass gate that was supposed to keep your fingers from getting caught in the apparatus. She would nudge another lever, which would cause the elevator to begin its journey upward.

As the elevator approached the third floor, she would slow it down, and stop it when the floor of the elevator lined up with the brass threshold at the third floor. She would then open the protective gate, and crank open the door to the third floor.

The elevator ladies at the Fifth Avenue were all very friendly and helpful. And, even when they were having a bad day, I still never opted to take the stairs.

The entry off Fifth Avenue led directly into a little bar. You could come

in that way, but to do so required walking through the bar, and out into the main hall by the front desk. Not often did I venture into the bar; but on rare occasions, I would go in and order scotch on the rocks. I didn’t really like the drink, but I had remembered seeing someone in the movies order scotch on the rocks—I thought it sounded cool.

In the evening, there would sometimes be a piano player in the bar. I might have hung out there more, if I had more money, and more time. As a student, I seldom wasted time.

One of the more vivid memories I have of the Fifth Avenue related to the little old ladies who lived on its upper floors. At the time, I thought of them as snobs. But today, I think they were just behaving in a prudent fashion. These ladies had probably lived at the hotel for twenty or more years. They lived in the very expensive suites on the upper floors. There they enjoyed the luxury of multiple rooms, balconies, and, in some cases, actual gardens. These ladies were wealthy. They had little in common with the punks and hippies who lived below them. Even though most of us were serious students, we all had a wild hair that made us "bad neighbors" in their eyes. Their aversion to us was understandable. I am ashamed of myself for doing it, but I utterly proved the correctness of that "bad neighbor" epithet before I moved out.

Toward the end of the school year my roommate and I were informed by the university that we were going to have to relocate to another residence hall—55 East Tenth Street. Neither Fred nor I were excited about doing this. We both liked the Fifth Avenue, especially compared to the Tenth Street Residence. So, we decided to engage in a rebellious act.

During our final few days, we would take the stairs to the upper levels, and steal the lamps and other furnishings in the halls. We would then bring the products of our crime back down to our room, and pack them up for the move. I think we probably stole a total of two nice lamps, and a couple fancy vases. I am sure that the statute of limitation for this crime has expired; but my conscience has not. I do regret having committed that crime.

I think we might have used the lamps at our Glendale apartment, but discarded them when we moved to East Sixth Street.