New York City Hotel
New York City hotel, give me your luxurious anonymity, I said, looking up dizzily at the gray monstrosity. Then I was asked in by the concierge. He was ugly but happy. I thanked him for his kindness. He said, "Don't worry about it, my friendly friend." He had an odd manner of speaking to say the least.
At length, we reached the penthouse suite, where apparently I was to stay. I said, begrudgingly, of course, "Sir, I have no money. Not even for the slice of pizza I left the house for."
"Sir," he replied, "if a giant spider were to scale this building and bite your head off, would it matter whether you had any money?"
I said no, it probably wouldn't matter.
"This is New York City. Hotels are overflowing with cash, diamonds, gold, platinum, giant spiders, you name it. But we don't care. We are essentially a charitable organization here. We want to help make your dreams come true."
"I can't believe this," I cried, tears rising.
He led me to the window and deposited me into the open air and, luckily, a huge soft pile of garbage.
I saw his head, tiny as an ant, at the top of the hotel. He was laughing. New York City. Hotel. It was like a nightmare, only crueler.