Moose Productions Blog

The Ottawans Arrive

The lobby, despite the efforts of Shadow, and Lincoln before him, is not an art gallery. It is a dull white room which is occupied because if it’s location between the front door, the lounge, the dormitories and the front desk. This might seem obvious, but I want you to think about it as a small reservoir on the side of a major river. Water passes by and happens to build up, some times settling into a steady pond, and other times swirling heavily, creating a whirlpool. The presence and character of this buildup is unpredictable, and hard to anticipate.

Most of the time, the lobby has a steady, small congregation. Lee sits near the front desk or at a table. Sam shuffles in and out. Two or three couples sit at the small silver tables and look over their tour books. They eat sandwiches and drink orange juice from “Steve’s,” the bodega next door. They talk about museums and fifth avenue and ask how to get to Rockefeller Center.

Tom stands, his hands in the pockets of his black jacket. He nods at everyone near him, makes a joke or tells a story you’ve already heard thirty-five times (“Oh you’re from England? There’s a great fish and chips place up the block called ‘A Salt & Battery.’ Get it? They like me there. If you go, tell them Tom says, ‘hello.’”). He waits for a response and they, not knowing why an old man is at their shoulder, try to act like he isn’t there. They laugh a little to be polite, but Tom gets tired of it and walks out side to have a cigarette.

This is the normal, standard, average scene inside the lobby. In the day, it is flooded with blue and red light from the forward windows. In the evening, the overhead bulbs give the room a yellowish appearance. It is a colorful place, despite the usual, slow pace. The walls and floors are decorated with occasional flairs – a green 7Up sign, a brown tile pattern, bright, blue doors – and this uneven indulgence matches the noise level of the room: sometimes there is only the radio, sometimes there is shouting which will either yield laughter or a small standoff.

But all the mood of the room will veer towards festivity when the place fills up with a large group of young tourists – as happened on February 19th. They were here to see the Central Park art installation called “The Gates.” They were a gaggle of Ottawan art students. All of them, youthful, eccentric, wearing weird furs and crooked jackets, most of the guys with creative facial hair and the girls with piercings in weird crevices of their ears and faces.

This kind of crowd, they sell out the building. At 8 in the evening, there are no keys on the back wall; everyone is upstairs, running from room to room, making plans for the night, washing up, planning how to get into each others’ pants. This is the kind of crowd that can only happen on school field trips. Everyone already familiar, but now bound together by group activities and long bus rides, everyone bubbling, getting changed together, leaning in each other, giddy with static electricity inside their skin. They are carrying their world from the great, white north down with them, wherever the trip pauses. They are a moving microcosm caravan – Canadian Art Students in New York.

They are giddy tourists, searching New York for the originals works that populate their textbooks. They get loud when talking about the Tim Hawkinson installations at the Whitney Museum. They meet Cristo and giggle. They stand outside and smoke cigarettes, or sit in the back, scanning the Village Voice music listings, talking about the great Miles Davis performances they have on video, collecting and comparing what they know. Their currency could not be experience; they are too young to be accomplished. Instead, it is a competition: who is more clued in to what’s really going on…who is the first to see a trend…who will tell the news of the next wave…and in doing, who will be chosen to embody the spirit of the next big thing…

They pass through the lobby, on their way out to the street, or upstairs with smuggled bottles of rum and beer and they get slowed down by the lobby. Their friends are standing there, looking, waiting. Everyone is expecting something. Where are we going? Where can we eat? I want to untie your belt and put my fingers in the band around your waist. Where are we drinking? Whose room will I end up in tonight?

They stand in line to get their keys and Tom leans against the glass barrier between the clerk and the lobby. He looks at two girls and points to their hat, which reads, “Canada.” Of course, he has a joke for this.

“Oh your from Canada, ey?”
This is Tom affecting a Canadian accent, complete with the ‘ey’ at the end.
“You know how you spell Canada?”
Of course they do but if they said yes, they would clearly miss what is bound to be a great joke.
Tom says, “C-EY-N-EY-D-EY”

Would you laugh? Probably not. And neither did they. But Tom, never deterred by a timid audience just waits until the next patron steps forward and he tries the joke again. Literally, the man just repeats himself.

The two girls who heard this joke must have laughed and Tom, who knows it’s all about shots on goal, has them in the corner of the room. How drunk is Tom now? The girls are trying to open a can of tuna, and he offers to go upstairs and lend them his can opener. They are grateful and now spend a few more minutes with him. Tom, ever the entertainer, is happy to have an audience, especially an audience of two girls, with bright white skin and big teeth.

After a while, I leave Tom and the girls. I can’t listen to Tom’s stories about the Navy anymore. I could repeat them myself, and sometimes do. Later, when I return to see if anything interesting is happening, Tom is onto a new story. I haven’t heard this one, but it’s clear right away that Tom has lost track of who he is talking to; the punchline of the joke is something about a midget with a giant cock. After this, the girls, became conscious of the picture they present – two attractive college girls listening to a desperate old sailor tell dirty jokes…is he hitting on them…are they entertaining an old man…mining the romantic, rusty past…or is he drooling – suddenly uncomfortable, they move to the rear lounge, where permanent residents are not allowed.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 9th, 2005 at 1:10 pm and is filed under White House Hotel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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The Ottawans Arrive

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