A Guest of the Hotel

The first time I saw him, he was half asleep in a metal chair outside the hotel, sitting quietly in the late morning sunshine, a cap pulled over his eyes and a wooden cane resting against his leg. I know a photograph when I see one but I was late and trying to manage an armful of camera, notebooks, clipboards and purse so I didn't stop. He wasn't the corporate type and likely didn't have a half pressing appointments - if I was really lucky, he'd still be there when I left - so I hurried past.

An hour or so later, as I was just sitting and waiting for the meeting to break up, I saw him again. He came through the automatic doors, moving slowly and carefully, exchanged a few words with the uniformed staff at the door, then made his way through the lobby and all the way to the restroom. Several minutes later, he was back in the lobby. He sank into a chair across from the registration counter and settled himself. He was clearly not a hotel guest, I realized, and though I suspected he might be wearing everything he owned, he was not a pan handler either. He simply say quietly in the shadows, still and silent. None of the hotel staff approached or bothered him, the guests passed him without a second glance, he might as well have been part of the décor and I couldn't stand it any longer – I shouldered my Nikon and crossed the lobby. It's not something I do all the time but sometimes the draw of a particular face is more temptation than I can stand. I rely on my instincts in these situations – whether and how to ask, whether and how to offer money – I trust my senses and try always to be respectful.

“Hello,” I said and sat down across from him, “You have such a great face. Would it be alright if I took your picture?”

He didn't speak but he did nod ever so slightly and when I smiled and said thank you, he gave me a look that was part surprised, part flattered, and part mischief. He was 73, he told me, healthy as a horse except for his macular degeneration and a touch of arthritis. Not all the hotels were as kind as this one, he confided - some took a dim view of his using their mensrooms or lobbies and would chase you away - but the Hilton folks were always kind to him. He almost smiled as he said this, as if we were sharing a secret.

“Long as you don't make any trouble,” he added in a stage whisper.

“Thank you,” I said, “You take care of yourself.”

“You do the same,” he told me and tipped his cap, "Merry Christmas."

I hope I see him again.