Two junkies were walking by the hotel one February evening—a skinny man with a drawn, skeletal face, and a fat woman with no teeth—both bundled up against the extreme cold, the man pushing a shopping cart loaded with scavenged junk. Suddenly the man let go of his cart and darted up to the side of the building, bringing his face close and squinting to see the print on one of the bronze plaques that hung there. “It used to say ‘Sid Vicious’ on here!” he proclaimed, spitting out the words with disgust.
II
Three teenage girls, two of them tiny and thin, and one, a couple of years older, heavier, more punked out with blue hair and multiple ear-piercings, were ambling by the hotel, ill-prepared for the cold in only thin jackets. One of the younger girls glanced over and saw the sign. “Look! It’s the Chelsea Hotel!” she cried out, excitedly. “Oh, the Chelsea Hotel!” the older one exclaimed sarcastically. “The Chel-sea Hotel!” She proceeded to drop to her knees—clad in ripped fishnet stockings—and then to prostrate herself fully, arms outstretched toward the building in an attitude of mock-worship.
Ed Hamilton
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