What's the Matter With New York?

NEW YORK is a great city. The horse is a noble animal. No one, not even in Boston, Chicago, or Denver, will dispute these two statements. Of course, the word ‘noble’ does not mean that the horse may not on occasion kick up his ‘ noble ’ heels and run away. Neither does the word ‘great’ mean that New York —

But, in the words of O. Henry, let us ‘get on’ with the story, having proceeded safely so far.

It was on the twenty-third of January, 1918, that I alighted on a bit of the United States called New York, after several months in Great Britain, and seven days in a Liverpool hotel. My steamer had been driven around the Isle of Man by a submarine menace, our gunners had sunk one submarine in plain view of the passengers, one of our gunner-boys had been lost overboard in a tremendous gale as we rounded the north of Ireland; and when at last the Philadelphia let us out at 1 A.M. on the dock at New York, it was a thankful cargo of passengers that hurried toward homes or hotels.

It was ten below zero, and I went into the first hotel I could find. It was full, and the rooming clerk said there was n’t even standing room.

I have never learned how to sleep comfortably standing up in a hotel lobby, so I went and sat down in a bell-boy’s chair and waited until a new clerk was behind the desk. It was then 2 A.M.

I went up to the desk, and the clerk said they had one room left. It was a double room, ho explained; and when I asked the price, he said it would be, and was, eight dollars.

That was two figures less than ten below zero, so I took it and went up to it.

I don’t know to this day why it was called a ‘double’ room, unless because the charge was double what it was worth; but I was too tired to go down and ask the clerk questions. In the morning, however, I saw a card on the table which read as follows: —

‘The Manager of this hotel will welcome criticism and suggestions from his patrons. We do not want our guests to go away dissatisfied. Do not hesitate to prefer criticism of the management, if you have any.’

Not being quite sure from the language whether the Manager referred to my having ‘ criticism ’ or ‘management,’ I hesitated about seeing him; but the frank friendliness of his little card prevailed, and after breakfast I went to his office, where the following little dialogue came off. I use the words ‘came off’ with some reservation.

THE GUEST. — I have not come to criticize but to ask some questions. Your printed card invited them.

THE MANAGER. — I shall be glad to hear them.

THE GUEST. — My first question is this. You charged me eight dollars for six hours’ sleep in your hotel. I have never paid that much for sleep before, and I have just come from one of the best hotels in Europe, the Adelphi, in Liverpool, where I paid only $1.78 for a night’s sleep in a better room than yours. The question I want to ask is this: can you tell me why you charge me eight dollars for one night’s sleep in your hotel?

THE MANAGER (after the proper dramatic pause). — The reason is that we have to pay war prices for everything. We burn fifty tons of coal a clay in this hotel. Food of all kinds is three times as expensive as it was before the war. Wages are four times what they were.

(And he gave several other reasons, some of which I did not try to remember. I have never been good at figures.)

THE Guest. — And now, will you kindly tell me the real reason for charging me eight dollars for six hours’ sleep in your hotel?

THE MANAGER. — The real reason is that the guests are willing to pay it. You are the first man who ever raised a question about the price of a room in this hotel.

THE GUEST. — I must be like that man in a Far West hotel who asked the landlord for a clean towel in the washroom. The landlord replied with some feeling, ‘Over one hundred men have used that towel and you are the first man to complain.'

THE MANAGER. — Never heard the story. But if you don’t want the room at eight dollars, there are a hundred men in line behind you who would pay ten dollars a night for that room and never ask a question.

THE GUEST. — I don’t doubt it. But I was thinking of starting for home before you raise the price. Your answer to my question is frank and satisfactory. Thank you. Good-day.

THE MANAGER. — Wait a minute. We don’t want our guests to go away dissatisfied. We aim to please —that is, generally. Come with me to the cashier’s window.

He led me out and started in the direction of the hotel treasury. I followed him, wondering if this was a movie scene or an advertisement.

But to my bewilderment (for it had never happened to me in New York before), the Manager said to the cashier lady, ‘You may cut this gentleman’s account in two and make it four dollars instead of eight dollars.’

And then he turned to me and said courteously, ‘We don’t want our guests to go away dissatisfied.’

I was looking around to see the movie operator, and when I recovered sufficiently to speak I was unkind enough to say to the Manager, ‘Thank you, sir; I appreciate your courtesy, but even now you have charged me twice what I paid in Liverpool.’

He received the blow standing and in silence; but as he turned to go, I ventured to ask another question.

THE GUEST. — May I ask one more question?

THE MANAGER. — You may. But make it brief.

THE GUEST. — As brief as the breakfast. For example, my breakfast in this hotel this morning consisted of two boiled eggs, 50 cents; three small slices of bacon, 70 cents; two slices (small ones) of toast, 25 cents; a tip to the waiter, who was waiting for it, 25 cents; and for the charge ‘per cover,’ or privilege of sitting down to the breakfast table, 25 cents. Total, $2.30.

THE MANAGER. — Well —

THE GUEST. — My question is this: In Liverpool I paid 72 cents for a satisfying breakfast. Most of the food came from America. England has her back to the wall. War prices prevail. But I have to pay three times as much for breakfast in New York as I paid in Liverpool. Do you think 25 cents apiece for eggs is a fair price?

THE MANAGER. — We do.

THE GUEST. — But eggs are quoted in the market this morning at 73 cents a dozen. You charge me at the rate of three dollars a dozen. Do you call that fair?

THE MANAGER. — It is due to overhead charges.

THE GUEST. — I don’t even know what is meant by the term, but I wonder if it is like charity.

THE MANAGER. — What is that?

THE GUEST. — You just showed some to me. But sometimes it covers a multitude of profiteers.

At this point I discovered an atmosphere of coldness in the hotel lobby (it was still ten below), and I thanked the Manager for his kindness and checked out.

Scene changes to two years later, year 1920. Same hotel, different manager. Same room, nine dollars this time instead of eight dollars for a night’s sleep. Same card on the table inviting criticism. Same breakfast, eggs two (2) for 50 cents; although the hens have been laying in two years’ supply for the cold (fresh) storage. Everything the same, except that bars have gone out under national prohibition.

After breakfast I ventured to accept the invitation from the hotel management to criticize, so that I would not go away dissatisfied, with the following result.

THE GUEST. — Acting on the printed card which greeted me like a ‘ God Bless Our Home’ motto in my bedroom, I would like to ask a question or two, so that I will not go away dissatisfied.

THE Manager.—We will welcome it.

THE Guest.— My question is this. I was charged eight dollars for a night’s sleep here two years ago, and sleep has gone up one dollar. I paid 50 cents for two boiled eggs, 35 cents for a cup of coffee, 70 cents for three small slices of bacon, and 25 cents for two pieces of toast, and 25 cents ‘per cover,’ the same as two years ago. My question is this: do you consider 25 cents each for eggs a fair price for a guest to pay?

THE MANAGER. — Due to overhead charges. Since the war, labor, food, coal, linen, everything, are all double in price.

THE GUEST. — But the hens are not on a strike at present. And the quotation on eggs this morning is 65 cents a dozen. Yet you charge me three dollars.

THE MANAGER. — Overhead charges.

THE GUEST. — You have a wonderful echo here. It lasts for two (2) years.

THE MANAGER. —?

THE GUEST. — Never mind about that. But what are some of the other reasons besides ‘overhead charges’ for your prices?

THE MANAGER. — Since the bars were taken out of this hotel under prohibition, we have lost a great income.

THE GUEST. — Are you willing to tell me what was the profit of your bars in this hotel?

THE Manager.—This is for private consumption: but our net profit from the sale of liquor was 22 per cent. (Actually said by the manager of a big hotel in New York to the author.)

THE GUEST. — So in paying 25 cents for a boiled egg, I am really getting two glasses of beer thrown in?

THE MANAGER. — Just so.

THE GUEST. — Now I understand what you mean by the ‘overhead charges.’ Ony you might change it to inner head.

THE MANAGER. — Any more questions? We don’t want you to go away dissatisfied.

THE GUEST. — It would break my heart to leave New York in a dissatisfied mood. My other question is, perhaps, personal. But do you consider 25 cents apiece for eggs a fair profit?

THE MANAGER. — We do.

THE GUEST. — How do you define the words ‘fair profit?’

THE MANAGER. — A fair profit is a reasonable profit.

THE GUEST. — Pardon me, but what do you consider reasonable?

But at that point his hotel mind broke down, like a tax assessor’s when you ask him what the state means when it requires you to give, under oath, the value of your library. And I went away without an answer.

Scene changes from the hotel to the office of a New York film company. A year before this scene, the author had been asked to allow a little story of his, entitled ‘In His Steps,’ to be put into the motion-picture form. The scenario was now all completed and the film ready for production. The following dialogue ‘comes off’ (again the phrase is used advisedly) between the Author and the Producer.

THE AUTHOR. — I have gone over your scenario and I have been greatly interested in it. But may I ask a question?

THE PRODUCER. — Certainly.

THE AUTHOR. — I feel a little reluctant about it, but I think perhaps you gave me the wrong scenario.

THE PRODUCER. — That is the scenario of your book.

THE AUTHOR. — I am glad to know it. But as I remember my story, written twenty-five years ago, there was no League of Nations in existence. I see notice of one here in this scenario.

THE PRODUCER. —Sure! I had to put that in, to bring your story up to date.

THE AUTHOR. — That was kind of you. And I noticed a few other little changes as I read the scenario over. When the story was written, there was no wireless, no radium, no automobiles, no San Francisco earthquake, no Great War. I find some of all these in your scenario. Your description of the Battle of the Somme is realistic in the extreme. But you know it seemed to me a little premature —

THE PRODUCER. — You do not understand the film business apparently. In order to put your story over with the trade here in New York and get your story on to Broadway, the religious teaching of your story must be enlivened by action — dramatic action. What better action is there than a battle? That battle-scene of the Somme will take thousands of people and cost thousands of dollars.

THE AUTHOR. — But the Battle of the Somme is not in my story. It was an oversight on my part, of course, not to work it in. At the same time, don’t you think it seems a little — well, a little strange to — to take a story written twenty-five years ago and put into it things, even as incidental as this Battle of the Somme, which had not happened when the author wrote the story?

THE PRODUCER. — The trade here in New York demands such adaptation. Your story would n’t go at all without adaptation. It must be brought up to date or you can’t put it over with the trade.

THE AUTHOR. — Then, in order to adapt the story of Moses or David or Solomon to meet the demands of the film trade of New York, would you—er, pardon me — introduce a fight between two submarines, an international airship race around the globe, and a debate between Samuel Gompers and Hiram Johnson?

THE PRODUCER. — Sure! It would add dramatic action to the story. It would put it over. Whatever else you do, my dear sir, you must not let your feelings as an author get in the way of the practical presentation of your story. That is the main thing, of course.

THE AUTHOR. — But — this scenario is not — well — it is not the story I wrote.

THE PRODUCER (withasmile).—Better, I hope.

THE AUTHOR (handing the scenario over to the Producer).—Take it, my son, and may it be one of the twenty-six best reelers. I would n’t think for a moment of stealing your story. It’s a great story. Full of fire and blood. Add a few more fights to it, and I am sure it will more than satisfy the trade. It will go over the top with a whoop. Never mind my feelings. After reading your scenario I have n’t any. (Neither feelings, nor scenario.) Put in plenty of red fire. And don’t forget to add a mob scene between Colonel Harvey and Mark Sullivan. Bless you, my son. Bless you!

Scene changes again, this time to Broadway. Time 8 P.M., any day. Distance, between 42d and 69th Streets. Offerings to the man from Kansas, Oshkosh, Phœnix (Georgia), Keokuk, Ashtabula, and Montana—electric signs advertising Chewing-Gum, Trusses, Doughnuts, Pancakes, Diamonds, Orange-Juice, and Shows.

Out of one hundred and fifty-seven different shows, the man from Kansas concluded, from the titles displayed, that sex-questions, human emotions made common, primitive caveman passions, and freedom from obedience to the Ten Commandments, especially the Seventh, were the subjects best calculated to separate some fools from their money. According to the testimony of several who were willing to talk, the best patronized amusements in New York are of the sort that the newspaper critics tell you not to take your sister to see. On one evening, according to theatrical reports, $350,000 passed out of the pockets of the people into the pockets of the showmen. The night happened to be Sunday, and the rain interfered with the church attendance on Fifth Avenue. That might account for it.

It was not on that particular night, but on another like it, that I went to see what a friend of mine from Montana said was the greatest show in New York. I did not doubt his word, I simply wanted to see for myself; so I joined the procession of wise (and other) fools, and went.

It was all that the man from Montana said it was — and more. The story was of real human interest; it was true pathos, delightfully clean humor, wonderful acting, and it made me want to be a better man. There was not a single gun fired, no one was held up, there were no breathless situations, no one fell downstairs carrying a large part of the hall with him, there was not a single mob scene, no woman put corrosive sublimate into her husband’s coffee in order to make it less embarrassing to marry or go off with his dearest college friend — but it was a picture that, almost without a flaw, ‘found me,’as Coleridge said of the Bible; and when it ended, I was wiping tears from my cheeks, and no more ashamed of it than a bigger man than I who sat next to me.

I was getting ready to go out and be kind to the first stranger I met, when, without any interval on the part of the Union operator, there flashed on the curtain a most extraordinary thing, which kept me in my seat out of sheer curiosity. The reader will have to believe this statement, as I cannot prove it. But what I saw for the next twenty minutes was a tremendously vulgar travesty (if a travesty is not vulgar to start with) of the Bible story of King Herod and John Baptist. It was doubly horrible because of the chorus-girls who took turns in embracing Herod and John Baptist. This may seem like fiction, but it is a New York fact and enters into the possible answer to the question at the head of this article.

I stayed in that show-place long enough to lose all the virtue I had gained from the first half of the evening, and then I came away. As I went out, I seemed to be attracting attention because I was the only person who left before John Baptist’s head, made of papier maché, was brought in on the hood of an automobile. At least, that was on the poster I noticed as I went out of the door. I had not observed it as I went in.

Under the impression left by the ‘Greatest Show in New York,’ as my friend from Montana truly called it, I was so depressed that I dropped into a subway.

Before I was aware, I found myself in the human whirlpool that makes Poe’s Maelstrom look like a cup of coffee being stirred by a customer in a Fourth Street restaurant, where sugar and milk go with the cup.

The price of a ride in a New York subway is a nickel, and it is worth it. The ride begins just as the front end of the train begins to show at the end of the tunnel. The human whirlpool makes it unnecessary for the traveler to walk into the car, and the guards (if that is their official name) do the rest with their elbows, fists, and language.

When I came to the top, I found myself clinging to one of four beautifully enameled white posts, which decorated the middle of the car. Next to me was an old lady hysterically crying; and although I knew it was not proper to speak to a New York lady without an introduction, I felt compelled to say to her, ‘Do not be afraid of fainting, madam. You cannot possibly fall down if you do.’

I had intended to get out at Union Square, but circumstances and a mass of beings who looked almost human, flung into the doors at every stop, made it seem expedient for me to keep going as far as the Battery. On getting out there I ventured to ask the guard (if that is his name) if the train stopped at Assault.

‘Assault!’ he said. ‘What d’ye mean?’

‘Why,’ I said, ‘I never heard of Battery without Assault. They go together.’

‘Not in New York,’ he said.

I went away, walked up to Washington Square, climbed to the top of a bus, and paid ten cents to be jerked up to 199th Street, and for ten cents more back to Union Square, at which point the driver let me get off after I had been carried as far as the hotel where eggs were, and are, two (2) for 50 cents.

There are numbers of other things in New York that made an impression on me after I had said good-bye to the bus man; but the price of sleep per hour, the overhead charges, the 22 per cent profit on the cost of eggs, the adaptation of human emotions, especially religion, to the demands of the film trade, the friendliness of New Yorkers to strangers and to one another in the subway cars, the —

But, as I was saying, New York is a great city.