The decaying and decrepit Chatsworth Hotel today.
AS CERTAIN as the setting sun, at four each weekday afternoon, the ragged vendor took his stand at the entrance of the long, green-floored passage leading to the hotel’s bar entrance. Beside him was a slowly shrinking bundle of Daily News.
He did not sell news; he cajoled the folded sheets carrying the pulse of the city into the wavering hands of patrons, their balance loosened by afternoon indulgence.
For just two cents, the tipsy men staggered out with headlines clutched under the arm, their gait uneven, their laughter spilling into the busy street.
On Friday afternoons, two girls would join the paper boy, their presence softening the harsh clang of the bar’s heavy, varnished door with polished brass handles. Their hair was matted, unkempt, hanging lifeless around young faces already shadowed by hardship.
