Real Travel Notes of a Fauxtelier

HUBRIS AND THE HOTEL ON THE HILL

This happened like thirty years ago. Before I was a gentleman co-owner of a faux hotel, I was a decent pool hustler. No huge sums. A three-hundred dollar score in 1987 went a long way.  My favorite pool room ever was Palace Billiards on Market Street in San Francisco. I lived in Santa Cruz at the time and would go up after work on Fridays, play all night, play all the next day and night, stay at the Renoir Hotel in the Tenderloin (for fifty bucks cash the night manager would always find a room for me) and come home spent, rarely broke and absurdly happy. If I made money I would eat steak at Original Joe's. If I went bust I would go to Tu Lan for the most wonderfully amazing cheap Vietnamese food on the planet. One Friday night I lost all my money. The next day I borrowed a hundred bucks from Poker Paul and straight away lost that as well. I had fifty bucks left from my original stake that I needed for the Renoir. I hated the late, long drive home that only losers take. I bet twenty on a college football game between two teams whose players I could not name and lost that too. I went to Tu Lan and for ten bucks ate like a king; a kind, saintly king, well fed and full of love for his subjects. I returned to the Palace and a guy they called Baby Frank asked me to play a game of straight pool for fifty bucks. I had twenty left. I said "yes.” That is known as firing a thirty dollar "air barrel." It is not recommended.

Hey, but I won. I won that and the next game as well. Baby Frank quit and even from upstairs I could hear him outside crying about how lucky I was. I thought "hence the nickname." Poker Paul enjoyed my win as well. He came over, held out his hand and said "send it daddy" (I loved how old school pool players talked; still do). We reached a temporary settlement for half of my debt so I could keep some cash to gamble with.

An insolent young fellow I had seen around came up to me and said something like: "You got an okay straight pool game, how's your 9 ball?

I looked over at Poker Paul. He gave me a nod and I said something like "it just takes money to find out." This is called "woofing.”  It is what pool players do and it can quickly become obnoxious.

We settled on 9 ball for ten dollars a game. I played like the wrath of God. I smote him. He would attempt to rise and I would smite him again. He kept raising the bet, trying to find my choke point. He did not know that I choke a lot, for lots of reasons, but never for money. At the end I was exhausted and my pockets were full. I gave Poker Paul a toke for sweating the match and glided, yes glided, down the stairs.

On the street I thought to myself something like "I am too much a champion for the Renoir. Tonight I will sleep at the Fairmont!"  I walked up Nob Hill, crossed the threshold past the doorman and entered the glittering, decadence.

I had seen an episode of "Unsolved Mysteries" about the hauntings at the Fairmont. Full of myself, knowing that no ghost could beat me in 9 ball, I asked reception for the "ghost room."  I thought the older gentleman at the counter would chuckle with me about the gullibility of people and that, through reason and intellect, we were much superior to those that would believe in ghosts and such. That was not his reaction. He looked at me for a long time; sadly, thoughtfully, and finally said. " I think you will find room 603 to your liking."

I confess I was disconcerted, thrown off my self-satisfied smuggery and, I'll write it, kinda nervously entered the elevator.  By the time the doors opened onto the sixth floor my unease had only increased and I came to realize that there is nothing more terrifying than an empty hotel hallway at 2 in the morning. I was startled by my own fear. The flat lighting, the silence, the gaudy carpeting littered with eaten-off room service plates outside of doors all, as I walked to my room, signified a menace as palpable as it was inexplicable.

I opened the door to room 603 and was delightfully reassured. Everything was fancy and fine. I washed my face in the most wonderful bathroom, donned the most comforting terry cloth bathrobe ever, poured a small glass of red wine from the Anderson Valley, selected a chocolate from the box on the nightstand, rolled over and prepared for the slumber of the righteous.

The moment my head hit the pillow I heard it. The faucet was dripping. It was odd to think I had not fully shut the valve. I got up and fixed the problem and went back to bed. It began again immediately; as did my terror. The dripping became quicker, turned into a gush and finally a torrent. An unseen hand had turned both valves fully on. I leapt from the bed and ran to the sound ready to confront the demon. Water was splashing out of the sink, steam, as choking as my fear filled the room. I shut the valves, turned on every light in the room, turned on the television and watched nothing at all until daybreak.

Had my cocky self-satisfaction summoned a ghost I didn’t believe in? Had room 603 of the Fairmont decided to fuck with me? Opulent, grand and spooky, the venerable hotel had, for a century, witnessed and absorbed like a sponge every type of human behavior imaginable. A great hotel is a repository of romance, mystery, and unease. That night it was also a clock that told a fool his time was up.