No Frills

The 1944 hotel-goer patiently stands in slow-moving queues at the understaffed registration desk. He rides to the wrong floors in jerky elevators operated by flippant, teen-age boys & girls or by deaf old gaffers. The call "Front" may bring a pint-sized bellhop, but usually the traveler totes his own bags. Frequently he is ushered into a room that seems to have been bombed: the bed unmade, the bureau loaded with dreg-laden tumblers, the ash trays choked with butts. One wet, crumpled towel is left on the washstand, the legacy of yesterday's guest, who seems to have shined his shoes...

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