Our man was there to meet us, Gary Benson. He also wrote poetry and drove a cab. He was very fat but at least he didn’t look like a poet, he didn’t look North Beach or East Village or like an English teacher, and that helped because it was very hot in New York that day, nearly 110 degrees. We got the baggage and got into his car, not his cab, and he explained to us why it was almost useless to own a car in New York City. That’s why there were so many cabs. He got us out of the airport and he started driving and talking, and the drivers of New York City were just like New York City—nobody gave an inch or a damn. There was no compassion or courtesy: fender jammed against fender, they drove on. I understood it: anybody who gave an inch would cause a traffic jam, a disturbance, a murder. Traffic flowed endlessly like turds in a sewer. It was marvelous to see, and none of the drivers were angry, they were simply resigned to the facts.

But Gary did like to talk shop. “If it’s O.K. with you I’d like to tape you for a radio show, I’d like to do an interview.” “All right, Gary, let’s say tomorrow after the reading.”

“I’m going to take you to see the poetry coordinator now. He has everything organized. He’ll show you where you’re staying and so forth. His name is Marshall Benchly and don’t tell him I told you but I hate his guts.”

We drove along and then we saw Marshall Benchly standing in front of a brownstone. There was no parking. He leaped in the car and Gary drove off. Benchly looked like a poet, a private-income poet who had never worked for a living; it showed. He was affected and bland, a pebble.

“We’ll take you to your place,” he said.

He proudly recited a long list of people who had stayed at my hotel. Some of the names I recognized, others I didn’t.

Gary drove into the unloading zone in front of the Chelsea Hotel. We got out. Gary said, “See you at the reading. And see you tomorrow.”

Marshall took us inside and we went up to the desk clerk. The Chelsea certainly wasn’t much, maybe that’s where it got its charm.

Marshall turned and handed me the key. "It’s Room 1010, Janis Joplin’s old room.”

“Thanks.”

“Many great artists have stayed in 1010.”

He walked us over to the tiny elevator.

“The reading’s at 8. I’ll pick you up at 7:30. We’ve been sold out for two weeks. We’re selling some standing-room tickets but we’ve got to be careful because of the fire department.”

“Marshall, where’s the nearest liquor store?” “Downstairs and take a right.”

We said goodbye to Marshall and took the elevator up.