Chelsea Walls

The Chelsea Hotel. Place used to be grand, THE place for artists in New York City. Mark Twain, Tennessee Williams, Nabokov, Burroughs, Dylan, Hendrix, all and many more took their dreams to the Chelsea. The famous names are gone now, long gone, but still the dreamers come, hoping to feed off hallway ghosts. Bad move. Today the ghosts feed on you. Bud is near a few ends. End of his book, for one. Eight hundred pages are scattered around his room up on 10. Mary is scattered around too, unable to collect enough nerve to walk out on their affair. Bud’s near the end of Mary, near the end of his wife Greta, and near the end of yet another bottle. One way or the other, another chapter is ending. And with every worn out writer, comes two new musicians. Ross and Terry have just driven in from Minnesota. Big city’s tough, a little scary, but you’ve got to play New York, right? Like Dylan, right? Like Hendrix? Dylan made it. Hendrix died trying. Grace and Audrey have a lot in common. Both live alone, both poets, both missing men they love. Val has just come back to Audrey, but will he stay? Or will he leave again with crutches, off to do something unspeakable. And Frank would stay with Grace, happily, if only she’d let him. She won’t. She’d rather live alone. These are the new hotel residents, mingling with those old hotel ghosts. But one of them is about to relocate, moving out the hard way. The cops are coming, ready to cordon off another hall. Nothing new. It’s just another, normal, bad day between the walls.