Interlude

Around the world, the tide has changed.

So we go back to the White House Hotel..."the last stop" for the down and out, you might say.

Well, once upon a time, that was true. Now it's turned into the last stop for last stops. And after a little more than a month of heavy shooting, I suppose I am overdue for a written report.

The problem (aside from laziness and exhaustion) is that, when you spend so much time inside of a place (essentially, inside someone's home), it's hard to pull your head high above water and get a good sense of what is around you. So, for the last week, Graham and I have been reviewing footage and thinking aloud about where things stand, how far along we have come, and what we have seen so far.

On this website, you have had a good introduction to some of our main characters (Tom, Shadow, Mike, and Maria). But very little has been said about our process, and about the daily experience of people inside the WHH.

To begin, Graham and I have had very different experiences at the White House. This was made abundantly clear to me when I followed Mr. Meriwether to the Permanent side of the building one night while we were looking for Mike Powell. The sight was overwhelming. The hall was dark and took on an evening musk that was not present during the day. The hallway, usually bookended by half-dimmed windows, was now lit only by a couple of red and blue bulbs that hung from crooked wires. There were sounds of televisions, and grunts coming out of the tops of the cubicles, and I had the distinct sense that, from the moment we stepped on the floor, we were being watched by people we could not see. Every move we made, the rustle of our jackets, the creeks of the floorboard, it all broadcast our presence, and told the residents that we were there. The sense of exposure reminded me of the old notion about how, if you are blind, your other senses become stronger.

My surprise came from the difference between the permanent side and the transient side of the hotel/flop. Graham and I have, in some ways, split our attention - i.e. Graham has focused on the permanent residents, and my primary focus has been the transients. While there is a tremendous amount of overlap, it explains how I had been left unaware of the nocturnal conditions on the flophouse floors.

I have spent several late nights at the WHH. At night, I have usually followed Maria, and watched as lonely-hearts, down-and-outs, middle-aged burnouts, and one sad, French prevaricator clung on to her as if she were a source of salvation. At night, Darren, a British backpacker, raver, and three-week resident of the White House, would come back from some jungle party and laugh with Maria. They would smoke cigarettes on the roof and make up stories about elaborate luxury in some other world. This is how it is with Maria...pure fantasy. Her and Tom could speak for hours about free spirit. Shadow includes her in his uptown visits to galleries and restaurants. Milton feeds off of her late-night visits to the front desk, where they spend hours talking about various, personal ideas. Tom once said that Maria has a litter of puppies, constantly following her around, looking for a pat behind the ear. And for a while, I was one of these pups, looking for some outburst, or some tender mix between Maria and her resident neighbors. Sometimes, waiting around, we would find Sam in the lobby with his cats; on one occasion we were met by a drunk British tourist who rightly described herself as a 'liability' when she goes out at night; but always, things appear to Maria as if they were part of a grand, on-stage improv, where characters come and go, and the only thing that matters is your demeanor.

But always Eric. He would find Maria, wherever she was. He would wait outside for her to return, he would pace the hallways and bathrooms if he knew she was on a particular floor; once I caught him spying on her in the basement; and occasionally he would interrupt a conversation by appearing suddenly and bearing down as if his weight and scowl would bring some subservient respect, or at least might wear down his target until she would let him stay and feel accepted.

Eric was the first one to be called a puppy, and Tom's nickname was appropriate. As might be expected, Eric did not take it well and eventually began to lash out at anyone who did not respect him, leading to a showdown between the desk attendant (who threatened to call the police) and an episode (a week before Christmas) where Eric was reportedly smoking in the basement and was caught by the building's plumber. The report gave Meyer an excuse to kick Eric out of the building - but as I write this, Eric is still at the White House Hotel, maintaining his story that the French authorities are sending his passport post haste and he will soon be free to return to Paris.

If this is all somewhat vague, then accept my apologies. I submit it only as an example of the kind of drama that can be found at the Hotel, despite the fact that the average demographic among permanents is over 50 year old men. Moreover, I think Eric was in an odd position. He does not realize the unlucky similarities between himself and the permanents - nor does he realize how close he is to becoming one of them (if not for Meyer's refusal to accept any new residents).

Eric, with his sad proclivities, unending lies, and myriad versions of his history and his future, is a man who only sees the benefit of the next five minutes. Sometimes it seems to me that he is drowning, but the next day I would see him with a tie on and hear reports of wads of cash. I don't know what to believe. All I know is that, as a person, I do not have a lot of positive things to say about him.

But again, his proximity to the old men...

In truth, we are all close to the men. Anyone of us... sitting next to them, talking on the level, leaving behind any ideas of superiority or class... when you sit there and join them, you form a perfect image. I had this experience the other night when I found Graham sitting quietly alongside one of the residents. The two of them would speak occasionally, and slowly. The two had found a common pace and a similar idea about how to speak, but from behind only to ideas came to me: 1) Graham (or myself) was not so far away from the lives of these men, and that given a certain preference for drink or another habit, we could all end up here; and 2) Graham was probably doing the admirable thing I have seen in a long time, in becoming a friend to a man who appears to me more like a corpse than a human.

The sight of Graham and myself in the lobby has created a bit of a stir inside the hotel.

That night when we went to find Mike, the men knew we were there and who we were looking for. They knew Mike was waiting for us and had gotten dressed for the occasion. The men, by now, knew there was a documentary in the works, and our conversations would never be private.

Living in one space, word spreads. Worse than a knitting circle, or a college dorm, gossip in the White House Hotel takes a vicious, paranoid character. The men, most of them 'street people,' expect that we are taking advantage of them, somehow exploiting their names and faces and stories for our own profit. It has become a common conversation to explain that we are interested in telling stories, and that the idea of making money off this documentary is tertiary to our goals.

As I've said to the residents, many times, our goal is to tell the stories. Graham has addressed this issue in earlier posts, and might update these principles soon, but for now, it is sufficient to remember that we are trying to figure out how these men live, and to show what we find.