Living with Legends

THE SWORDSMAN

            I remember my first night in the Chelsea.  My girlfriend and I had just spent hours moving in all our stuff—more than the guys at the desk had ever seen, they said.  I was excited and a bit nervous to be in New York.  Though I was dead tired, I couldn’t sleep, so I sat up into the wee hours of the morning drinking beer and listening to the radio.

            At one point I had to piss.  We shared a bathroom with two or three other rooms, so I put on my flip-flops and walked down the hall.  I rounded the corner to the bathroom and came face to face with a huge, fat guy holding a sword.  My heart jumped up into my throat and I took a step back when I saw him.

            “I was just practicing here in the hall,” the guy said, slurring his words, obviously drunk.  He had long, coal-black hair that hung in a tangle, obscuring his face and making him look completely psychotic. “I’ve got a role in a Shakespeare play.  I ducked around the corner when I heard you coming because I didn’t want to scare you.”

            Nah, that wouldn’t scare anybody: a big man with a sword lurking in a dimly lit hallway. 

Copyright 2006 Ed Hamilton