Lizzie Mooney

2/24/15

p. 1-2

Here she comes

Walkin' down the street, here she comes

Comin' through my door, here she comes

Crawlin' up my stairs, here she comes

Waltzin' through the hall

In a pretty red dress

And oh, she looks so good, oh, she looks so fine

And I got this crazy feeling that I'm gonna make her mine

-Patti Smith, “Gloria”

 

6 AM

It was a bright yellow morning at the Chelsea. Patti and Robert’s little floor was cluttered with legal pad paper, fresh polaroids and copies of the Times.  Gruesome photographs of a slaughtered Sharon Tate accompanied the half crumpled articles by their bed where the two lay messy in the still small hours of the morning. They’d only been there for about a week, but the hotel was home. It was summer and New York was sticky, especially so in room 1017. The year was 1968.

Briiinnngggggg!!! went the the metal Crosley alarm clock. Patti Smith dropped a frail hand on the snooze and rolled off the mattress. She dressed in her lover’s thin shirt and dirty denim, kissed Robert on his sleeping head and scuddled out the door.

The hallways of the Chelsea Hotel were still bustling from the night before. Tiptoes continued in and out of rooms and despite her attempt to move swiftly, Patti became a part of the dance. Half of Jefferson Airplane was standing in an adjacent doorway, she was squeezed between Hendrix and a skinny blonde on the elevator. The spectacle continued on her trip down, traveling past the former rooms of Dylan Thomas, Bob Dylan, even Oscar Wilde. She bumped into Arthur C. Clarke in the lobby. She brushed shoulders with Janis Joplin on the front steps.

Patti tossed her mop of black hair back and forth while she walked, shaking out the tangles, and made her way down 7th.  She avoided pricy enticing cafes and headed straight for Scribner Bookstore. The little bell rigged above the door rang as she entered.

“Morning, Patti.” her coworkers greeted her.

“Morning,” she yawned.

She took her place behind the counter and shut one eye, drinking in every last drop of rest. Left eye shut, right eye squinting, a flash of color out the window caught her attention. A beautiful woman in a bright red dressed breezed past the shop window. Her chestnut hair hid her eyes, her lips were plump and pink. She walked swiftly with a dancer’s step. In the blink of Patti’s tired eyes, she’d gone, but something about the girl left Patti in awe.

Who was that? She thought. What’s a girl like that doing all alone in Midtown? At 6 in the morning?

She resumed pricing the books, all the while keeping her eyes on the street. She looked out the window, up and down 5th avenue, but it was bare. The beautiful girl had vanished.

6 PM

Armed with a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread, Patti Smith boarded the F train home to the Chelsea. She stood on the subway- which reeked of hot garbage and August sweat- and looked out the cloudy window opposite her. It peered into the G train across the platform. She watched hippies and suits file in and out of the car, all looking damp with sweat, when a familiar crimson dress peeked through the crowd.

It’s her! Patti thought, It’s the woman in the red dress, the same girl from this morning! The woman’s back was turned to Patti, that same silky hair twisting around her lithe frame. With unexpected enthusiasm, Patti released her grip on the handlebar and began her feeble attempt to move from one side of the completely occupied vehicle to the other. Soon, only the back of one very tall man stood between her and the window.

“‘Scuse me, sir.” he didn’t budge.

“Excuuuuuse me!” Forgetting entirely about the glass milk bottle under her arm, she reached out to tap the man’s shoulder. The train began to shift. Patti watched in horror as the bottle fell to her feet, breaking on impact, flooding the passenger’s shoes with cold milk.

“Shit.” She glanced up at the window. They had sped far away from the G train and the red dress girl was gone again.

10 PM

    Saturday nights at the Chelsea were something to behold. A parade of strung out musicians, artists and trust fund twenty somethings filled the hotel from lobby to penthouse. Patti and Robert emerged from their room, he in a furry vest and sailor’s cap and she in his best tie. With nowhere to be in particular, the pair wandered the halls of the Hotel Chelsea in search of an open door. There was a shindig in nearly every room. Jazz floated through the corridor and crashed right into another room’s rock and roll. There was a cello somewhere above them, a TV movie below.

Robert lead them past only a few locked rooms and into a packed loft. It was hazy and dark and overflowing.

“Mapplethorpe!” a man in paisley recognized Robert.

“Matthew Reigh, this isn’t your place, is it?” the Dylan-esque musician gave Robert a warm embrace and slung his arm around Patti.`

“You kids should check out the jam we’ve got going on in the kitchen. Grace Slick’s singing like a bird. Someone told me Jimi might stop by.” Bottle in hand, their host tossed his other arm around Robert and lead them through the boisterous crowd. The apartment was nearly completely unfurnished, only guitar cases lining the walls and a bed pushed into the corner. Patti held tight to Robert’s hand as they pushed through the party and into what appeared to be the kitchen.

“Patti! Join us!” Matthew gestured to a circle of people sitting on and around a folding dining table. Their faces were masked almost completely by cigarette clouds. On closer inspection, Patti realized she recognized most of them. Faces from her record collection came to life. Leonard Cohen was drumming on the table, Morrison was on guitar.

“Take a seat, love! Sing something!” Robert shouted in her ear. The hair on Patti’s arms stood straight up.

“I don’t know if I should-” Before she could protest, Robert pushed her through the audience and into the band. Dumbfounded, she peered around the room. She couldn’t find Robert, Matthew was nowhere in sight. Patti began to panic. Until…

It’s her!

Across the crowd, in the midst of the haze and the tightly packed people, Patti saw her plain as day. Her face was sharp and pale, but her cheeks rosy, her eyes a piercing blue. Her gaze met Patti’s and those bubbly pink lips curled into a smile. She floated towards Patti, her red dress swaying in time with her hips. The woman extended her hand and Patti gladly took it.

“Gloria,” the woman crooned.

“Patti. Patti Smith.”

“You gonna sing something for us?” Gloria nodded to Jim on the guitar, he smiled at her. The woman was clearly a somebody here.

“I suppose so,” Patti replied. She shimmied her way through the musicians and took a seat next to The Doors’ front man.

“Alright, what are we playing?” he asked the circle. Patti tapped his arm. “You got somethin’?” he asked.

“You guys know ‘Gloria’ by Them?” the garage rock anthem was one of Patti’s favorites. She couldn’t think of a song more fitting.

“Yeah, but you gotta sing it!” prompted a tipsy Paul Kantner from a few seats down. Patti grinned back at him and nodded. Jim struck a heavy E chord and Patti growled the first line.

“Like to tell you ‘bout my baby..” the raucous crowd slowed down at the sound of Patti’s voice. Gloria’s red dress spun around. “You know she comes around here at just about midnight.
She make ya feel so good, Lord! She make ya feel alright!” She smiled wide at Patti and the band played on. As they approached the chorus, the kitchen was squeezed with more and more listeners.

“And her name is! And her name is! And her name is…” Patti rose from her seat. She stomped her clunky feet in rhythm with Jim Morrison’s guitar. She thought she might break on through to the floor below her. “And her name is G. L. O. R. I. A!” she heard the whole apartment chime in. “Gloooooria!” they chanted, “Gloooooria!”

4 AM

They played long into the night. People came and went for hours. It seemed as though every guest in the hotel had wandered into the apartment at some point that night just to hear Patti Smith sing. They played old folk songs, blues, Patti even recited poetry. When it seemed like there was nothing on earth they hadn’t played, the makeshift band took a bow. The few listeners left erupted into applause. One of them was Gloria.

She sauntered up to Patti, somehow maintaining her fresh face through the night. Patti’s heart quickened. Gloria leaned in close, the little hairs on her cheek tickling Patti’s nose. She pressed her lips to Patti’s forehead, staining it pink, and whispered...

“Welcome to New York.”

 

She whispered to me, she told me her name

and her name is G-L-O-R-I-A

Gloria

Patti Smith, “Gloria”