The lobby is through a single door on the west side of Seventh Avenue near 31st Street; it’s brightly lit. The office is a single room to the right. There is no door in its doorframe. It contains only one brown metal formica-topped desk facing forward. A pale rounded man with plastic-framed glasses and untameable light brown hair is seated at it. He is reading over some paperwork. He is holding the paper up close under flourescent lighting.
It’s late. The lobby has unscratched wide plate glass windows looking out onto the Avenue. But it’s not much of a lobby; there are no chairs. There is only enough room to walk through and just a little more. The ceiling is white stucco and low, the lobby is clean. Something is painted orange. Or maybe it’s just the carpeting. I am slight but sturdy and my room is right off the lobby, straight ahead and just a little to the left. You have to take the elevator (it has plastic pearlized call buttons) to get to the other rooms. I’m pretty sure other people I know are staying here.