Illustration by Naomi Elliott
It’s when he steps out of the passenger seat of a black cab that I see that unmistakable hairdo, the kind of radical wired mess that only cockatoos envy. I’m standing on the curb outside a trendy Meatpacking District hotel and I’m checking in David Lynch.
When people ask me about my days as a bellman in New York City, they always want to know which famous people I’ve met. The truth is, I’ve lost count. At some point tabloid faces took on the same anonymous quality of the countless tired souls that emerged from yellow cabs, unable to hide their groggy jet lag. It’s strangely empowering to serve a person who is used to being adored and just kind of not giving a damn. You just do the job and see them to their room, acting professional all the way, giving them just the slightest wink that you’re in the know. This was not the case with Mr. Lynch.
We’re momentarily separated while he checks in at the front desk. I wait patiently with his bags, remembering exactly …