La Magie
I had been curious about the old hotel since I moved to town five years ago. One lazy Saturday afternoon, I decided to explore.
“I know it doesn’t look like much now,” he said. “I’m remodeling.”
It was true. The framed photos on the floor behind the old man’s desk made the dank, cold building seem even more depressing. It was nearly impossible to believe a place like this was once majestic.
The shadeless lamp on his desk flickered as the aged man sat with a sigh. “You should have seen it ten years ago.” Ten years? The hotel looked as if it hadn’t been used in thirty. Thick layers of dust covered everything. “Buildings become ruins when people stop loving them.” I nodded in agreement and wondered how “La Magie” became ruins in just a few years.
Sensing my question, the old man asked, “Why does it matter how she got this way? What matters is that I’m reviving her.” His statement was wise. “How?” I asked.
“A fresh coat of paint,” he beamed. Cracked walls, bare floors, old mattresses, and tinging pipses can’t be fixed with paint. His eyes glimmered as he described the ritzy guests, late-night parties, and how he once rubbed elbows with Governor Chiles. “I can’t wait to re-open. La Magie and I will be famous again. I can FEEL it.”
Had he lost his mind? “Unless Michaelangelo comes back from the dead to paint this black hole, no one will care,” my mind was lost to a mix of sarcasm and sadness. He really believed he could make a difference and refused to embrace his dream’s demise.
Hypnotized by his obsession, he spoke for an hour about his choice of paint, and how confident he was it would make “La Magie” grand again. It needed so much more than paint, and I wondered if he’d ever see it. Maybe he already knew, but was pretending that paint would solve the hotel’s problems so he wouldn’t have to admit her (and his) irrelevance.
Time moves at the speed of life, and the past is simply one’s recollection. The once-great hotel was full of dust and hardly a memory to those who once spent hours inside her each week dancing and drinking. They had once loved her. Now she was in the care of a fool- drunk with the past- unaccepting of La Magie’s sad truth. “She’ll be great again, you’ll see!”
So is my life. Once far more majestic . . . Once beautiful. Now it’s more like ruins- far more unpleasant and hardly remembered by those who once spent years relaxing in its rooms and dancing on its floors.
I’m not naieve. I know I need more than paint, but sometimes- holding onto one idea or goal keeps me from accepting my sad truth.
Perhaps I’ll reopen grand and majestic. Perhaps I’ll die.
I understand not wanting to be in a dank, cold, hotel. Just remember that my life wasn’t always this way and you once loved me. So yes, the nights here are colder and far more lonely, but my presence isn’t any less real. One day, I’ll haunt these stomping grounds, and perhaps my ghost will scare you.
Actually, my ghost won’t be what’s scary. It’ll be the realization that you watched a friend slip into ruin as you danced in flashier hotels. Maybe my existence, like La Magie, is an eyesore. Perhaps it’s inconvenient to deal with, and God forbid you pick up a paintbrush or lend a hand.
“It’s just falling down, anyway. What good is paint? Painting THAT would just be a waste.” But to the old man, painting her would mean everything.
Sometimes, it’s not about the practicality or logic. Sometimes, it’s just about reaching out your hand, looking your old friend in the eye, picking up a brush, and dreaming about dances and drinks.
Maybe you and I both realize that arthritis is ravaging my hips, and my energy to do fun things is depleting. I am remodeling. Perhaps the “me” I am today isn’t as grand, but it IS what is standing. Why not explore? We’ll talk about my once-grand times, and maybe, just maybe, there’s a dance and drink or two still to be had. Even more imporant . . . maybe you’ll realize it’s not the building, but the spirit inside that matters.
