Shirley and the Angel of 23rd Street

Shirley Kelly, with her exquisitely coiffed blond hair and painstakingly applied makeup, always dressed to the nines to sit behind the desk and answer the phone, was something of an institution around here. Though she recently left us, hopefully for greener pastures, she’s difficult to forget. I remember a conversation I had with her in April of 2002.

That was when the Japanese guy who dressed like an angel lived here. When I came into the hotel that day, he was sitting in one of the lobby chairs, dressed in a long white gown with white wings and a halo. He was talking to a conservatively dressed, middle-aged Japanese woman.

Shirley was sitting in her chair behind the desk, and I greeted her as I walked up.

“Between that angel and Jimbo and the blond woman who runs around here, it’s getting to be like a nuthouse,” Shirley said.

The blond woman she was referring to was a woman with Tourette’s syndrome—I always just called her Blondie—who used to live in the Chelsea. Jimbo was a desk clerk with whom Shirley argued constantly.

“Is this the first time you noticed that?” I asked, chuckling.

As was her way, Shirley paid my remark no heed. “That’s his wife he’s sitting out there talking to, if you can believe that,” she said. “Or at least she used to be. I guess she pays for all this.”

“All this luxury?”

“Which makes her crazier than he is!” Shirley went on. “He’s a transvestite, but he used to be married.”

“I guess that’s before he died and went to heaven,” I said. “Hey, maybe this hotel is heaven!”

“Oh, you’re not supposed to notice his wings,” Shirley said, sarcastically. “Oh no! Just act like they’re not there. Well, I’m sorry, but it’s kind of obvious. It’s not like he’s up on a cloud or something.”