By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
Even after leaving the neighborhood, I sometimes visited the object of my affection, at 153 Lincoln Place, near the corner of Seventh Avenue's progressive-yet-upscale commercial strip. And once, a few years ago, I even managed to get inside and take a look around. The reception desk, cordoned off with Plexiglas, listed wares on a handwritten sign: "Candy $0.75. Gum $0.50. Condom $1.00. Deodorant $1.00." Other items in a display caseunwrapped toothbrushes stuck in the sort of plastic cup found at a keg party, and a half-empty box of tamponsalso appeared to be for sale. In the lobby, posters of faded sunsets hung next to a sign reminding guests not to drink in the hallways. Soiled zebra-striped cushions sat upon the squat, heavily lacquered stools of an African-inspired furniture set. A pillowcase adorned a small matching table.
At $50 for eight hours, the hotel had few amenities. One guest came down from his room to ask about the lack of ice buckets. "Where you supposed to put the ice?" he complained, adding, "There's no soap in there, either." An employee apologized and offered a garbage bag for the ice. "I just want a cup for some ice water," the guest grumbled.
Upstairs, hotel employees trudged down the halls, bearing bundles of soiled linens. The rooms themselves were furnished with fluorescent lights, saggy beds, and little else. The walls of room 24 were scrawled with conquests past: "Rodolfo y Nana 7-21-00" was next to "Leonora y Joselito," written inside a hastily drawn heart and limp arrow. A few doors down, room 26 witnessed the hotel's only murder. In April 1999, a woman was found hanged inside the shower, after the ceiling downstairs began to leak. Her "boyfriend" was booked for the crime.
The place was a misfit in this long-gentrified neighborhood. Everyone seemed to know what went on inside, but somehow the Lincoln Plaza managed to stay in business, undisturbed for more than four decades. Odd, considering that the neighborhood is all about procreational rather than recreational sex. Local activists recently groused about the opening of the Pink Pussy Cat Boutiquea lingerie and sex-toy shopacross from a middle school on Fifth Avenue. In a way, the hotel has offered some light titillation to what has been a fairly staid neighborhood for the past couple decades.
The other day I happened to bike past and discovered that the no-tell hotel was no more. The Lincoln Plaza closed last Thanksgiving, and is being retrofitted for upscale apartment units. The hotel was one of the last relics of the neighborhood's colorful but shady immediate past, the 1970s and 1980s, when the sidewalks were crowded with drug pushers instead of stay-at-home moms pushing Maclaren strollers.
"People used to say to me all the time, 'Why don't you do something about it?' " said James Westmoreland, an attorney who lives two doors down from the former hotel. But, Westmoreland said, no one lobbied to banish the hotel from the neighborhood, adding that people in Park Slope "just really don't want to get involved in a fight." Neighbors liked the owner, Frank Lee, and his employees, and besides, Lee was a good neighbor. He sandblasted paint from the original brick facade and registered the place as a historic landmark. A few years ago, before the hotel closed, Lee said he might someday turn the place into a bed-and-breakfast. But the Lincoln Plaza thrived as it was, and the hotel remained the same. On a good day, if all rooms were occupied, at $50 for eight hours, the hotel could rake in as much as $3,900. That's if you ignore the need to change sheets between shifts.
"Some of the women looked like they were professional," Westmoreland said, "but that never bothered anybody." However, this being Park Slope, neighbors found something to complain about among themselves. The honking of Town Cars in front of the hotel day and night was a nuisance. "We just sort of ignored it and moved our bedroom to the back," Westmoreland sighed. Unfortunately, it wasn't exactly quiet in the back of the house either, especially when the hotel's windows were flung open for fresh air. One summer, Westmoreland's young son, Lucio, was playing outside on the balcony and heard amorous shrieks from his neighbors to the east. Lucio, then seven years old, ran back into the house shouting, "Mom! Mom! There's someone dying next door!" When Westmoreland returned home from Thanksgiving with his family last year, the hotel was closed. "I will miss it a little," he confessed.