The 14th Floor

The 14th Floor

By Robert Aubrey

         Bob checked out of detox against medical advice, as usual, swung open the glass door and stepped out into the sticky July morning. He took a few steps down the sidewalk and halted against the wall of stifling heat.
         Now what, he thought, now what? Just what in the…
         He reached into his pocket and pulled up about a half a pound of quarters, the residue from a week of debauchery. He turned around, went back into the air-conditioned lobby of the detox center and found the payphone. He dialed the number of his probation officer and waited for a robot’s voice to tell him how many quarters to drop in the slot.
         One by one he pushed the coins into the slot and listened to them follow the metal pathway to their nest below. They sounded like pinballs disappearing between flippers. Game over. They sounded like the burnt fragments of his soul descending into Hell.
         As he listened to the sound effects, he mentally prepared the spiel he would perform for his P.O.
         “Yeah, I screwed up again. Whaddya want me to do now?”
         “Mm-hmm…well, Bob, you’ve got one more chance. If you’re not back in the Helping House by next Wednesday, I’m going to violate you and this time you’re going to do the other year of your sentence. Fair enough?
         “All right, then, The Helping House it is…”
         Click.
         The Helping House was an infamous and peculiar rehab of last resort for guys like Bob who had burned all their bridges; who had burned them so thoroughly that their asses were still smoldering. It was a community service program peopled mainly by ex-cons and soon-to-be-ex-cons. Its members could be seen about town, sweeping sidewalks and cleaning gutters, shoveling snow, mowing lawns, weeding gardens and delivering meals to shut-ins.
         The program’s participants weren’t required to wear leg chains and weren’t overseen by cruel, beefy hoards wearing mirrored sunglasses and toting 12-guage shotguns—though some of the guys felt as if that were the case. They were, however, required to don day-glo orange safety vests. For some of the men, it was like wearing a scarlet letter, not Hester Prynne’s bright and ornamental capital A for Adulterer, but Joe Loser’s big orange A for Alcoholic…or Asshole. Some of the other men, though, wore the vest as a badge of honor; they looked up to Bill, The Helping House’s founder and dictatorial director; they worshipped him, in fact. This was no surprise, Bill was a masterful manipulator; he understood the psychology of the weak and downtrodden and had carefully crafted a cult of personality centered on himself.
         Some of The Helping House’s detractors said that Bill was a fraud, that he was using these unfortunate reprobates for his own personal gain, that he offered the men no real help in overcoming their addictions and in preparing them for reintroduction into society.
         “Phooey!” said Bill, “These men have been takers all their lives and never givers. Ours is a program of action, of doing, of caring for others who are even less fortunate—not like these guys who just wanted to take the easy way out: by taking drugs and breaking into houses and businesses and terrorizing the community. I’m training them to have compassion for others who have it worse off than themselves, who have a tough lot in life because of physical and mental disabilities that were not of their own making. These guys of mine have dug themselves into their own holes; I’m helping them climb out. I’m teaching them to respect their community and that is what will restore their self-respect. I practice tough love and if some of my men can’t handle it, then they are free to leave and go to a cushy halfway house where they can sit around all day, gazing at their navels and playing with themselves while they try to find out what makes them tick…while they try to find an easier, softer way. There are no bars on our doors: the fucking ingrates are free to leave at any time!”
         Some of the guys at The Helping House were unable to distinguish tough love from tough hate and they had a particularly rough time of it there.
         Bob had first stumbled into The Helping House back in February when he was on parole for a burglary sentence. Since then he’d been in and out the door four times. Bill had a nickname for some of his guys—for those few of whom he was fond. He called Bob “Whirl-A-Gig”. Bob had endeared himself to Bill because of his clerical and organizational skills. He became Bill’s office assistant, bookkeeper, gofer, valet, chauffeur, and occasional scapegoat. He took on those lackey positions which insecure, submissive types, of which Bob was certainly an example, often do. If a bloke had a skill that made himself useful to Bill, be it carpentry, cooking, or bean-counting, then he could do no wrong in Bill’s eyes. However, if the poor chap were of no practical value to him, then it didn’t matter how committed to sobriety he was…Bill would eventually concoct some pretext to toss him out on his ass. Bob was fortunate to show up when there was a need for someone with office experience, because he sure as hell had no desire to stay straight.
         Bob was still sweating vodka through his pores when Bill called him into his office.
         “I’m really fucking stressed out!” he bellowed, spewing bran muffin crumbs and saliva onto his desk. “I’m glad you’re back. I need to get away from this fucking freak show for a little while. The doctor says I need some rest and relaxation before my fucking ticker explodes!”
Bill had a host of physical ailments, including cancer, and in Bob’s unvoiced opinion, some frightfully severe, yet undoc          umented, mental health problems.
         Bill was proposing a little jaunt around Quebec, and maybe Ontario too, in the little Triumph Spitfire he had inherited from a girlfriend who had set his house on fire before committing suicide. No fucking way, Bob thought. Bill had let him take that miniature automobile on a couple of spins around town and he to admit it was a lot of fun, but he imagined how he would feels after a few days of wheeling around Canada crammed into a goddamned go-cart. (He knew Bill would feel nothing, hopped up on a battery of painkillers, prescribed both by his physician and himself.
         Luckily, Bob’s already much abused 29 year old skeleton-muscular system was spared further hardship by Bill’s decision to take the trip in his Cadillac Coupe De Ville. Bill owned a small fleet of vehicles for his personal use, though he rarely drove himself, nor should he have been allowed to. In addition to the Spitfire and the Coupe De Ville, he also had an Eldorado and a Chevy Caprice. The Caprice was his workaday machine and the only one he ever actually drove. Bob surmised that Bill could relate to the name of that particular model.
         Not only was a change in vehicle decreed, but the destination was likewise altered. Instead of heading north to Canada, they would be traveling south to New York City—Times Square.
         Times Square in the middle of July? It didn’t much sound like the place one would seek out for rest and relaxation. But what did Bob know? He wasn’t overly familiar with The Big Apple, except to pass through when he was in the service; and then he hadn’t paid much attention to the city’s true nature, because he’d been preoccupied with getting pushed and shoved, dodging traffic, insults and sneers, and getting lost in search of the subway and dealing with insolent cops: “It’s underground, that’s why they call it the subway, ha, ha, ha!” No, he didn’t think they would find peace and solace in the heart of the world’s busiest city in the midst of a hot, sweaty summer. From the recesses of his brain, where the booze-saturated fog was still lifting, The Lovin’ Spoonful sang out: “Hot time, summer in the city, back of my neck feeling’ wet and gritty…”
         They departed the next day, late in the afternoon and just in the nick of time—Bill was on the verge of homicide, the last resort in helping hopeless clients. He tossed a few pills down his gullet, hopped in the passenger seat and said, “Let’s get the fuck out of Dodge before I change my mind and make all these motherfuckers feel sorry for my premature death!”
         It took four hours to reach Manhattan. Bill was passed out in the back seat most of the way. Bob blasted the A/C and put some nice smooth jazz on the radio and he was enjoying the trip so far. The Coupe was a sweet ride. There wasn’t a damned thing in it he could adjust manually—all electric. He felt like the pilot of a 747. There was even a readout telling him how many miles were left in the tank of gas. And since this was a big boat of a car, an ’86 with a thirsty V-8, when he occasionally took it off cruise control and stomped on the pedal, he could actually see the mileage counter move backwards. One time Bill woke up while Bob was going ninety. He stuck his head up over the back of the font seat and growled, “Jesus H. Christ! How fast are you go—“; and before he finished his question, he slid back down to his comfortable mobile couch and resumed his snoring.
         It was dark by the time they got on the Henry Hudson Parkway and headed south down the west side of Manhattan, three or four miles from our destination. As they got closer to the mid-town exit they needed to take, Bob started to panic. How the hell, in this 80 mph bumper to bumper four lane Indy Speedway, was he going to slow down enough to navigate this boatbeast onto the exit ramp, which appeared to be still under some sort of repair and jutted off at a 90 degree angle from the highway? There was no merge lane, unless he was already in it; the breakdown lane was blocked off with orange barrels. He sped by their exit. Bill, in a rare moment of lucidity, noticed this. "Where ya goin'?!" he roared, "That was our exit!" "Are you sure?" Bob asked. "We'll take the next one and double back," he reassured Bill. But all the exits were as evil as the first on he missed and he just sailed on down the parkway, unable to disengage himself from the torrid current of traffic which had ensnared him. Somewhere down near the financial district in Lower Manhattan he got off the parkway, drove in circles for awhile until he found his way back onto the parkway heading northbound. Bill had resigned himself to Bob's incompetent chauffeuring and sat quietly in the back seat as the spittle dried around the corners of his lips.
         The exits on the northbound side of the parkway were much more civilly engineered and in no time at all they were in Times Square, parked in front of the Milford Plaza at West 44th & Broadway. The doorman opened the car door for Bill to step out; he got out in his normal regal & pompous fashion, dusting off his suit sleeves with his beefy paws and settling his tam o' shanter on his skull and fastidiously adjusting it as if it were a crown. Then he rested on his walking stick and watched as the bellhop loaded his luggage on a cart. When the bellhop returned, Bob asked if there might not be a valet who would park ther royal carriage in the hotel's parking garage. "Ain't no parking garage here, you gotta park it youself. Threre's a place you can go jes' a couple blocks away by the Port Authority building. Jes' 'member t' take ya ticket back here and get it validated at th' hotel." But Bob didn't want to set foot back in that car until it was time to leave beautiful, serene Times Square. He pressed a twenty into the bellhop's palm and begged him to park that pig. "No problem, sir," he said and was off. "Yeah, no problem," I thought, "one less problem is all."
         By the time they got checked in and settled into their room, it was going on one a.m. Bill was hungry, and having slept for most of the drive was itching for some action. Bob was a little hungry himself--his diet for the last few days consisted mainly of caffeine & nicotine--and he was so worn out from the hectic drive that he knew sleep was out of the question until an hour or two from now...so what the hell, he thought, let's hit the wild & wacky streets of NYC.
         Bill knew of a good all-night deli with table service just around the corner from the hotel...so, all showered, shaved & spruced up--Bill in one of his thousand dollar Italian suits and Bob in his finest T-shirt and jeans--they fought their way through the ever-bustling Times Square crowd of winos, pimps, hookers, pickpockets, & traveling salesmen to some good down home grub. Bob couldn't recall what Bill ate, even though he sprayed fragments of his meal on Bob's face as he spoke, but he remembered that for some unknown reason he had ordered liver & onions, the first real meal he'd eaten in a couple of days and damn it was good.
         On their way back to the hotel they passed by some sidewalk artists who drew peoples' caricatures for eight bucks. "Whyn'tcha have 'em draw you, Bob?" Bill cajoled. "Sure, why the fudge not?" When the finished product was delivered to him, Bob saw clearly that he would never become the feature character in a comic strip.
         'Bout this time a rather hot looking black whore approached Bill. She had already accosted him once when he and Bob left the hotel an hour earlier, but he'd just ignored her. Now she was more insistent, at one point trying to grab his crotch. "C'mon, daddy, don't you wanna have some really nice memories of your trip to the big city?" she suggested. "Why won't you leave me alone?!" he demanded to know. But she wouldn't leave him alone and every time he spun around in a half-circle to try to escape, there she was, her luscious lips and dark eyes right in his face. "Look here now, I'm an officer of the court," he told her and flipped open his billfold, exposing his shiny gold probation officer's badge, "and I can have you arrested!" "Ha, ha, ha, my kid has a badge like that on his little cowboy costume!" she said, flashing her perfect bright white teeth as she laughed. I really liked this young, skinny ebony sprite--hooker though she was. She was really funny and quite sexy, I thought. "Gee Bill," I thought to myself, "if you don't want her, let me take a crack at her. Might as well get her now while she's fresh, lord knows what she'll look like two years from now on these streets...or even two months." Once more she lunged for his crotch and Bill bellowed, "That's it, young lady, I'm gonna go get a cop!!" He didn't have to look far, there was one about fifty feet away and he'd witnessed the entire confrontation. He listened with a bemused look on his young face as this livid senior citizen presented his case. Bill was indignant. "I'm an officer of the court from Massachusetts!" ("Oh please don't whip out your badge again, Bill," Bob silently prayed.) "I'm here on vacation to spend some good money in your fine town and I certainly didn't come down here to be pawed by streetwalkers!" The cop tried to wipe the smirk off his face, but Bob could tell he was having a hard go at it; he felt for him, wondered how many times during his night shift he had to deal with shocked outsiders. He wondered if he sometimes just lost it all together and just laughed out loud at enraged Midwestern bumpkin preachers who'd just had their package gently but firmly squeezed by the night stalkers working the sidewalks. ("Ya know, Bill, that's just a little advertising trick they use, it's just a little tease, like those scratch & sniff ads for perfume in the magazines, a little taste of what's to, er, come.") "I'll keep an eye out for her," the cop promised Bill. "There she is right now! She's right across the street!" Bill pointed her out. "Go arrest her, she grabbed me indecently twice. That's indecent assault, and she made unwanted sexual advances to me!" Bill sputtered. But just then a fat cloud of pungent pot smoke wafted their way and the police officer decided he'd rather pursue that case than follow up on Bill's complaint.
         "What the fuck's wrong with this town?! Don't they even care about decent law-abiding tourists who are in their town to see the attractions and spend some cash?!"
         "I don't know, Bill."
         "I don't understand it. Why was she coming on to me? You're the young one."
         "Yeah, Bill, but I don't think she was lookin' for love, I think she was more interested in what's in your wallet. You're all dressed up in a nice designer suit, you got a fancy walking stick, and I'm dressed in rags in comparison. It was just a simple economic choice, Bill. She's a businesswoman, just like you."
         "Ha, ha, I guess you're right...what the fuck did you just say?! I'm not a businesswoman!"
         "Ha, ha, ha."
         And so they went back to the Milford Plaza, room 1438, crawled into our beds and slept the sleep of the unjust.
         Bob slept late, until eleven in the morning, Saturday. Bill had cranked the air conditioner to maximum, owing to his excessive sweating problem, and now Bob was freezing his ass off. He turned it down, since Bill was ensconced in a cocoon of heavy blankets and extra sheets. He slept naked, whereas Bob had passed out, fully clothed, on top of the covers. Bill's chainsaw snoring was at about 90 dB and Bob stared at the reflection of his face in the mirrored wall opposite the beds. "What a tiny fuckin' room," he thought as he surveyed their surroundings. The room was just big enough for the two single-size beds with enough room for one person at a time to walk between them and the walls. There was a small console T.V. in the corner at the foot of his bed; diagonally across the room was the door to the bathroom; a few feet from there was the door to the outside world (one of luxury and opulence--the nattily attired bellhops & elevator operators, the somewhat worn but elegant Oriental carpeting, the varnished wood & polished brass...all this would make one believe that when he entered his room he'd be entering some sort of private palace. Maybe up in the penthouse, but not here on the 14th floor. Apparently they'd chosen door number three. "How much was Bill shelling out for our stay in this flophouse?" Bob wondered. It was a far cry from the luxury suite at the Sheraton Plaza that Bill, Bob, and a co-chauffeur had shared back in April when they took a trip out to Chicago to visit Bill's daughter & son-in-law.) In the remaining corner of the room was a small closet where Bill had hung five or six thousand dollars worth of designer suits. How long were we staying anyway? Bob wondered. And were we really here to relax or did Bill have some secret plans to visit the U.N. to lobby heads of state for funds for his little rehab program? Who the fuck knew?--with Bill anything could happen, and that was why he was so much fun to be around--merriment, terror, and cash flowed from him at random intervals.
         Bob was feeling antsy & claustrophobic, so after he brushed his teeth and combed his hair he headed out the door. Bill could fend for himself, Bob was sure. All he had to do was throw cash at the hotel staff and all his irrational whims would be satisfied. Bob had fifty bucks in his pocket; that would be plenty, he thought, he wasn't planning on any shopping binges on Fifth Avenue or anything, he just wanted to wander around Manhattan and look at all the cool buildings and piles of trash and study the deranged people who littered the sidewalk. He'd go have breakfast somewhere, then maybe hang out in Central Park and ogle the fashionable young yuppie women who whisked about everywhere, wearing smart little business suits with skirts just tight enough to entice but still maintaining business-like propriety. Their delicate, manicured hands firmly clutched briefcases, which they swung just a little, to serve as ballast for the swing of their buttocks and the quick purposeful strides of their smoothly shaved and nylon-wrapped thighs and calves as they strode to and from their office buildings. They'd liberated themselves from the kitchen and laundry room over the past two decades and now they were breaking into man's domain--finance, law, marketing, advertising...all those respectable occupations which were really just socially accepted forms of prostitution, in Bob's estimation.