Down But Not Out at the Alton House…
WAR STORIES By
Phil Cohen
"My new domicile was the size of a prison cell--but at least the bedding was clean."
Editor’s Note: This is Part I of Phil’s three-part sequel to his previous Work-Bites series centering on his dangerous days scratching out a living as a New York City cabbie. The story picks up a year after those events.
To live outside the law you must be honest – Bob Dylan
In March, 1970 I returned to New York City flat broke after a year of bumming around the country, confident in my ability to easily find work and slide back into my old lifestyle. Instead, I found myself homeless and without options. My roommates had been evicted from our apartment if favor of other tenants. A dozen arrest warrants bearing my name were on file, citing failure to appear in court for violations associated with driving illegal gypsy cabs, making it impossible to renew my driver’s license. While these weren’t the sort of offences that resulted in manhunts, they necessitated remaining below the radar and avoiding background checks, severely limiting employment opportunities.
But never one who failed to plan for a rainy day, I still had eighty dollars left in my pocket. Perusing the Post’s rental section I found an advertisement listing $20 per week rooms in a hotel named Alton House, located on the corner of 14th Street and 7th Avenue. I hopped on the subway and within forty-five minutes was standing at the front door.
The three story building was situated in a working class neighborhood, several blocks northwest of Greenwich Village. I entered the door into a small foyer, walked through a second door and up a long, narrow flight of dimly lit stairs. I glanced around the first floor and saw what appeared to be an office down the hall.
The manager’s name was Al; a short, friendly guy in his forties with a disproportionately large potbelly that produced a posture of continuously leaning backward. He was quick to smile, revealing four rotten teeth asymmetrically arranged within his mouth. I handed him $22 and he led me up another flight of stairs to a room at the far end of the second floor.
My new domicile was the size of a prison cell but at least the bedding was clean. The only other furniture was a desk with several drawers and one wooden chair. Upon opening the window, I was surprised to find it surrounded by brick walls with three square feet of space in between. There was no running water. Each floor offered two minuscule, poorly cleaned bathrooms, with the luxury appointments of a shower and sink. I stepped on a roach and lay on the bed to contemplate my next move, with just enough money left to keep this humble roof over my head for three weeks, if I conserved on food. I pulled myself up, visited a hardware store to purchase a single-burner hotplate, then a supermarket for bags of brown rice and lentils which together would resemble a complete protein.
Upon returning I wandered back to the office. In addition to the manger’s desk near the door, it turned out to be a communal gathering area, complete with a stove, dining table and pay phone. Three large windows overlooked 7th Avenue. The first guest I encountered was an elderly man named Martin, who sat for hours staring out the windows with binoculars. He fancied himself an artist busy observing life and knowledgeable on all subjects.
Within a week, I was on friendly terms with a number of tenants. About half were heroin addicts, some of them ex-cons. Several other constituencies of poverty were also represented: prostitutes of both sexes, mentally ill patients discarded by the system, in addition to more conventional individuals simply down on their luck. My best friends at the establishment became Bill and Anna, a hipster dope fiend couple who shared a double room that served as another gathering place. They explained the walled-in window in my room was called an airshaft. It was a way to circumvent a New York law requiring that every room have a window. Many of the smaller rooms had one, and a wider shaft with a steam pipe in the middle was visible outside the hallway on all three floors, terminating in the basement far below.
The owners showed up every couple of days to inspect the premises and collect rent money secured in the desk. Morris was a tall, slender man with curly black hair who owned a printing business. Herb was an accountant, a bit overweight and going bald. Both were always attired in a suit and tie, often visiting with those present in the communal area. They seemed an unlikely pair to own a dilapidated hotel and actively engage in its affairs. It would be some time before I understood why.
I cooked a large pot of brown rice and lentils in my room every few days, had one hot meal and then ate the rest cold, fortunate to be endowed with self-discipline when it came to survival. Vegetable protein had never been enough to sustain me for long, so once a week I crossed the street to a diner, invested a quarter in a bowl of rice pudding and poured the entire metal pitcher of milk intended for coffee over it.
My only respite was books, which I devoured like a hungry leopard eating meat. I reflected on a life in which I’d lived, seen, and survived more in twenty years than most people twice my age, and felt a burning urge to write about the street and hopefully generate some income. The notion wasn’t without foundation as I’d been a guitar player, songwriter and poet for years. Of course, I didn’t have a clue how to approach the business end of the art world and was realistic enough to know it wouldn’t happen in the next two weeks.
I began leaving the hotel at 6 a.m. every morning to shape up. This is when groups of men gather at specific locations where employers drive by seeking minimum wage, off-the-books labor. One day I’d wash dishes, wait in vain for the next three, and then spend eight hours sweeping floors. But at least the clock was no longer ticking toward the day I couldn’t afford my room.
After enduring two weeks of this lifestyle, a man pulled up in an old red pickup truck and shouted in a rough voice, “Who wants to work on a dump truck?” I ran toward him along with several other men and hopped on the back. “That’s enough!” the man said, holding up his hand as two late arrivals approached.
Ten minutes later, we entered the parking lot of an industrial building on 10th Avenue and 31st Street, bearing a sign that read Delucio Brothers Carting. The two siblings cut very different images. The man who’d hired us was named Sal and served as foreman. He had a powerful, stocky build and dressed like a working guy. His brother was impeccably attired and occupied an office on the second floor where he managed the business and was addressed as Mr. Delucio. Their collective demeanor gave the impression of being somehow connected with the Mafia.
Sal’s new-hire orientation only lasted several minutes. We’d be assigned to three man dump truck crews and clean out abandoned factories, welcome to keep anything discovered in the debris. If things worked out, the job would become permanent.
I was soon rolling down 10th Avenue in the cab of a dump truck, sandwiched between two men who seemed familiar with the operation. Every time an attractive woman appeared on either side of the street, they cut sharply across traffic lanes to shout licentious overtures at her. I’d always been revolted by this practice but knew enough to keep my thoughts private.
We spent the day hauling old furniture and broken machinery down a flight of stairs and into the truck. When we returned, Sal paid me sixteen dollars in cash for eight hours work and told me to report the next day.
Two days later my crew arrived at an old garment factory, filled with attractive pieces of leather and piles of decorative studs. I saw an immediate opportunity to package and sell this merchandise at attractive prices to the numerous small craft shops in Greenwich Village. My partners saw no value in this junk and didn’t object when I put some in the front seat whenever we carried heavier objects to the truck.
When we returned that evening I encountered Sal arguing with a young man who’d been paid less than expected, but insisted he was entitled to more because he’d reported on time. “Excuse me, Sal” I interjected, “but this guy showed up right behind me so I can vouch for when he got here.”
“Stay the hell out of this and mind your own damn business,” he barked in my face.
A few minutes later, Sal summoned me upstairs where he sat behind a desk in his office. “We won’t be needing you anymore, fella,” he bruskly told me. I walked down the metal stairs, gathered my pile of loot and humped it down to 7th Avenue and onto the subway.
Arriving back at Alton House, I entered the communal area to show off my haul to folks who were far more impressed than my former coworkers. I ended up giving away half of the leather but held onto the studs. The next day I began packaging them in small plastic bags sealed with a twist-tie, assisted by my new lover named Rosalie who lived down the hall. Within a couple of days I was traversing the streets of Greenwich Village in search of craft shops, pleasantly surprised by how many customers I found. Considering the merchandise had been obtained for free, my price couldn’t be beat.
Peddling my wares wasn’t exactly a full-time vocation so I purchased an old typewriter from a hock shop and spent much of the day confined to my tiny domicile, writing stories with vivid portrayals of street life that I hoped to sell. My relationship with Rosalie was most unusual. When needing a break from writing, I’d knock on her door and almost immediately, we’d be headed to bed. She would always look me in the eyes with a lewd grin on her face as she undressed. Afterward there would be little affection or conversation so, within ten minutes I’d return to my typewriter.
As part of my fledgling efforts to connect with the literary world, I read poetry and played songs once a month at a small club on East 14th Street. Walking there one night with my guitar in a soft case slung over my back, I was approached by two guys requesting a handout. Their disposition was polite so I handed a quarter to the one in front. He threw his arms around me profusely expressing gratitude. Suddenly he whispered in my ear, “Give me it all or I’ll cut your throat.” I felt a knife tip caressing my neck.
“Ok,” I responded. “Just let me get it for you.”
Confident of an easy score he stepped back a few inches. I slowly reached into my pocket, withdrew my hand, and then flicked my wrist emptying a can of mace into his eyes. He stepped back howling in agony and terror. Few people were aware of mace in those days and for all he knew, I could have permanently blinded him with hydrochloric acid. “GET HIM!” he screamed at his accomplice, who appeared utterly bewildered and disinclined to educate himself through personal experience. I briskly walked away, periodically glancing over my shoulder.
I learned of a new monthly magazine with an eclectic format named Metropolitan Review. I visited their office unannounced with a story in-hand and met with the editor. Two days later, I received a call informing me the submission would be published and inviting me to contribute on a regular basis. They only paid $25 per story, but it was gratifying to see my work on every newsstand in New York.
The monthly publishing check coupled with a steady trickle of sales from my dump truck salvaging barely paid the rent with little left over for food. One afternoon, I entered the diner for a bowl of rice pudding but couldn’t locate the metal pitcher of milk for my weekly protein boost. I politely requested it from the waitress. The surly, obese woman approached my stool at the counter, poured a spoonful of milk over the rice with a satisfied smirk on her face and walked off. “I’d appreciate the usual pitcher,” I called after her. “That’s for our coffee customers,” she snarled, glancing back at me.
A kindly middle-class woman, who was sitting on the adjacent stool, seemed to comprehend what had just taken place. “Can I offer you something from the menu?” she asked.
I was fifteen pounds underweight and dressed in rags but still had my working class pride. “That’s very generous of you,” I replied, “but it’s not necessary.”
She looked me in the eyes and insisted. I finally surrendered to hunger, ordering the cheapest item available: a fish sandwich with fries. The experience of real meat protein entering my system was a more profound rush than my hotel neighbors enjoyed from their preferred vices. My benefactor finished her meal and paid the tab before I was done. A few minutes later I was left with only a metal serving tray before me. I took out the quarter I’d planned to spend on rice pudding and placed in the center, like a bulls-eye. The gesture was unrelated to generosity or forgiveness. It would shatter the plump waitress’s stereotypes and, hopefully, deprive her a night of self-righteous reveries on my account.