Part III: Down But Not Out at the Alton House

"In retrospect, this period of my life foreshadowed my eventual career as a union organizer."

WAR STORIES By Phil Cohen

Editor’s Note: This is Part III 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.  Read Parts I and II.  

I met with Morris and Herb on the morning of my first official day as manager. They handed me two keys; one for the desk compartment containing the books and rent money, and the other for the basement which I had to inspect on a weekly basis to see if the boiler or plumbing needed servicing. They shook my hand and returned to their respective professions and suburban lifestyles. After familiarizing myself with the books I decided to check out the basement.

I walked down a long flight of musty smelling stairs lit by one small bulb and entered the underbelly of New York. I used a flashlight to locate the light switch, which provided dusk-like visibility to the huge chamber. The air was so thick and humid it felt like another planet and the indigenous life forms enhanced that perception. The floor was swarming with enormous cockroaches and rats that could have been featured in a horror movie.

Spending much of my day in the office, I became well acquainted with most of the tenants. Some were transients while others were long-term residents. Three men in their mid-twenties, all heroin addicts enrolled in the methadone program, had recently been released from long prison terms and formed their own little clique. Greg had moved in shortly after me, having just served eight years for armed robbery. Instead of fleeing with his new-found riches, he’d remained at home until the police knocked on his door.

Within a year, Greg had been joined first by Ray, a former prison mate also incarcerated for robbery, and a tall, lanky man named Steve who’d been convicted of drug dealing. All three were tough guys, irreparably broken inside from spending their adolescence in the company of predatory convicts and abusive guards.

A plump woman of similar age named Barbie moved into the room adjoining the office. Steve confided they’d become lovers but swore me to secrecy because he was ashamed of being so hard up as to sleep with such an unattractive partner.

Barbie also took me into her confidence. She’d once been drop-dead-gorgeous and part of Andy Warhol’s inner circle. But the whirlwind lifestyle of parties and drugs, surrounded by utterly dysfunctional people subject to Warhol’s obsessive control of their existence, finally led to a complete nervous breakdown.  She spent six months in a mental hospital where her weight ballooned due to inactivity and filling her inner void with food. She was grateful to still be wanted by someone but wounded by Steve’s embarrassment over the liaison. She’d been transformed from hot stuff into an obscure nobody in a skid row hotel.

Another overweight woman named Clara also visited the office to share her life with me. She made her way as a prostitute in the nearby meat packing district, offering ten-dollar sex to men smelling from blood on their stained aprons. But she was down-to-earth, with a kind heart, and I suspected some of the regulars sought her company for these qualities in addition to the obvious.

Over time, more people began stopping by to speak with someone who could listen without judgment, sometimes asking for advice or assistance. Many of them were Welfare recipients and I periodically lied to the agency to increase their allowance, listing couples as living separately so each would qualify for their own check.  It was common practice for low-rent managers to demand a cut in such situations but I never asked for a penny. These folks needed it more than me. On occasion, I escorted sick or injured people to the emergency room where they were considered of little consequence because of their lowly Medicaid status. But I hounded the staff until they received the necessary treatment.

My saving grace, which distinguished me from people who end up shooting heroin and sleeping in doorways, is no matter how desperate my circumstances, I always realized there were people who had it worse. This awareness pulled me out of the abyss of self pity and focused my attention on trying to help others, because I could.  In retrospect, this period of my life foreshadowed my eventual career as a union organizer.

Barring emergencies, nights were my own and I reverted back to just being one of the folks. Bill and Anna were the only residents with their own TV and one might say the original Trekkies. Every section of their double room was named after part of the Enterprise: the bridge, engineering, etc. When the new series aired, everyone was invited to surround their television sitting on cushions. Sanitation wasn’t the couple’s strong suit. Long lines of roaches marched from ceiling to floor and back again in tight columns like a military parade. There wasn’t one square inch of wall space without a roach. Inevitably, one’s viewing pleasure was interrupted to brush insects off their body. But for a crowd who’d spent life on wrong side of the tracks, it was tolerated as only a minor inconvenience.

Three weeks passed and Soozie knocked on my door one evening. She stood at the entrance as if wondering whether it was really ok to be there, her long, dark curly hair framing a gentle face with soulful green eyes gazing at me.

Once inside, she thought the loft was really cool and climbed the ladder to get a better look at our space. She was somewhat taken aback by graffiti scrawled in magic marker on the wall above our pillows:

I am Fat, Fat, Fat

I am Ugly

I Hate, Hate, Hate myself

“Welcome to Desolation Row,” I told her.

Soozie also wrote poetry and I often played guitar for her before bedtime. I soon considered her the true love of my life. She got a job working the counter at a small fried chicken restaurant, located beneath the hotel’s southeast corner. Between our two incomes and free rent, my days of starvation were over and I began returning to my normal weight.

A woman with a twelve year old daughter from a small Midwestern town moved into the hotel. They weren’t a fit for this world of street hustlers and clearly had fallen upon hard times. I did my best to always treat them with respect and kindness. One evening as they were cooking on the communal stove, they invited me to share dinner. “We’re having steak sandwiches tonight,” the mother proudly announced and fifteen minutes later I was served.

I took a large bite and discovered that the meat between two slices of white bread consisted of seventy percent fat and gristle intertwined with shreds of beef. My first swallow was a challenge but I began taking smaller bites, complimenting them and expressing gratitude for the wonderful meal.

The greatest challenge of sleeping at Alton House was waking up to relieve oneself.  I arose one night, walked down the hall and opened the bathroom door. The floor was covered with vomit. I tried the adjacent facility and found that an overflowing toilet had spewed feces around the small chamber.

Not wishing to wade barefoot through either puddle, I climbed the stairs to the third floor, only to discover Out of Order signs angrily scrawled by a tenant on both doors. Tightening my abdominal muscles, I descended two flights to the first floor and finally encountered a usable toilet. Fortunately my job duties didn’t include custodial work, and instead of waiting three days like my predecessor, I called a plumber and cleaning service first thing in the morning.

Ironically, Alton House was once a luxury hotel, featured as such in an early motion picture. But as the structure slowly declined, spacious suites were divided into smaller rooms, allowing for more guests at lower prices, until the once-reputable destination for wealthy travelers was reduced to its present status.

My weekly visits to the basement went from nightmarish to stifling as summer set it. The stale air in the subterranean universe reached 120 degrees and invited vermin to scurry about in full force.  The hotel’s portion of underground New York was separated from other businesses by chain link fences. When I looked into the domain of the restaurant where Soozie worked, I observed a table piled high with raw chicken, left to sit uncovered in the oppressive heat for hours. I suggested my girlfriend start bringing her own lunch.

Over time I came to understand why Morris and Herb not only owned, but participated in running a cheap hotel. It was their way of slumming and immersing themselves in the nasty before returning to their uninspiring businesses and family life. They always kept an eye out for vulnerable girls; runaways who might feel obliged to trade sexual favors for rent.

One afternoon, Morris approached me in the office and told me he’d knocked on the door of a young woman who was behind in her rent but no one answered. “Call me as soon as she gets back,” he instructed. I knew he wasn’t planning to make the return trip to collect his twenty dollars but had no choice but to agree, placing myself in an agonizing moral dilemma. Failing to comply might terminate my employment but pimping a teenage girl who’d most likely already been through hell wasn’t in my repertoire.

I kept my eye out for the young lady and knocked on her door after she returned. I explained the situation, told her I had to notify Morris, and suggested she leave in ten minutes. I placed the call and Morris arrived by taxi twenty minutes later, only to hear me apologize that his quarry had again left the building.  “Well, that happens,” he said. “Just keep me posted about her. You’ve got to admit, she’s very attractive.”

Soozie and I were in bed at 3am on a balmy summer night when there was a loud banging on our window. “Did you hear that, or was I dreaming?” I asked my sleepy girlfriend. The pounding became more persistent and I wondered if we were about to be robbed. I approached the window with my can of mace, only to discover a very drunk Frank. He’d finished his dishwashing shift but felt too inebriated to make the long trip back to his North Bronx apartment, so he’d climbed our fire escape. I welcomed him and offered the lower berth.

Soozie and I had almost fallen back to sleep when we felt someone else moving in our bed. I looked up and saw Frank wearing Soozie’s black, slinky nightgown, with a demented leer on his face. He wasn’t trying to initiate a threesome, just see to what extent he could blow our minds. But after a moment, all three of us started laughing and our drunken friend climbed down the ladder and returned to his bed, presumably removing the nightgown first.

The unsanitary chicken establishment went out of business owing Soozie two weeks pay. But my resourceful and attractive partner got hired as a shill at a unique gambling club, located out in the open on 7th Avenue near 48th Street. Players paid a few dollars to roll balls down the alley of machines with holes and targets at the end. Scoring sufficient points generated a meaningful payout. Soozie would stand out front nicely dressed and with a mixture and innocence and sexuality, entice customers to enter. She was an instant hit and was suddenly earning more than me.

Returning from lunch several weeks later, I was approached by an agitated biker named Shawn as I turned down the hallway. “We’ve got us a serious problem,” said the large, heavily tattooed man.

Greg had become involved in an altercation with the manager of a nearby supermarket, and the police were called. The ex-convict made a hasty retreat because he’d been paroled in New Jersey and was in violation for being out of state. Police stormed the building shortly thereafter but Greg had taken refuge in Shawn’s room.  Law enforcement from three agencies assumed positions surrounding the hotel.

I stared out the window, instinctively taking in the logistics, and had an epiphany. Soozie was friends with two drag queens who lived in an apartment caddie-corner to the hotel, with one window sharing the airshaft. I told Shawn if he could find some rope, we could lash Greg to the large steam pipe running up the middle and he could shimmy around to their window. Meanwhile, Soozie could go there and notify her friends to expect company.

A few minutes later, the biker returned with the fugitive, but all he’d been able to find was battery cables. The old rusty pipe was several feet around, but we tied Greg on as best we could.  It the cable came undone, he’d fall several dozen feet to the rat infested basement.

Greg was white as a sheet and trembling while he gingerly inched his way around, but finally made it through the window. Per the plan, Soozie and Greg stood behind the building’s door, facing a street perpendicular to ours.  They put their arms around each other like lovers waiting for a bus.  As soon as one showed up, Greg hopped on and went to stay with Frank in the Bronx.

I was very proud of Soozie, coming from her sheltered background, to have found the guts to help. If the plan had failed we’d have both done time for aiding and abetting a fugitive. Greg found a job handing out flyers for an abortion clinic and eventually became a crew leader. Soozie and I could now afford to go on real dates and began exploring Manhattan’s international cuisine.

Clara, the friendly hooker who worked the meat packing district, surprised me by giving notice of moving out to live with her fiancé. A customer twice her age had proposed. She wasn’t in love but would be well taken care of and only have to service one man instead of dozens. I felt grateful that life had given her a ticket out of hell.

Soozie and I were again awakened at 3 a.m by loud knocking, this time on the door. I climbed down the ladder. “Who the hell is it?” I asked in rough tones.

“It’s me, Jake. I need your help.” He’d rented a room several months before, another young heroin addict released from a long prison sentence, who’d slept in Central Park for several months before being accepted by Welfare. I opened the door and beheld a gruesome spectacle. Both of his hands were bent into the shape of the letter C.  That would have been little more than peculiar, except the hands were bent backwards to an extent that seemed anatomically impossible.

He entered the room and repeated, “I need your help. I just scored some smack but I’m having withdrawal spasms and can’t shoot up. Will you do it for me?”

“Isn’t there someone else? I’ve never used a hypodermic in my life.”

“You’re the only one I trust,” he replied. “Don’t worry; I’ll talk you through it.”

Jake instructed me how to pour the right amount of powder into a spoon, liquefy it with a cigarette lighter, soak it up with a ball of cotton, and then slowly draw the fix up into the needle.

He rolled up his sleeve and presented his arm, sitting on the lower bed as I knelt on the floor.

“What’s going on?” asked Soozie from the top loft.

“Nothing you want to see. Try to go back to sleep.”

I observed a bulging vein in Jake’s forearm and inserted the needle, but his blood pressure pushed it back out. I was a nervous wreck but my patient maintained the calm and poise of a test pilot talking to base: the left wing has fallen off and the cockpit is on fire but all else is nominal.  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just keep trying.”

I hit the vein again with more pressure, but the needle still slid out as long trails of blood trickled down his arm. I was starting to panic but Jake maintained his composure, offering reassurances of eventual success.

I shut my eyes and prayed, Jesus, please make this one work because I can’t do it again, hit the vein with deliberation and it held as I injected the drug.

Within moments, Jake was a changed man. His hands returned to normal as he stood up and rolled down his sleeve. “I very much appreciate your assistance,” he said shaking my hand like a businessman concluding a productive meeting and departed.

Jake was an extremely bright guy who understood how to keep his cool under duress. If fate had dealt him a different hand, he might have made something of himself.

The problem with couples cohabiting is the mundane details of everyday life slowly suffocate the pure romance that inspired them to live together in the first place. This was amplified in my situation by being crammed into one room with no opportunity for privacy. Soozie and I began quarrelling more frequently than making love. I was loath to acknowledge it, but we were in the swan-song of our relationship. The allure of her street fantasy had been replaced by longing for old friends in a familiar world.

Soozie eventually took a plane back to Toronto and I gave Morris and Herb two weeks notice. Unlike most street kids who find themselves in lucrative circumstances, I’d saved my money rather than blown it. I rented a small but respectable apartment in Flushing, Queens.

Greg hitchhiked down to Florida, leaving his prize collection of switch blade knives with Frank for safekeeping. We never heard from him again and feared he was either dead or back in prison. But he spent his remaining time in this world knowing that, at least on one occasion, people had cared enough to risk their own freedom on his behalf.

While living at the hotel I wrote a song called The Lesson. The chorus went like this:

You never have been hungry

Your luck it has been good

Don’t sit back and judge no man

In whose shoes you’ve never stood

Phil Cohen spent 30 years in the field as Special Projects Coordinator for Workers United/SEIU, and specialized in defeating professional union busters.  He’s the author of Fighting Union Busters in a Carolina Carpet Mill and The Jackson Project: War in the American Workplace.