Charles Pendelton
      © 2008 Marty Langdon
Chapter 05

                         Danger on the thirteenth floor!

Often as a child, I would imagine the framework and hours of labor entailed to
erect such a prodigious edifice as my stepfather's place of work. I can remember
being there for the first time at the age of twelve. Summer was nearing its end,
with Labor Day weekend fast approaching.

In the late afternoon hours on a Saturday or a Sunday, the building would be as
empty as an abandoned courtyard and as quiet as a summer breeze. Crowds of
people passing by become scarce as cars and trucks diminish, until the street once
again, reclaims the night. There was nothing now, but the ever-slow release of tranquility,
emanating from the end of another stressful workweek. Everyone was off in their own
direction till Monday, and you could almost hear the quiet peaceful hum of silence.

The contentment I found while roaming the dimly lit corridors was a lull of
placidity between myself and my thoughts. Perhaps the old-fashioned layout
allured me, with its forgotten past and untold stories which took place in an
extravagant penthouse, overlooking a stately promenade. Or how the ever-
brooding quietude could penetrate the stillness of a lonely heart and mind
to transpose a rather ordinary day into a memorable occasion.

As I ascended the spiral staircase of white textured marble, I could hardly wait to
reach the penthouse on the thirteenth floor. Since it was one large
room opposed to
twenty little ones, the ornate sign with its fancy lettering stated: Penthouse Suite.

This was understandable.

What I did not understand, however, was how business owners
in this day and
age of logic, still remained mindful of the fact, thus glorifying the
and arbitrariness of our frightened ancestors who once lived in
the dark.

Why can't we forge ahead to inscribe, thirteenth floor?

What would happen?
Would people tear their hair out and scream?
Would they become possessed and dive out the window?

The thirteenth floor of the adjoining building, is presented to guests and
occupants as the fourteenth floor, which only goes to prove that even man
in all his
boasting can be easily susceptible to silly superstitions laced
in fear,
carried over from an earlier century.

Back in the Middle Ages, if you belched while walking down the street,
they might assume you had a demon, and would disembowel you.

People weren't safe back then, for the world was upheaved in madness.

Five hundred years later, people still wish to believe that dark forces hide within numbers.

In other words, it's perfectly okay to stay on the 13th floor,
providing the elevator which takes you there, tells you it's the 14th floor?

No matter how you look at it, the only thing you're
  likely to find up there is hogwash and rhetoric.

                                                                   Pg 18

If you're going to be frightened of anything, be frightened of
the ogres and phantoms that lurk in dark corners of your house.
They plan your demise while you're fast asleep, and sometimes
you can even hear them stirring. When something falls to the
floor at night don't blame the cat, he had nothing to do with it.

Instead, blame those who are responsible, if you dare.

In my opinion, phobias have no place in a businessman's world for they are
a fallacy of fact, and so I figure we either revamp the whole number system,
whereby eliminating the dreaded No. 13 from ever having to be written again,
or we give them a taste of their own medicine, so they may grow accordingly.

Looking down through the hollow spiral of a turn of the century staircase
with its thick wooden banister,
my eyes would find the first-floor landing.

At the age of fourteen, my stepfather asked me if I would like to help him
at the building with certain chores that needed to be done. I told him I
would. With a dust mop, broom, and a makeshift dustpan from the Ella

Fitzgerald era, I would begin on the twelfth floor and gradually work
my way
down to the main lobby. Ramon would mop the floors on the
other side where
the freight elevator was, so we wouldn't actually
see each other until we
were finishing up.

“Be careful,” he said to me. “You fuck up, I lose my job.” 

If we were there late, Ray would teach me how to operate the manually
controlled elevators. A maneuvering of the back-and-forth brass arm
with a wooden knob. There was a small seat to sit down in that had
been fastened by rivets and connected in place to the floor.

a busy weekday, strange sounds coming from inside the wall were
if you happened to be ascending or descending that
winding staircase. No, it
wasn't a ghost shivering about in our time
frame. Neither was it a rat scurrying
down its ravaged partition.

It was simply an envelope tickling the old bronze
mail chute,
as it fluttered rapidly in making its descent to the basement. 

Toward the holidays, several people from each floor came in to work
around three on Saturday, but on Sunday the building was always
Every now and then, I would push open the mail slot on each
office door to
get a glimpse of the inside. Upon doing so, a gentle whiff
of the strange air
would often escape to greet my nostrils. “Isn't it odd,”
I thought, “the things
we do out of boredom.”

In one room, the smell of fine leather coats could be smelled hanging.

In another, the nauseating odor of cigarette smoke. In one profoundly
dim room, I breathed in gently, the most enchanting perfume which had
to it such an aesthetic charm, I sighed. While in one of the end rooms,
the acrid smell of funeral flowers permeated the thin air.

This led me to believe there was someone dead in there, whereupon
I immediately took the white marble staircase down to the next level.

                                                                   Pg 19

Some rooms were dark and daunting as if way past evening, while others were
brightly lit. Cheerful in a sense that they told the true time of day with large
windows that welcomed in the sun. The Indian rug company would always
smell of curry and spice, while the small accounting firms reeked of cigar
smoke. Some rooms would have an eerie breeze coursing through them from
an old vent shaft perhaps, or from a window left partially open, and no matter
how bright the sun was shining outside; it was always dark and desolate in that
enclosure surrounded by tall office buildings, where the ground would
to resembles a flat roof lined with gravel and tar. A place with no escape,
other than back in through the window you exited from. Kind of like an invisible
barrier was it separating the day from the soon to be evening hours. It filled me
with a sense of inner peace and nostalgia to entangle myself in that world.

                                             To become lost in it.

As I gazed ever so serenely into the mirror of time, I could begin to see those
wood framed windows surrounding the dreary enclosure from where I lay in
bed. Covered in decades of soot from exhaust fumes and smoke from factories,
I truly began to wonder if they had ever been cleaned at all. A tiny crack formed
in the lower left-hand corner on the 9th floor where a Mr. Lewis Hind slammed
the window down hard after hearing the ill-fated news of the stock market crash.

Was it real?
Did it matter?

But It was fun to play the game, and I was beating boredom at the same time.
Some activity was going on in my mother's room, and I assumed she had just
finished getting dressed. She then went back into the bathroom as she always did
to put on her make up before going once again, back into the bedroom for her
purse. I listened rather intently to the sound of her footsteps as they made their
way down the creaky brown carpeted staircase and away into the kitchen area. 

On the eighth floor, you will find the oldest company still operating in that building.
The black and gold lettering that still embellishes the pebbled glass appears to be
antediluvian. One that echoes with sentiment from an earlier time, while the heavy
door with its solid brass doorknob still opens with the greatest of ease.

If you're waiting for room 802 folks, you had better look elsewhere.

Mr. Schwartz set up shop in 1906 and he never left. As of this year, he will be ninety-
four years old,
and is assisted by his second wife of eighty-seven. She aids him in
walking, by
keeping a hand on his back to steady him as he shuffles about slowly
with a
walker. In his office he still uses a black rotary dial telephone from 1943.

One day in the not-so-distant future there will be no one left from the previous
century, and I will find, I myself have grown old. On the fifth floor, you will find
a costume company run by an old Italian man. I cannot remember his
name, but
whenever he saw me, he always gave me a mask or a gag of some
sort. This floor
could not be accessed for it was locked from the inside, so I would
have to look
through the glass door and hope he would wander out and see me.

                                                                   Pg 20

On the twelfth floor was a tailor shop that always had a spare dress form wheeled out into
the hallway. When I first saw it, I was a bit baffled by the vintage relic. Aside from never
seeing one before, and having no idea why anyone could ever want one, there was a certain
eeriness about the way it just seemed to be waiting there. After a while, I wondered why no
one ever took it, considering, so many opportunities had been afforded.

The business was run by two old men, Giuseppe and Irving. They had an uncanny ability to get
under each other's skin, like an Italian Oscar and a Jewish Felix. On occasion, I would see an
unusual piece of chalk in the form of a triangle that had made its way past the door jamb. Since
they came in so many different colors, I perceived it to be some kind of foreign lozenge lying
there without a wrapper. Sometimes they were quiet, usually when they were very busy, but
most of the time they would just throw miscellaneous words at one another and complain.

“Vere did you put the ladies' halters?”
“What ladies’ halters?”
“The ones in the crate that came yesterday!”

“They picked them up while you were out to lunch, you schmuck.”
“Nice of you to tell me, and don't call me a schmuck.
You are not Jewish. I am a Jew; I can call you a schmuck,
but you cannot call me a schmuck, understand?”
“Okay-okay, Cretino.”
“Vhat Cretino. Vhat are you calling me?”
“It's Italian for putz!”

Occasionally, the uneasy sound of a howling wind could be heard coming from way down
in the basement, and this I knew was the freight elevator. What I can tell you is that it's an
Otis piston elevator with a steel walkway grid design on both the ceiling and floor. Since
it is powered by water and not electricity it makes a very foreboding sound that raises an
eyebrow when one is alone. It is operated by pulling a steel cable hand over hand up, or
hand under hand down using thick leather gloves. As you descend past the second floor, a
steel ball connected to the cable comes up and barely makes it through this small housing
I call the O-ring. This special device it would appear has been mounted to run midway
down the cab, perpendicular from the ceiling inside the car to prevent or to dampen
any vibration caused by the cable or to merely keep the cable running straight. 

From there, the ball has just enough space to come out through a hole in the ceiling made of
hardened steel, as well. This tells the operator that he is reaching the basement, and if you are
pulling a heavy load, you had better slow down. If you don't pay attention to the cable, or if your
thumb should accidentally be above the steel ball as it passes through the O-ring at this point.
A door slammed shut and my thoughts scattered. Mother was gone too and finally, I was alone.
                                                           Grapefruit - Elevator

                                                                   Pg 21

Bill Donelly - How come no one wrote anything for this chapter?

Charles Pendelton - Dude. . . You just did.

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PG 18) The living is easy-est with stainless steel - Sharon Steel, 1960 -

PG 18) Hammock
by Wade Harris -

PG 18) House of Mystery No. 13
by Esao Andrews -

PG 18) Ghosts
by Chet Zar -

PG 18) The second day of Genesis
by Jacek Yerka -

PG 19) Auschwitz by Anton Semenov -

PG 19) Fishing On 42nd Street
by Dennis Jacobsson -

PG 20) The pleasantries of a full enclosure

PG 21) Former figure
by Amos Sewell -

PG 21) More Courtesy poster
(circa 1930's) -

PG 21)
(a) Elisha Otis at the Crystal Palace in New York, 1853; (b) Otis piston-type hydraulic elevator