Escalaphobic

Another day another story.  

Days of Heaven, Johnny be good, Henry in his apartment on Thursday afternoon, he could hear music at street level— angelic harp and acid fused trip music, Moroccan pipes of pan, Hari Krishna  hippies chanting, jumping up and down in the  opium fields and canyons of New York City.

You could still find magic in the city Henry thought,  it was July 3, 1969, his birthday.

He planned to go out in the evening to celebrate, alone. Henry superstitious, believing it was bad luck to tell people it was your birthday. 

9 PM, peeking outside to see if it was dark, then heading out. 

Henry walking down 10 flights of stairs  to avoid the elevator because he was escalaphobic— the elevator scared the shit out of him. He wondered what was holding the god-damn thing on the side-rails? What would happen if it busted lose, broke free from the hinges or cables and fell free? He wondered if there was a big spring that would cushion a free-fall at the bottom of the elevator shaft? 

On street level he felt safe again. First stop Chaim’s deli for a bowl of matzo ball soup and some cream soda, sitting in a booth eyes down not wanting to make eye contact, afraid someone would wish him a happy birthday. Fat chance the waitresses hated Henry, he never tipped. 

Leaving Chaim’s happy to escape the place.  Siam Massage was a few doors away from the deli.  He told the cashier he wanted Sweet Water, a hill tribe gal.  The two old friends walked hand in hand down a dark hall to a marquee covered with Indian prints. The tent had a mat on the floor and smelled of Frankincense. The pair got naked and sat on the floor cross legged, then snorting coke and drinking Thai whiskey.  Henry laid belly down on a mat and Sweet Water went to work on him. As she massaged him he felt like he was falling down into space, then he fell asleep. When he woke up she was snorting lines of coke off the angel tattoo on his chest, then she blew some coke in his nose with a straw,  Sweet Water was a laugh he thought.

Henry tipped Sweet Water and made his way to a dive in the Bowery, Suicide Hall. He would sit at the bar and watch the bums drink cheap wine. It was a real show, they would talk nonsense to one another, get in fist fights, fall off bar stools, piss themselves, or just die in place. He admired the bums because they were on full throttle all the time and didn't care about anything. 

Later that morning the bums would pass out, piss their pants and vomit some more inside boxes or on park benches.  The 9 to 5 stiffs on their way to work would walk by the bums, not caring, too busy thinking about the stock market, the Mets or sex. 

Henry home and in bed by 4 am always, sleeping till noon, happy he didn’t have to work like the stiffs.