by Alan Handley
Everything in the place—the walls, the counter, the price list for “Baths, Massages, Sleeping Accom.” wired to the fencing, even to the man with the magazine—had a film of moisture. Beads of water were forming on the low ceiling and splattering to the linoleum floor in regular pats. The air was warm and humid and was a mixture of familiar smells: sweat and soap and alcohol and liniment. I leaned against the counter watching the man staring at the magazine and wondered what to do.
There was a pay phone on the wall by the cash register, but if I called the police what could I tell them? As far as I could tell no bones had been broken and nothing stolen. I could call a cab, but by the time it came and I got back to the Casbah it would be almost five o’clock. Right now all I wanted in life was to lie down and sleep for a while and not have to make any effort or decisions. I needed a bath and my clothes cleaned but most of all I needed sleep. I pounded on the counter. The T-shirt sat up and his chair fell on its front legs. He peered at me. I hadn’t seen my face but from his expression it must have been something.
“Jeez, buddy. What hit you?” He didn’t get up. Just stared at me.
“I had an accident. What about a room?”
“You look bad, buddy. You ought to see the doc.”
“I’m all right. Have you got a room or not?” He got up and walked over to the counter window, keeping his place in the magazine with a spongy-looking finger. He wasn’t very tall. The overhead light threw shadows under his eyes and nose and emphasized his thinning hair.
“What’d you say? I’m kind of hard of hearing.” I shouted my question at him twice before he got it. “Yeah. No room though. Beds. Dormitory-type, see.”
“I need a shower, too, and can you do something about my clothes?”
“How long you gonna sleep?” I figured if I slept till nine I’d have time to get back to the Casbah and change before rehearsal. I told him I wanted a call at nine. “Okay. I can get ’em fixed up pretty good at the Greek’s next door in the morning.” I sneezed.
“Can I get a rubdown now?”
“No rubber at night. In the morning. Eight o’clock. Just leave your stuff out back. I’ll pick it up.” He grabbed a towel and a small cake of soap and slapped them down on the counter. He pointed to a door at the end of the hall. “Through there.”
I took the soap and towel and started for the door. Then I remembered my Samaritan friend. I’d been so busy with my own problems that I’d completely forgotten about him. Fine thing. When people go to all that trouble and you just stand there with your back to them and don’t even thank them.
“Did you see where my friend went?” I asked the basket man. I had to shout that a couple of times, too.
“I didn’t see nobody, buddy. You come in alone.”
“But he helped me in here. He was standing right there. You must have seen him.”
“Hit the showers, buddy. You’re getting those little men and that’s bad.” I suppose I should have chased my friend down the street to thank him, but I wasn’t up to chasing anything. I guess some people are just nicer than other people. He didn’t wait to be thanked. Now me, if I should so much as give my seat to a lady in the subway, I’d half expect to be remembered in her will, but this guy practically carries me God knows how far, gets himself all dirty from my puke and then doesn’t even wait to be thanked. Yes, I guess some people are just nicer than other people.
I took my soap and towel and went through the door at the end of the hall, down another narrow hall and door and into a fair-size room. On the opposite side was a swinging half door going into a shower room. Next to it was a steam room sprouting hissing pipes. The pane of glass in the middle of the door was clouded over. Another opening led to the room with the beds, dormitory-type, see. More green-shaded drop lights hung over a couple of rubbing tables and the worn greasy leather tops shone in the glare. An electric cabinet that had once been white was against the wall between the rubbing tables. The walls and ceiling were sheeted with elaborately embossed metal and had been painted white, but at all the corners and nail heads, rust had bled through and mottled the white with orange. A few wooden arm chairs, benches and white tables did the rest of the furnishings. On one of the long benches outside the dormitory, two naked men were putting on their shoes. I sagged into the nearest chair and sat there, too tired to begin getting undressed. Just staring at the floor.
Through the soft hissing of the pipes I heard a faint tinkle and for some reason it reminded me of the army. For a moment I half thought I was back in the army…in a hospital waiting to see the doctor…everything was going to be all right…I’d be put in a warm bed and sleep and sleep and nurses would be nice to me and no one would try to kill me anymore and I’d have a dark red bathrobe at the foot of my bed…and there was that tinkle that started all this…and it was coming from the direction of the two men. I rolled my head around and looked at them. After I got my eyes focused I could see that they were both fairly young with fish-white skins except for the faces, necks and hands, which were sunburned, leaving a sharp dividing line at the throat and wrists. The bigger one also looked older and had a reddish appendectomy scar like a monstrous centipede crawling toward his crotch. There was also a tiny light flickering on his chest and that was what was making the familiar tinkle. He was wearing a soldier’s dogtags. As he bent over to fasten his shoes, the dogtags would jingle and flash. The metal necklace shone, too. I remembered when they made us change from the cloth tape and plastic necklaces they used to issue to the metal kind. Right after the Coconut Grove fire—so you could be sure and not get the bodies mixed up. How would they have identified me if I’d been killed in the alley? That was a stupid thought…I still had my billfold. In Normandy we’d cut slices out of corrugated German gas mask tubes for binding around the edges of the dogtags so the tinkle wouldn’t give you away on patrol—no need for that anymore. They had both finished putting on their shoes and were stamping about in their combat boots. Those things were so big your legs always looked puny in them…. They were both soldiers then…. Why is it that soldiers always put their shoes on first? Now they were putting on underwear—olive drab…Do they still issue olive drab?…No need for camouflage now…. Don’t they know the war’s over? As they lifted their pants out of the little wire baskets the one with the dogtags noticed me and called to me. It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying…the warmth…the not lying dead in an alley.
“Hey, Mac. Got the time?” I didn’t have the energy to answer. He walked over to me buttoning his fly. Then he saw my face. “What hit you, Mac?” He couldn’t be more than twenty.
“Accident,” I mumbled.
“You can say that again, Mac. Hey, Lou, get a load of this guy.” Lou came over struggling into his shirt. He whistled when he got a close-up, too. Then he laughed.
“You oughta see the other guy, huh, Mac?”
“Yeah.” I tried to smile but my face was too puffed and sore.
“What time did you say it was?” I held out my wrist and they looked at my watch. “Four-fifteen. Hey, Lou, get the lead out. That bus leaves in half an hour.” He clumped back to his basket. But Lou was fascinated with the condition of my face.
“How’d you do it, Mac? Fight?”
“Sort of.”
“Where?” Before I could answer him a hulk of a man appeared at his side and shouldered him out of the way. I couldn’t see his face, but his huge sloping shoulders seemed to be bursting out of a white underwear shirt. The light behind him through patches of fur formed an aura around his arms and shoulders that made him look even bigger. He had on soiled ducks and sneakers like the basket man. Lou glared at him, but the sheer massiveness of the guy quickly overcame any ideas Lou may have had of taking a poke at him for shouldering him out of the way. Lou went back to his dressing grumbling. The rubber picked me up like a dummy and propped me against the wall and started to take off my clothes. He was evidently used to drunks, which he must have assumed I was, because he was very efficient.
>
“The guy outside said he’d get these fixed up by morning,” I said as he threw my clothes in a chair. He pulled off my shoes and socks as if I were a baby and then kicked a pair of wooden clogs out from under a bench and jerked his head at the showers. I slipped on the clogs, picked up the soap and towel and scuffled across the room to the showers. He followed me. His rubber soles made no noise on the linoleum.
The shower room had a row of small individual shower stalls and one gig stall for the hose. Standing under the rushing hot water felt wonderful. The rubber stood outside watching me, apparently to see that I didn’t fall over. I examined as much of my body as I could see. There wasn’t a mirror around. As far as I could make out, it didn’t look as bad as I had expected. Bruises were starting. My face stung a little, but not too much, and there didn’t seem to be any blood. I just stood under the roaring water soaking in the heat until my fingers started to shrivel. When I came out drying myself, the soldiers were still dressing. The rubber took a sheet from the cabinet and spread it on the table, then sat on a corner of it with his tree-trunk arms folded, waiting for me. The light was on his face. He’d have to have been a third-rate prizefighter for a good many years to get a face as cut up as that. One of his ears, the nearest to the light, had a cauliflower tinge. His nose was pushed in and there was a white line running from it to the top of his lips where it had once been split. It twisted his mouth like a harelip. He was, all in all, about as tough-looking a customer as I have ever seen. His puffy eyes stared at my face. I must look bad, I thought. As I came over he got up from the table and I stretched out on my stomach.
“Take it easy,” I said. “I’m not feeling so good.” He didn’t say anything but poured some oil on my back and started rubbing. He knew his job and the long heavy strokes of those hands pushed away the soreness. I tried to think about what had happened, but the strokes began to get monotonous and I started to drift off. A slap on the buttock brought me back and indicated that I was to turn over.
I turned over and closed my eyes again. He’d finished with my chest and stomach and arms and legs and was standing at the head of the table working on my neck. That was still the sorest from the rabbit-punch. For some reason I began to think about Life Savers…. That struck me as a funny thing to be thinking about and I wondered why I should have thought of that. Then I remembered vaguely that I had wakened myself up in the alley saying it over and over again. The rubber’s hands were moving slowly on the back of my neck. The fingers probing into the soreness—gently, for such an ox. My head was pressed into his stomach as he would pull my neck toward him. The oil he was using reminded me of football and basketball games when I was in school. It was cool…a nice smell, a relaxing smell…back and forth went his hands on my neck. I felt myself dozing off again…almost purring…The smell reminded me of something else, too. Something I couldn’t quite remember with the smooth rhythm of his fingers on my neck. It was the smell of something like…Life Savers—and suddenly my eyes flew open. Upside down over me was the rubber’s face, his puffy slits of eyes fixed on mine…watching them. I’d awoken mumbling “Life Saver” after being slammed in the face with a hand…. And the hand had smelled like…Life Savers.
The fingers on my neck were no longer soothing. I was conscious of them now as part of a hand, a hand that could be like a brick. The eyes were still staring down at me. I could see the hairs in his nose and the long, healed cuts over his eyes. I wasn’t sleepy anymore. I began to get panicky. If this was the same guy—! Lying stark naked on a slab with him fingering my neck was as good a time as any to get panicky. I sat up and swung around till my feet were touching the floor. He made no effort to stop me, but he kept one huge hand on my shoulder. Maybe it was my imagination but it looked as though the packs of muscles in his shoulders were getting ready for something. He just stood there and looked at me. The cracks of his eyes glittered.
“Okay, I feel better now. That’ll be all. I’ll be going.” I started to stand up. The hand on my shoulder didn’t give and I couldn’t budge.
“You got alcohol coming.” Those were the first words he had spoken. It might have been the same voice that said, “Hold it. Someone’s coming.” I couldn’t be sure. All I could be sure of was that I wanted to get the hell out of this place now. The room seemed even hotter and the glistening walls felt as though they were moving nearer. It was an effort to breathe. Sweat started running from my armpits down the side of my body.
“Never mind the alcohol,” I said. “I’m going.” He took a step toward me. I couldn’t hear his feet on the floor. He just moved next to me. Panic started squirting up in my throat. I fought it back. I wasn’t alone in an alley, this time—what was I being so chicken about? The two soldiers dressing on the other side of the room would make three against one—that was enough for even Jo-Jo, the dog-faced boy. God bless the army. Uncle Tim needs you…. Of course! But Jo-Jo was one thought ahead of me. My yell didn’t even get a good start around the paw that was slapped over my mouth and before I knew what was happening I was flipped neatly over on my stomach and both my wrists clamped in one of his hands behind my back and being forced up toward the back of my head. I tried to bite the hand over my mouth but my teeth slipped on the grease. I tried thrashing from side to side, but he pinned me down the rest of the way with his chest. One of the soldiers must have heard part of my yell or saw me kicking my feet, the only part of me still free.
“What’s eatin’ ya, Mac?” he called over. The stupid son of a bitch. Why didn’t he come over and find out what was eating Mac?
“Just goosey,” said the rubber. His mouth was next to my ear and I knew now. It was the voice of my good Samaritan who had suggested the Turkish bath in the first place. The soldiers thought his remark was very, very funny. Just to make sure I couldn’t attract their attention again, the rubber pinched my nose together with his thumb and forefinger till I couldn’t even kick anymore.
The soldiers must have finished dressing. Even through the pounding in my ears I could hear them call good-night to the rubber and me and stomp out. Only the rubber could answer. When a door slammed, he unpinched my nose and let me breathe again. In the distance I could hear the sound of a cash register and then a muffled door slam and then…quiet…except for the hissing of pipes and my struggle for breath. Still holding my arms behind my back and his hand over my mouth, the rubber straightened up. He made a noise like a chuckle.
“You need some steam,” he said. “Good for you. Sober you up.” He jerked me to my feet. I tried to kick him, but I slipped on the wet floor. He jolted me upright with a knee in my back. Slowly he pushed me toward the steam room. I tried hooking my leg around a table but he yanked me loose. He kicked open the door to the steam room and threw me in. I bounced on a wall and crashed on a bench. He slammed the door. I rushed at it but he had locked it and was standing with his back covering the window, I tried to grab one of the benches, but it was bolted to the floor. I hammered on the door. It was so hot when I touched it I could feel my skin burn. I tried kicking but my bare feet wouldn’t budge it. I yelled and the back disappeared from the door glass. I groped around the walls frantically searching for something I could use as a weapon or to break the glass. Suddenly my hand was caught in a loop of chain which swung my arm against a scalding pipe. I tugged my arm away and the chain broke and something tinkled to the floor. The familiar tinkle of dogtags. They were at least something. Maybe I could pry the lock with them. I fumbled around on the floor for them but they had fallen into a mass of steam pipes and I only burned myself more before I had to give up trying to find them.
All at once I noticed that there was more steam and the room was getting hotter. The hissing that had been faint at first got louder and louder. I could no longer see the square light in the door. Almost-boiling water started leaking out on the floor from somewhere and I had to keep jumping from one foot to the other. I pounded on the door again and screamed, but the steam got in my lungs and I ended up in a croak. I couldn’t eve
n sit on a bench—it was red hot. I burned my hands again trying to find a cut-off switch to the steam inlet as none of the knobs I found would turn. So this was how it was going to happen to me…This was the one that had my name on it—and it wouldn’t even be my name when they found me but the name on the dogtags I couldn’t find in the pipes. I crouched by the door on all fours holding my head as near the floor as I could get it. The heat came lower and lower. The steam was like molten steel clogging up my nose…sliding down my throat. I crouched gasping for breath…waiting…waiting until the cloud of steam would swallow me completely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SOMEONE WAS SLAPPING my face. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I didn’t want to face what was going to happen next.
“Hey, Mac,” said a voice. “Hey, Mac, snap out of it.” The slapping got harder. I opened my eyes. A soldier was slapping my face. It was the one with the dogtags. “He’s coming out of it now.” The face of Lou, the other soldier, bent down over me.
“You want to be careful, Mac,” he said. “You could have been hurt bad.”
“A damn fool thing to do,” said the first soldier. “You oughtn’t to fall asleep in a steam room. It ain’t healthy.”
“He tried to kill me,” I said.
“Who tried to kill you, Mac?”
“That rubber. He locked me in that room. He tried to kill me.”
“Look, Mac, you wasn’t locked in no room. The door wasn’t locked. Was it, Lou?”
“Hell, no. The guy’s screwy.” I tried to sit up and fell back down again. The two of them helped me to a sitting position. I was back on the rubbing slab. I looked at the door of the steam room. It was wide open and clouds of steam were billowing out.