The 11th Floor

by Barbara Huntley-Smith

Suddenly, there was the sound of a key in the lock, the voice behind the door saying; “Sorry, we forgot that you were still here.” Those words jarred me back to reality. There I was in the lowest level of the court house complex, in a darkly lit room, with gray walls mimicking the plight of all its visitors; adorned with strategically located brown wooden benches. In this depressing setting, overwhelmed by the events of the day, I had fallen asleep, my eyes caked with tears.... unexplained tears. The voice was that of the Officer assigned to discharge those prisoners who have been sentenced in cases heard that day. In my case, the sentence was “Freed.” Slowly I arose from my hard wooden bench, and made my way outside.

The smell of wet earth from fresh fallen rain and gray skies, as gray as the walls which surrounded me all day, greeted my tired unkempt body as I made my way to the bus stop. At the bus stop I became aware that I had no money for the fare. An older woman also waiting for the bus, began an exchange with me. “Where are you going? she asked; “Evanston,” I remarked. “These buses are so slow in coming,” she continued. Then out of the corner of my eye, I observed a White Suburban van, its driver frantically waving toward us. I remarked to the woman, “I believe there is someone trying to get your attention! She said; “O! that is my goddaughter, she is going into Evanston, she will take us both there. We boarded the van and during that ride,I reflected on the events that brought me to this place.

It was an unusually warm Autumn Sunday afternoon, I remembered standing at the oversized window on the Eleventh floor of the Holiday Inn Hotel, gazing out at the dramatic splendor of vivid colors of yellow, orange, red, and dazzling shades of blues, as the sun brilliantly took its position in the morning sky. .

Eleven days ago I was homeless in a new town, unsure of my purpose, but was able to obtain sleeping accommodations at it’s only homeless shelter. Feeling secure, I would now seek to engage myself in my routine when in a new area. Returning to the shelter that evening, I was informed that there had been an error, I could not remain there any longer, not even

for that night. Bewildered, I stood with my bags as if seeking divine intervention.

Standing there, I noticed a black compact car. Its blackness seem to speak to my dilemma. I began a one-sided monologue with this car. “Who is your owner?” “Are you going to be taking me home with you?” In the heat of my monologue, a man and woman walked toward the car, then abruptly stopped, and inquired of me; “Were you put out?” “Yes” I replied, “Do You have a place to stay?” they chimed in unison, “No!” I responded. They huddled together, then turned to me and said, “My Cousin lives upstairs, she is the caretaker of the property, she may be able to give you a place to stay tonight.

Entering the dimly lit living-room where the family was gathered, my eyes downcast like a child lost in a store, I said, “hello my name is Barbara.” Immediately a woman gasped, “my Lord she is Jamaican,” to which I concurred. “What has happened to you my dear?” That statement is so cultural, that had it not been for the fact that I truly needed a place for my bags, I would have left right then. It was for good for me that I remained silent and allowed the moment to pass, because her next words were, “my dear whatever it is that has brought you to us I will try my best to help you,” in the same breath she asked, “are you hungry?” “Yes” I replied, in minutes I was feasting on a delicious sandwich with some refreshing fruit juices.

After the meal, she reminded me that she could only provide a night’s stay as she was accountable to the Proprietors. While the conversation was in progress I noticed that there were five young men in the room, my first thought was they were visitors, but would soon understand why my host was so adamant on my staying one night, these young men were her sons. My two rescuers now gone, but before leaving had offered me advice, and dollars for the next day’s meal. As bedtime approached, I was taken across a small hallway to a door which after it was opened, revealed my true resting place for the night.

The room was dark, the only light was the reflection from the street light which streamed through it’s only window. In the middle of the floor were several paint containers large and small, recognizable by the odor which greeted me. A ladder extended to the ceiling formed the central decor of my abode. Emersed in thought of my new accommodation, as if to interrupt my thoughts, my host said apologetically, “this is all I can offer you tonight,” as she handed me a blanket, sheet and a pillow. Sleep came quickly. The instructions I received at bedtime, was the motivation for my being up at the sound of dawn. “I should be the first to use the bathroom,

have things properly stored in the room, then I could enter the kitchen where my host would be.” It was our moment to discuss this cultural perception. It is perceived among some Jamaicans,that being in the United States with all the privileges available, it would be a disgrace to be homeless. The implications were, “my situation was all my fault.”

After explaining my purpose as I saw it then, she relented and with a wave of her hand intimated that she understood. She made me lunch, reminded me that my bags can only be stored there for a day and I left. It was a half a mile or less to the Lake, the sun was not yet up on this cool crisp Fall morning, so I began walking in that direction. Arriving at the Lake, the sun was just splitting the horizon where the expanse of the Lake and the sky seem to become one. I found a large rock and sat there drinking in this perfection of gold, and blue, as the first hot rays of the rising sun hit my face; my eyes seem unworthy of beholding such radiance. Hours passed, the sun now high in the sky as students began passing by, on their way to the university, all having a planned day but me. Having pondered my morning, I began walking to the center of town and was startled when I saw the numbers of my former home address 1717 above a Church.

It was Wednesday, therefore I thought this was a direct invitation to attend that church. Having had many unexplained situations happened on my journey this was rather a tame conjecture. At six o clock, I was present at the church. As the meeting progressed I scanned the audience looking for that person who would be my guide to the next stage of this odessy, there was nothing. Leaving the church my thoughts were mixed. I was quite sure that something would happen in my favor. Walking, and thinking that I had made the promise to my now former host to come and retrieve my bags, now what am I going to do.

As these thoughts were being turned over in my mind, a big white Caddillac stopped at my side. Looking at this car the passenger’s window began to roll down, and the driver franticly motioning me to come closer. The driver was an older Black Woman. Leaning toward the passenger side she asked: “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” I cannot remember a time when I gave my life situation in two minutes flat. Then there was a click, as she motion me into the car saying, “honey you need to be in the Holiday Inn tonight.” I gave her directions to the house where my bags were being kept, and we were off.

The Caddillac came to a stop at the very spot I had that one-way monologue with that other black car. alighting from the car I raced up the

flight of stairs leading to the front door of my former host. The door opened and she greeted me with concern, but I was able to put her fears to rest pointing to the woman waiting to take me to the Holiday Inn. The Young men took my bags and escorted me to the waiting car. My bags safely inside the trunk of the car, we drove around the next block to the Holiday Inn. The Bellhop and my Good Samaritan took my bags into the hotel and deposited them at my feet, as the woman went to the registration desk. The Bellhop got his instructions and was off, while I was given specific instructions by my Good Samaritan. “Do not leave until I come to get you, I want to hear more of this amazing life you’ve been experiencing,” and then she was off.

Morning came and I waited for the call telling me she was on her way, but the call which came was from the desk, informing me to come and have my computerized door key updated. I was surprised, but thought she was truly a God-send, and wanted to help me another day. This situation continued for eleven days.

It is now Sunday the eleventh day of my stay on the eleventh floor in room eleven -o- one. It’s six o clock in the evening, oddly enough I was not called to update my key that day at the appropriate time, which I had thought was an oversight, when the call came. On the elevator ride down I felt in every fiber of my being that I was in for something but not in my grandest imagination could I have seen myself being interrogated by two of the city’s detectives. Of course true to her word “do not leave until I come again,” my Good Samaritan was present. I was taken to the Police Station and charged with “defrauding the Inn-keeper”

The following morning a rainy dark day, with peals of thunder which seem to burst through the thick darkness of the sky; as flashes of fierce, frightening lightening greeted me. Semi-handcuffed, two Police Officers tried to ease my fears, as I was driven to my court hearing.