The story was buried on page eleven of the New York Post, but it spread faster than a Queens fire on a windy day. By noon, it had jumped from social media to the local news, and by three o'clock, the headline "WINDOW WASHER SEES VIRGIN MARY IN MANHATTAN SKYSCRAPER" was flashing across the bottom of CNN.
Paulie Macaluso, who had spent his entire professional life trying to be invisible while dangling eighty stories above Manhattan, was suddenly the most visible man in New York.
"This man ain't no Jesus! He don't even pay no child support!" Jasmine Johnson's voice cut through the crowd gathered at the base of The Helix, her finger pointing accusingly at the tower as if Paulie might be watching from above. "Tell me, what kind of man has a vision of the Holy Mother and is a low-down mother himself?!"
Next to her stood Deshaun, their seven-year-old son, who looked bored and confused by the proceedings but perked up whenever a news camera swung in their direction.
"That's right! This deadbeat b***h owes me eighteen thousand dollars in back support! You want a miracle? Try getting that money out of him!" Jasmine had dressed for the occasion in her Sunday best, complete with a hat that could have doubled as a satellite dish, her voice projecting like she was auditioning for a Broadway musical instead of creating a scene outside a half-empty skyscraper.
Father Domenico, who stood nearby leading a hastily assembled prayer circle of thirty-seven worshippers (most of whom had never attended his church before this morning), winced every time Jasmine opened her mouth. This was not how he had envisioned the miracle spreading.
"Let us pray for Brother Paul in his hour of trial," Father Domenico intoned, struggling to be heard above Jasmine's continuing character assassination and the growing crowd of rubberneckers.
"Pray for his wallet to open! Pray for him to remember he's got a son!" Jasmine shouted back.
Miguel, who had taken a personal day to witness the circus, sidled up to a reporter from NYC Action News. "I can tell you this—Macaluso's been seeing things for years. Usually, pink elephants, if you know what I mean."
Social media was no kinder:
"Convenient timing for a 'miracle' at NYC's biggest real estate disaster #Helix #MiracleinMidtown"
"Window cleaner sees Virgin Mary... after 'cleaning' with José Cuervo #DrunkMiracle"
"Anyone check this guy's history? Probably trying to cash in. #ScamInTheSky"
By mid-afternoon, a peculiar assortment of humanity had gathered at The Helix's plaza. There were the devoutly religious, clutching rosaries and prayer cards. There were the cynically curious smartphones raised to capture any stray moments of notoriety. At least four individuals claimed to be representatives of various television producers, each promising Paulie (who wasn't there) exclusive deals for his "miraculous story."
NYC ACTION NEWS: “It’s part pilgrimage, part protest, part street fair down here at The Helix. While all denominations are represented, we do know of at least two Jesus and one Anthony Bourdain imitator arrested by NYPD for public disruption! Let’s break it down for you—some are calling it divine. Until all the facts are in—a Mother of God sighting must be taken seriously. Others? Well … this could be a publicity stunt. Father Domenico, affectionately known as the patron Saint of Organized Crime, says it’s real. Paulie Macaluso, the delusional drunk, has a history of fabricating whatever he can to get out of whatever trouble he’s in. And then there’s Jasmine Johnson and her abandoned son, Deshaun. They want their piece of flesh! Things have taken on a life of their own at The Helix this afternoon as the crowd awaits the return of whatever Heavenly vision the Holy Mother has in store for us today. Back to you in the studio.”
There were also three psychics offering to "channel" the Virgin's message (for a modest fee), a man selling hastily printed T-shirts with "I SAW THE VIRGIN AT THE HELIX AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT," and a woman with a petition demanding that The Helix be designated a religious landmark.
The building's security team, overwhelmed and underprepared, had established a perimeter with flimsy portable barriers that looked ready to collapse from the sheer weight of public curiosity.
The Helix's owners—a consortium of investors already hemorrhaging money on the troubled project—issued a terse statement through their spokesperson, an aggressively cheerful woman named Brittany who looked like she might shatter from the strain of maintaining her smile:
"We are aware of the alleged incident and remind the public that The Helix remains private property. The scheduled maintenance of the building's façade will continue as planned."
When asked if the building would allow independent verification of the supposedly miraculous window, Brittany's smile tightened to the point of facial paralysis. "We have no further comment at this time."
"What about the window? Are you replacing it?" shouted a reporter from the back.
"As previously stated, the scheduled maintenance will continue as planned." Her smile remained frozen while her eyes seemed to be sending distress signals in Morse code.
Meanwhile, Paulie Macaluso read none of this. He had been suspended pending an investigation into his "unauthorized statements to the press"—though he had spoken to no reporters, only to Father Domenico, who apparently had the discretion of a Times Square hawker.
His boss, Vincent Calabrese, had left two voicemails, each more threatening than the last:
"Macaluso, you better not be using this holy roller crap to get workers' comp or some kinda lawsuit going! You signed an NDA when you took this job! No talking about the building's defects!"
And later: "My lawyer says if you're using some religious angle to get around the NDA, we can still sue your ass back to the Stone Age! Call me back, goddammit!"
Paulie's apartment in Queens felt smaller than usual that night, the walls closing in as he paced from kitchen to bedroom to living room, ignoring the buzzing of his phone. Adriana had texted three times, asking if he was the "crazy window guy" everyone was talking about. Sofia from his building had slipped a note under his door asking if he wanted to "talk about his experience" over dinner.
The bottle of Jameson on his counter seemed to be the only thing that made sense. Paulie grabbed it by the neck like an old friend and twisted off the cap.
"Some miracle worker I am," he muttered, taking a swig directly from the bottle. "Can't even keep my job."
His phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from a number he didn't recognize:
Text: Mr. Macaluso, this is Evan Hirsch from Golden Hour Productions. We're interested in your exclusive story for our new series "American Visions." We can offer a significant advance. Please call at your earliest convenience.
Before he could toss the phone aside, it buzzed again:
Text: Paulie, it's Miguel. They're replacing the window on 47 tomorrow morning. Just thought you should know.
Paulie took another pull from the bottle. Outside his window, a police siren wailed, and somewhere down the block, a car alarm joined the chorus. The soundtrack of Queens on an average Tuesday night, oblivious to visions of the divine or the absurdity of a washed-up, alcoholic window cleaner being chosen as a messenger from God.
He looked down at his hands—calloused, scarred, and trembling. These were not the hands of a miracle worker. These were the hands that had pushed Celia away, that had failed to support a son, that reached more reliably for a bottle than for redemption.
The Holy Mother had made a cosmic clerical error. She had chosen the wrong man.
And yet...
He couldn't shake the image of her face in the glass, her sadness, her purpose. The certainty that she had chosen him specifically. Despite everything, despite his failures, despite his unworthiness.
Paulie set down the bottle. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. He needed to see it again if they were replacing the window tomorrow. He needed to know if the miracle was real or just another delusion in a lifetime of self-deception.
As he stepped into the hallway, he nearly collided with Mrs. Petrovich from 4B, who clutched her rosary and gasped at seeing him.
"Mr. Macaluso! I saw you on the television! Is it true? Did you see Her?"
Paulie hesitated, suddenly aware of how this simple question would define whatever came next. Finally, he nodded, his voice rough with whiskey and emotion.
"Yes, Mrs. Petrovich. I saw Her. Now I gotta see Her again before they take that window down."
Mrs. Petrovich crossed herself and smiled. "Then I will pray for you, Mr. Macaluso. God doesn't choose the qualified. He qualifies the chosen."
Paulie wanted to tell her that if that were God's plan, He would need a lot of qualifications for someone like Paulie Macaluso. Instead, he nodded again and headed for the stairs, stepping into the night and toward an uncertain destiny that awaited him in Midtown Manhattan.
Behind him, Mrs. Petrovich was already on her phone, speaking rapid-fire Russian, no doubt spreading the word that she had just met the miracle man himself. By the time Paulie reached The Helix, the crowd had doubled, with the faithful and the skeptical gathering to witness divine intervention or human folly.
Or maybe, just maybe, a little of both.
end of part two
© Michael Arturo, 2025
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JAN 24
Welcome to Michael’s Newsletter. Writer of contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.
Michael also writes short literary fiction. Below is a link to his first collection.
