The boardroom on the 88th floor of The Helix was decorated in what interior designers call "power minimalism"—all sleek surfaces, uncomfortable chairs, and a view that reminded everyone present just how far they could fall, which, given the current trajectory of their investment, seemed increasingly likely.
"Gentlemen, ladies," began Walter Kensington III, majority shareholder and chairman of the Helix Investment Group. "We are facing what the youngsters in PR call a 'challenging optics situation.'"
Six other board members sat around the enormous glass table, their reflections looking back at them with the same expressions of barely contained panic. Miranda Chen, head of asset management, tapped furiously on her tablet. Jackson Reynolds, the building's architect, stared moodily out the window at his creation—a building that was supposed to redefine the Manhattan skyline but instead had become a $1.8 billion punchline.
"Challenging optics?" Elliot Blackstone, a hedge fund manager whose voice always sounded like he was gargling with gravel, threw his pen across the table. "Walt, we're hemorrhaging money. We've got religious fanatics camped out in our lobby. The New York Post is calling us 'The Heavenly Helix,' and not in a good way. And now we've got a drunken window washer claiming divine visions on the 47th floor—the exact floor we're about to retrofit because the glass is warping from design flaws!"
"Actually," Reynolds muttered, "the glass is not warping. It's an intentional optical illusion created by the—"
"Can it, Reynolds!" Blackstone snapped. "Your 'intentional optical illusions' are why we can't lease half the building. Tenants get vertigo looking out the windows!"
Walter cleared his throat, his silver hair catching the morning light in a way that his PR team had once described as "trustworthy illumination."
"I believe," he said with practiced calm, "that we may be looking at this situation... incorrectly."
Miranda Chen looked up from her tablet. "The Archdiocese of New York has released a statement saying they 'take all claims of divine apparition seriously' but are 'proceeding with caution.' They've appointed an investigative committee. Their press release actually used the phrase 'alleged miracle at The Helix Tower.'"
"Alleged miracle," repeated Marjorie Williams, the board's oldest member and the only one who remembered the last three real estate crashes firsthand. "Do you know what happened to that sandwich shop in New Jersey where someone saw Jesus in a grilled cheese?"
"They sold the sandwich on eBay for $28,000," offered Raj Patel, their CFO.
"No, after that. The place became a tourist trap. Lines around the block. They're still in business fifteen years later."
Walter Kensington's eyes narrowed, the gears of opportunism turning behind his carefully Botoxed forehead. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Marjorie?"
"What if," said Marjorie, leaning forward, her ancient pearl necklace clacking against the glass table, "our PR problem is actually a PR solution?"
The room fell silent as the implication rippled through the air like expensive cologne.
"You can't be serious," Jackson Reynolds finally managed. "You want to market a divine apparition? In my building?"
"Your building that no one wants to occupy," Blackstone reminded him.
Raj Patel, ever the numbers man, was already calculating. "Religious tourism is a multi-billion dollar industry. Santiago de Compostela... Lourdes... Fatima..."
"The Helix," Walter completed the thought, testing how it sounded. "Manhattan's newest sacred site."
"We'd need the window washer to play along," Miranda pointed out. "What's his name? Macaluso?"
"Paulie Macaluso," confirmed Walter's assistant, Gretchen, who had been silently taking notes. "Age 63, divorced, history of alcoholism, one illegitimate child, suspended from duty pending investigation."
"Perfect!" Marjorie clapped her hands together. "He needs money, we need a miracle. It's what the Japanese call a win-win."
"I believe that term is American, actually," Raj murmured.
"We'll have him go out and meet the public," Walter said, warming to the idea, his voice gaining momentum. "We'll turn the 47th floor into a shrine, with upscale dining and... and priests and nuns as waiters and service people!"
"I'm not sure the clergy typically moonlight in food service," Miranda said.
"Details!" Walter waved her concern away. "We'll hire actors—respectful ones. The point is, we rebrand The Helix from architectural disappointment to spiritual destination!"
Jackson Reynolds looked physically ill. "And what if the Mother of God fails to reappear? What then?"
Elliot Blackstone shrugged his expensively tailored shoulders. "Not a problem. Someone in PR will script the miracles. How difficult can that be? 'Be kind to your neighbor and go shopping.' That's one. 'Thou shall not kill.' That can be another."
"Those aren't miracles; they're commandments," Miranda pointed out.
"We need a real miracle!" Marjorie insisted.
"Water into wine?" suggested Raj. "We could set up a bar on 47."
"Too biblical," Walter said, pacing now. "We need something modern, something... Instagrammable."
"What about healing?" Gretchen offered, surprising everyone by speaking out of turn. "Macaluso touches people, and they're healed of—I don't know—minor ailments? Backaches? Seasonal allergies?"
Walter snapped his fingers. "Brilliant, Gretchen! Subtle enough to be believable, vague enough to be unprovable. We'll stage a few 'spontaneous' healings with actors and then let crowd psychology do the rest."
"This is the most cynical thing I've ever heard," Jackson Reynolds said, but no one was listening to him anymore.
"Someone go get Macaluso and offer him six figures to play along," Walter commanded.
Blackstone pulled out his phone. "I'll have security bring him up. I hear he's downstairs right now, mobbed by his new fans."
"Perfect!" Walter rubbed his hands together. "Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we've just turned the biggest real estate disaster in New York history into its most profitable religious experience!"
Meanwhile, in the plaza outside The Helix, Paulie Macaluso was experiencing something that felt like the opposite of a religious experience.
"THERE HE IS!" someone shouted as Paulie tried to slip inconspicuously through the crowd.
It was like someone had kicked over an anthill. Phone cameras swung in his direction, people pushed forward, and Paulie found himself at the center of a human whirlpool.
"Mr. Macaluso! Did you really see the Virgin Mary?" "Can you heal my cousin's eczema?" "Will you bless my lottery ticket?" "Is it true you predicted the end of the world?"
Paulie, who had hoped to quietly make his way to the 47th floor for one last look at the window, felt his sobriety slipping. He'd managed not to drink that morning—a first in recent memory—and now he was regretting his moment of clarity.
"Look, folks, I just need to—"
"LORD BE PRAISED!"
The cry cut through the crowd like a foghorn, and Paulie turned to see Jasmine Johnson elbowing her way through the throng, dragging young Deshaun by the hand, her enormous hat now adorned with what appeared to be hastily attached religious medals.
"LORD BE PRAISED!" she shouted again, this time directly in Paulie's face. "I saw JESUS that night you gave me Deshaun!” She oozed by his side.
Paulie's face went from pale to crimson. "Jasmine, what the hell are you—"
"HALLELUJAH!" Jasmine continued, playing to the cameras that had turned in her direction. "The father of my child is BLESSED! CHOSEN! A MESSENGER OF THE LORD!"
Deshaun, for his part, looked like he was contemplating running away to join the circus—anything to escape his mother's theatrical conversion.
"Jasmine," Paulie hissed, "yesterday you were telling everyone I don't pay child support!"
"The Lord works in mysterious ways!" Jasmine announced, then whispered fiercely: "So does my lawyer. We're suing you for a percentage of whatever you make off this miracle business."
Before Paulie could respond, Father Domenico appeared at his side, his collar slightly askew, looking like he hadn't slept.
"Paulie! Thank God I found you!"
“Thank you for keeping this on the low down, Dominic!" Paulie growled. "None of this would've happened if you hadn't gone to the press!"
Father Domenico had the grace to look embarrassed. "I only mentioned it to Cardinal Vignelli, who has connections to that family in Staten Island... you know, the ones with interests in construction? They were very curious about the building's... spiritual potential."
"Spiritual potential? I see where this is goin’!"
Father Domenico shifted uncomfortably. "The Church has always had a complex relationship with... er... miracles and their material manifestations."
"I'll give you a material manifestation right upside the—"
Paulie's threat was cut short as two large security guards from The Helix materialized beside him.
"Mr. Macaluso?" said the larger of the two, a man whose neck appeared to be an optional anatomical feature. "The board would like to see you. Immediately."
"The board? What board?"
"The Helix Investment Group. Top floor. Now."
As the guards began to escort him through the crowd, Jasmine shouted, "Don't forget us little people when you're swimming in miracle money, Paulie!"
Father Domenico called after him, "Remember, you're a vessel for divine grace!"
Deshaun, finally breaking his silence, yelled what sounded suspiciously like, "Get that bag, Fake Dad!"
The elevator ride to the 88th floor was silent and swift, Paulie sandwiched between the two security guards like a prisoner being transported to a very expensive jail.
When the doors opened, he was led down a corridor of gleaming white marble into a boardroom, which instantly made him aware of his scuffed shoes and the coffee stain on his shirt.
Seven people in suits worth more than his annual salary turned to look at him. Paulie had the distinct impression of being a specimen under examination.
"Ah, Mr. Macaluso!" The silver-haired man at the head of the table rose and extended his hand. "Walter Kensington. Thank you for joining us."
Paulie didn't take the offered hand. "Didn't know I had a choice."
Walter laughed as if Paulie had said something hilarious. "Please, sit down. We have a proposition that I think will interest you greatly."
Paulie reluctantly sat, feeling the expensive leather chair yield beneath him. The view from the 88th floor made his stomach lurch in a way that hanging from scaffolding never did.
"Mr. Macaluso," Walter continued, his smile never reaching his eyes, "we understand you've had a... spiritual experience at our building."
"Yeah, and I got suspended for it. Thanks for that."
"A misunderstanding," Walter waved dismissively. “We'd like to offer you a new position. One with significantly more... zeroes attached to it."
A woman with a tablet slid a piece of paper across to Paulie. On it was a number that made his eyes widen.
"Six figures?" Paulie looked up, suspicious. "For what?"
"For being our... spiritual ambassador," Walter said as if testing out the title. "The face of The Helix's new direction."
"New direction?"
"Mr. Macaluso," interjected an older woman with pearls, "what would you say if we told you that your vision wasn't an accident but... destiny?"
Paulie looked around the room. "I'd say you're all nuts."
"The Helix," Walter continued undeterred, "will become New York's premiere spiritual destination. The 47th floor—redesigned as 'The Miracle Level'—featuring fine dining, meditation spaces, and weekly appearances by yourself, sharing your experience, perhaps offering comfort or... healing touch to those in need."
Paulie stared at him. "You want me to pretend to be some kinda... holy man?"
"Not pretend, Mr. Macaluso!" Walter looked shocked at the suggestion. "Embrace! Embrace your... divine selection. For a very generous compensation package, of course."
"Plus benefits," added the man with the gravelly voice.
Paulie stood up slowly. "Let me get this straight. Your building's a bust. You can't rent the space. So now you want to use me—and the Holy Mother—to turn it into some kinda religious tourist trap?"
The room fell uncomfortably silent.
"That's... one way of putting it," Walter finally said. "We prefer to think of it as aligning market opportunities with spiritual experiences."
"I'm not doing it," Paulie said flatly. "I don't know what I saw yesterday, but I know it wasn't meant for... this."
Walter's smile disappeared like a summer bonus. "Mr. Macaluso, perhaps you don't understand. This offer isn't just generous—it's final. The alternative is a lawsuit for defamation, for violating your NDA, for trespassing..."
"I said no," Paulie repeated, turning to leave.
With a nod from Walter, the two security guards blocked the door.
"I'm disappointed, Mr. Macaluso," Walter sighed. "I had hoped we could be partners in this venture. But if you insist on being difficult..."
What happened next occurred so efficiently that Paulie barely had time to protest. The security guards grabbed him by the arms, and Walter pressed a button that caused a section of the floor-to-ceiling window to slide open—a feature that definitely violated several building codes.
Before Paulie could fully register what was happening, he was dangling by his ankles outside the 88th floor of The Helix, held by the two security guards while Walter Kensington leaned out casually as if this were a typical negotiation tactic.
"Reconsider our offer, Mr. Macaluso?" Walter asked pleasantly, the wind whipping his perfect hair into slight disarray.
Eighty-eight floors below, the crowd that had been gathered around the building's entrance began to notice the spectacle. Phones tilted upward, recording what appeared to be a man being dangled from the top of The Helix like a human fishing lure.
"YOU'RE INSANE!" Paulie screamed, his voice torn away by the wind.
"Just practical," Walter corrected. "Now, about our arrangement..."
As the blood rushed to his head, Paulie had a moment of perfect clarity—the kind that comes only in moments of extreme terror or profound revelation. The Helix spiraled below him, its curved glass catching the morning sun, and for a split second, Paulie saw what might have been a reflection in every window: the same face he'd seen before, the Holy Mother, looking up at him with infinite compassion and... was that a wink?
Walter called back. "Mr. Macaluso, have we reached an understanding?"
Dangling upside down, with blood pounding in his ears and the strange certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be, Paulie Macaluso made his decision.
"Go to hell, Kensington! I'll tell you what the Holy Mother told me, and it wasn't about turning her into a damn sideshow!"
Below, the crowd had grown, voices rising in alarm, sirens beginning to wail in the distance.
Walter's smile tightened. "And what, pray tell, was her message?"
Paulie Macaluso, window washer, alcoholic, deadbeat dad, and the most unlikely divine messenger in the history of New York City, smiled for the first time in what felt like years.
"Pull me up and I'll tell you. But you're not gonna like it."
They pulled Paulie back inside, his face the color of overripe tomatoes, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. The boardroom erupted into chaos—Miranda frantically checking social media as videos of the dangling window washer went viral, Jackson Reynolds appearing to suffer a panic attack in the corner, and Elliot Blackstone shouting about "unprecedented liability exposure."
Walter Kensington, however, maintained the eerie calm of a predator waiting for wounded prey to exhaust itself.
"Well, Mr. Macaluso?" he asked once Paulie had been deposited unceremoniously into a chair. "You were about to share the Holy Mother's message with us?"
Paulie's head was still spinning, but a strange clarity had settled over him—the kind that sometimes comes after narrowly avoiding death or, in his case, being used as human bait from the 88th floor.
"She told me," Paulie said, his voice steadier than he felt, "that this building is an abomination."
Walter's smile flickered. "I beg your pardon?"
"An abomination," Paulie repeated, the words flowing from somewhere beyond his conscious mind. "Built on greed, designed for vanity, standing as a monument to everything that's wrong with this city. She said it needs to come down."
The room fell silent.
"That's... not the message we were hoping for," Walter finally managed.
"Sorry to disappoint," Paulie shrugged. "But that's what she said. Three messages, three miracles. First message: The Helix has to come down. As for the miracles and the other messages, I guess we'll have to wait and see. Now, if you gentlemen and ladies don't mind, I'd like to go home before you decide to throw me off the roof for real."
Walter Kensington exchanged glances with his fellow board members. The calculation was obvious: a man claiming the Virgin Mary wanted their $1.8 billion investment demolished wasn't exactly the spiritual ambassador they had in mind.
"Security will escort you out," Walter said coldly. "And Mr. Macaluso? We'll be watching you very closely."
end of part three
© Michael Arturo, 2025
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Michael Arturo writes fiction, 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.
