The President's Hero

By Louis V. Rohr

Jack Malloy, former All American football player from Notre Dame and a running back for the New York Jets, becomes a bum when his football days are over. His classmate, Sam Shalom, becomes the president of the United States. As president Shalom is concerned with the high cost of incarcerating prisoners. He plans to use an abandoned Naval base in the South Pacific to determine if 500 prisoners can support themselves. He needs someone to represent him on the island. The individual must be courageous, strong, likeable, and a bit crazy. He thinks of Jack Malloy. The FBI finds Jack in jail with a bunch of drunks. Jack is brought to Washington D.C. where he meets the first lady and falls in love with her. Jacks mind rebels at the idea of coping with hundreds of hardened criminals on an isolated island, but hes desperate for work, needs food, and a place to live.
Moreover, he wants to get as far away as possible from the first lady. Hes a drunk but he doesnt want to make a fool of himself. He agrees to help the President and join the criminals on the island.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491724958

Louis V. Rohr

Louis V. Rohr was born in Atlantic City, New Jersey. He was a student of philosophy, a WWII Marine Corps Sergeant, a graduate of both St. John’s University and New York University, an accountant for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, and a perennial writing student in New York. He now lives in Naples, Florida.

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The President’s Hero

Louis V. Rohr

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

The President’s Hero

Copyright © 2014 Louis V. Rohr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2494-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2495-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014903019

iUniverse rev. date: 03/04/2014

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

To my sister Kit,

better known as Katherine Rohr

CHAPTER 1

Sam Shalom and Jack Malloy were classmates at Notre Dame University. They graduated on the same day. In less than twenty years, Sam became an efficient and highly regarded President of the United States. Jack became an inefficient and poorly regarded janitor of a sleazy, side-avenue hotel in New York City.

With the same educational opportunities, how did one man become a President while his classmate became a janitor? I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. The question was important to me. Why? I’m Jack Malloy, the one who became the janitor of the sleazy hotel.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never been jealous of Sam Shalom. I loved the guy, saw him frequently on television, followed his career with great interest, but I couldn’t avoid wondering why he was so successful after college while I was such a flop. I didn’t always rank behinds him. When we were at Notre Dame, I was an All American football player, received pats on the back from students, publicity, and hot co-eds screamed my name at every game. Sam Shalom was ignored; he was just one of the many students at the university, but an outstanding student, I might add.

My success as a football player continued after college. I signed a contract with the New York Jets, received a fabulous salary for playing a game I loved. But ten years of professional football wasn’t all fun. A back injury required me to give up football. Thought I’d play it smart, get a job as a coach. Coaching jobs were hard to find. The men coaching were stimulated by football, motivated by the enormous salaries they received, lived long lives. They continued working until they were carried off the field. Even senility didn’t force them into retirement. As long as they could produce winning teams, they continued to coach.

Where could I find work? Newspaper ads and employment agencies proved fruitless. I knew nothing but football. Perhaps one out of a multitude of fans who once praised me would help me find work. But where could I find the fan that’d steer me into a decent job. A tavern in New York City aptly named The New Yorker came to mind. The tavern was a great place for Jet players and fans to get together, celebrate a victory. I recalled going into the tavern one night after scoring the winning touchdown in a big game. The patrons stood and applauded me. I felt important that night, proud of my accomplishments.

When looking for a job contact four years later, I felt neither proud nor important entering the same tavern. The tavern was brilliantly lit and crowded with noisy patrons. None of the patrons applauded me. No one recognized me, except two strangers who made their way through the crowd and stood close to me. Standing at the bar, drinking a double whiskey, I observed them through a mirror.

One of the men, short and balding with a chubby face started to put his hand on my shoulder. Before touching me, he quickly withdrew his hand. His face turned red.

You’re Jack Malloy, aren’t you? the second man asked in a clear, cultured voice.

I turned and faced the man. He was tall and thin with raven-black hair and a finger-sized mustache, groomed to perfection. Both he and his companion looked successful, important.

They made me feel important. Yes, I’m Jack Malloy.

The man spoke enthusiastically. I’m Al Bixby and this is my cousin, Jim Bixby. We want to introduce ourselves, have a drink with you. We’re old football fans of yours. We’ve seen every game you’ve played.

I could go on and relate how Al and Jim pumped me up with pride, promised me a high paying position, started me drinking heavily, and then swindled me out of my savings by selling me a false security that appeared legitimate, but wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. What’s the use? Why blame them for my stupidity? Why blame them when I continued drinking long after they were gone? Mulling over past mistakes is a sure prescription for becoming a drunk.

And drunks are slow learners. I’m almost too embarrassed to relate the following: When I was being evicted from my apartment for not paying the rent, I called Al and Jim… couldn’t think of anyone else. The two men drove to my apartment, found me drunk on the floor, and awakened me by waving a few dollars under my nose. Al bought my furniture at ten percent of its value and Jim drove me to a sleazy side-avenue hotel, where I obtained a room at a low rate. Besides charging me twenty dollars for the ride, he substituted a black and white television set for the color set I managed to hold onto during my negotiations with Al. I knew I was getting an obsolete TV set for a relatively new one, but I was too drunk to protest. Life in those days was a blur, especially when I realized I was shortchanged ten dollars when I made change for a fifty.

Never again did I see Al and Jim. Those two demons were replaced by another two demons named, Wine and Whiskey. My friendship with them reduced me from a guest in the sleazy hotel to a janitor in the sleazy hotel. I became a bum. Using a pair of sunglasses as a disguise, I worked for my room, board, and a ridiculously low salary. The money was hardly enough to pay for a bottle of cheap wine I relied upon every evening. There was no money for cigarettes. I didn’t miss the cigarettes, but I did miss the lunches I was obliged to skip.

As part of my pay, I was supposed to receive three meals a day in a small restaurant in the building. The owner of the hotel, a Mr. Joseph Tumulty, carrot-complexioned, tall, stringy, and ten years my junior, constantly complained about the quantity of food I ate. To keep the bills down, I skipped lunch, even though I was often hungry, Tumulty still complained about my food bills. When he failed to complain about the food bills, he complained about my work.

One rainy afternoon, a flock of pigeons huddled outside the hotel entrance made a large number of deposits. Instead of blaming the pigeons for the dirt carried into the hotel on the shoes of patrons, Tumulty blamed me. The floors in the lobby are as dirty as the floors in the subways, he said to me.

The guy’s remark wasn’t worth a second thought, yet it stung me. I found myself pacing the floor at night. My room contained an iron bed, a torn mattress, one thin blanket, a chair that was about to break, a black and white TV set, and a chest of drawers made during the Revolutionary war. I considered a hundred ways of telling Tumulty where to shove his job. However, I had to keep my mouth shut. Otherwise, I’d lose my only place for sleeping, eating, and drinking a bottle of wine without being hassled by the winos on the streets.

I decided to do all I could to keep the job. To the best of my ability, I swept and mopped the floors, ran the vacuum cleaner, carried out the trash, repaired the toilets. Regardless of the task I tackled, I found the work an awful bore. My only pleasures were watching television and drinking wine in the privacy of my room. Whenever President Shalom was on TV, I enjoyed watching him.

The President was a small, wiry accountant with kinky red hair, a parrot-shaped nose, and a naturally sad face. He’d have been considered homely except for his bright blue, piercing eyes. He had emerged from a highly integrated Brooklyn neighborhood, and proudly boasted of his Jewish ancestry, but it wasn’t his ancestry that had put him into the White House. It was his common sense approach to America’s problems, his amazing knowledge of computers, and his ability to know precisely what a program or project would cost.

This is what it will cost, he’d say. Those words of Sam Shalom’s became more famous to a nation fighting for its economic survival than Patrick Henry’s Give me liberty or give me death. A detailed printout of money required to implement his proposal invariably supported Sam’s words. From a fiscal point of view, he was infallible. He was just the man America needed to balance the budget.

When he stood before a grave-looking Chief Justice of the Supreme Court to take the Oath of Office, thousands of people jammed the Capitol grounds to witness the event. Millions saw it on the internet. Everyone wanted to see the little guy from Brooklyn who’d won the highest office in the land. The man with the ability to solve America’s problems. The man who’d appeared unelectable.

The so-called experts had created the last impression. During the campaign, pollsters, news columnists, editorial writers, and television commentators had focused on the notion that the American people voted for generals, lawyers, economists, business leaders, astronauts, actors, and orators. They wouldn’t vote for an accountant, especially one who was short, skinny, sad looking, and untidy. The so-called experts had been wrong. Americans flocked to the polls and voted for Sam Shalom. They’d been pleasantly surprised when he received the most votes. No one, absolutely no one, was more surprised than I was.

I first met Sam Shalom as a college freshman at the Notre Dame University in South Bend, Indiana. I’d a scholarship for my football ability. Sam had a scholarship for his academic ability. His talents were well publicized when he was in high school. Working for the Democratic Party Headquarters in Brooklyn, he predicted more winning candidates than any polling company in New York State. As a college student, he majored in accounting and minored in computer science. He was always first in his class.

I didn’t even think about being first or twentieth in class.

If I could get through college with a passing grade, I’d be satisfied. I examined myself in a long narrow glass in the bathroom. I didn’t look too bad. My hair was as thick and brown as it ever was. The nose, broken once, was finely chiseled for an Irishman. The eyes were gray, deeply set, honest, and a bit dreamy. And the chin, wide and protruding, was an open invitation for anyone to take a crack at it.

Two days after my first college football game, I was seated in the rear of an accounting class, trying to understand a problem that had been projected on a screen. My thoughts weren’t fully on the problem, because the previous day I’d taken a beating on the football field. My concentration kept jumping from the problem on the board to the bruises on my body. Suddenly the professor called on me to solve the problem. Before I could respond, Sam Shalom, seated in the front of the room, turned around, looked at me quizzically, and shook his head as if I were a dope. He annoyed me to such an extent that I couldn’t even bluff my way through the problem.

The following morning, I was back in the men’s room examining a painful bruise on my buttocks. Sam came in, wearing a big overcoat. Spotting me, he shook his head again. The pain in my buttocks intensified, hurt more than ever. I grabbed the little scholar by the waist, lifted him about three feet off the floor, and hung him on a coat rack.

What are you doing? he shouted.

Now look here, Sam Shalom, I said threateningly, I’m having enough trouble with that damned accounting without having you shake your head every time you see me.

So what are you going to do about it? he asked arrogantly, struggling to free himself from the coat rack.

I could make you look like a Pekinese instead of a monkey.

So you’re going to flatten my nose, are you? You weigh two-ten and I weigh one-fifteen, and you’re going to start a fight with me.

You’re the one starting the fight. You think you can get away with it because you’re small and weak. I then left the future President of the United States cursing in the men’s room.

Before the year was over, I regretted hanging Sam Shalom on the coat rack. Although I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, I found him inspiring. He was always prepared for his lessons, knew what was going on, and invariably had the right answer to any questions the professors asked. When he explained the solution to a problem, he made it sound so simple.

Apart from the faculty, few people on campus appreciated his ability. Whenever I’d see him in the dormitory, on campus, in the cafeteria, or at a football game, he’d be alone. More than anything else, he needed a friend. Could I be his friend? I wanted to be. But could I apologize for hanging him on the coat rack? Could I go to his room some night and ask him to help me with the accounting? Could I ask him to see a movie with me?

I couldn’t. So I never apologized to Sam Shalom, never made a friend of him. I’d one last opportunity on the day after graduation day. The graduates were going from one room to another, shaking hands, saying goodbye. I met Sam in the hall of a dormitory. He had an old suitcase in his left hand, his right hand was free. I wanted to grab his right hand, shake it, and tell him I was sorry I hung him on the coat rack. For a split second, he gave me the impression he wanted to shake my hand, too. I was slow to act. He shot past me, ran down a flight of stairs.

About two years later I heard he’d returned to Brooklyn and was working for an accounting firm. He became a certified public accountant and a recognized authority on cost accounting. He also continued working as a programmer and analyst for the Democratic Party. I saw him at a football game in Shea Stadium. It was my second season with the New York Jets. I was limping towards the locker room when someone called me.

Jack! Jack Malloy!

I recognized the voice. It belonged to a girl from California. She used to travel around the country to see the New York Jets play football. I’d taken her to dinner several times. She was bright, vivacious, good looking, and had a lot to offer a guy. But it wasn’t the girl I remember so vividly that day. It was Sam Shalom, wearing a gray fedora hat and a cashmere coat that was big on him. He was seated directly behind the girl. His bright blue eyes met mine and he shook his head ever so slightly. Or did I imagine he shook his head? Apart from that slight shake, if I can call it that, he failed to acknowledge me. I regretted he didn’t. For some strange reason, I was drawn to him and wanted to be his friend. I wanted him to be happy and successful.

He didn’t disappoint me. In less than twenty years from the time he graduated from college, he became mayor of New York City, governor of New York State, and President of the United States. I followed his career with interest. He did well in every office he held. As governor of New York, he offered bounties to anyone who’d name and assist him in prosecuting dishonest public officials. Officials were brought to court, evidence was presented against them, and they were forced to admit they’d accepted graft from racketeers. Shortly after they were jailed, the racketeers were jailed. Without the parasites draining the financial blood from the economy, the State of New York prospered.

Not content with making a success of government in New York State, Sam Shalom went to Washington. He continued to be successful. His success there was based on a concept called the pursuit of truth. By using honest men, computers properly programmed, and every other legitimate means at his disposal, he searched for the truth. When he knew the truth, he solved problems. And he always explained his solutions in a straightforward way, regardless of whether he was dealing with a foreign power, Congress, the press, or some guy he happened to meet on the street. The public loved him. A petite, raven-haired Jewish girl loved him, and they were married just three months after they met, the year after he took office.

Alone in my hotel room in Manhattan, I watched the wedding ceremony on television. The girl was a singer, had a couple of gold records before she was twenty. One news commentator said her voice had the power to thrill its listeners. I won’t deny that. However, I received a greater thrill looking at her face and body. Every change of expression gave her a new charm. Every move she made gave her a new enchantment. She was a delight. She’d make a perfect First Lady, make President Shalom happy.

It wasn’t necessary for the camera to enlarge his serious little face to see he was already happy. He deserved his happiness. He’d used his head, worked hard in business and politics, and steered a steady course to the stars. Now that he’d reached his goal, I was proud of him. Proud we were in school together. While I was moving down in the world, Sam Shalom was moving up.

One night, in a State of the Union Message, he spoke of the need to increase expenditures for national defense. In the past half century, we’ve avoided war because we’ve maintained a strong defense, he said. To maintain a strong defense, we’ve spent enormous sums of money, stretched our resources beyond reason. The defense we’ve built has helped us feel relatively safe. In the past year, our enemies have increased their expenditures for war, swung the balance of power in their favor. We can no longer feel safe. We must spend more money for defense. Where do we get the money?

Damned if I know, I said aloud.

We certainly can’t cut social programs, make the poor poorer, he said. Nor can we burden the wealthy with more taxes; kill their initiative to create more jobs by investing in business. We can’t appeal to the middle class, whose taxes have already risen to a disproportionate share of their income. We can follow a policy frequently discussed, infrequently adopted. We can reduce our office help.

I’ll drink to that, I said enthusiastically, pulling the cork out of a bottle of wine and consuming a third of its contents.

The President seemed to wait for me to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before continuing. Let’s consider one area of expense; the criminal in America. He commits a crime, is apprehended, is given a fair trial, and is jailed. When his prison term is up, he’s released from prison. But has his debt to society been paid?

Yes, I answered.

President Shalom shook his head very much like the way he shook his head the day he spotted me in the men’s room. If the debt has been paid, it’s been paid by the American people, not the criminal. The American people pay for the police, the courts, the judges, and the juries. They pay for food, guards, the buildings used for incarcerations. They even pay for entertainment. We can’t afford these expenses; we must reconsider them. The President stopped talking, fixed his bright blue eyes on me.

Did he expect me to come up with a solution to his problem? He shouldn’t expect an answer from me, I thought. Especially when I’ve been drinking, I’ve no idea how expenses can be reduced. Prisoners have to be taken off the streets, given a place to sleep and eat. I wouldn’t cut down on their food…

Suddenly someone banged on my door. The door was hit so hard I thought a criminal was looking for a place to hide. I didn’t want to open the door, didn’t want to miss a word the President had to say. He had a problem, wanted to discuss it with me. He made me feel as important as I felt the day I became an All American football player. Every man has a right to feel important. Every man should be respected. Reluctantly, I opened the door.

I saw the long lean frame of the hotel owner, Mr. Tumulty. He looked as if a great catastrophe has taken place. Get down to the lobby right away, he ordered. You have a mop-up job to do. Someone has vomited on the floor.

CHAPTER 2

Submissively, I followed Tumulty into the elevator, saw his red bristled hair come close to dusting the top of the cage. The guy was tall! I had to admit it.

Without looking at me, he spoke when the elevator descended four floors. I’ll show you where the vomit is.

I couldn’t decide whether his voice or the vomit sickened me more.

We dropped another three floors. His shaggy eyebrows lifted and he peered at me, as if I were one of the roaches in the hotel. Two questions: You know where the vomit is, don’t you? And you’re responsible for the mess in the lobby, aren’t you?

Hell no is the answer to both questions. I gave him a blank look.

You bring a bottle of booze into this hotel every day. Face it, Malloy. You’re a drunk.

Calling a drunk a drunk is the most insulting thing anyone can say to a drunk. I was no exception. The accusation stung. I felt as if I’d been stabbed with an ice pick. Hurt and humbled, I followed Tumulty out of the elevator, across the lobby, beyond a sparse green plant, to the door of the men’s room. The sight and smell of the vomit soured the wine in my stomach.

You couldn’t quite make it to the men’s room, could you?

I’ve told you before; I’m not responsible for this. Tears bubbled in my eyes. I’ve sunk as low as I can go.

Tumulty showed no sympathy. Responsible or not, you’re going to clean up this mess. Get your mop, bucket, and plenty of disinfectant. I want this floor to sparkle.

My voice quivered. There are things I can do, things I can’t do. I can’t clean this floor, Mr. Tumulty. Unable to say more, I turned and started towards the elevator.

His hand bit into my arm. He spun me around, put his face close to mine, giving me a whiff of pastrami on his breath. You’re going to clean this floor if I have to force you. Understand?

I wasn’t afraid of taking a beating. I was afraid of losing my job. I’d be homeless on the streets of New York… me and my TV.

Tumulty knew he had me worried. He showed me a clenched fist, which was rather large for a string-bean his size. He touched my nose with his fist and threatened me: You wouldn’t want me to use this on you, would you?

Touching my nose with his fist was comparable to touching the nose of a wild bull with flaming red pajamas. I was so mad; I lost what little sense I had. Before I could grasp what I was doing, I buried my left fist into his stomach and flattened his nose with my right. The blow to his nose sent him stumbling awkwardly to the wall. He slid to the floor, stared at me with his mouth open. He was only semi-conscious when I grabbed his ankles, pulled him into the vomit, mopped the floor with him.

The full impact of what I’d done didn’t hit me till I reached my room. The television was still on. A popular commentator was explaining President Shalom’s speech. The picture began to roll. My mind began to roll. What have I done, where can I go? I had to go somewhere. I had to leave the hotel.

Confused, I packed my few belongings in an old leather bag. My underwear was soiled. If I’d known I was going to hit that lousy hotel owner, I’d have washed the underwear first, but clean underwear wasn’t important now. A place to live was important. There must be twenty million places to live in New York City. Without money, I couldn’t go to any of them.

My bag packed, I unplugged the TV, wrapped the cord around the set, finished the bottle of wine, closed the door to my room for the last time. I’d taken only a few steps when two policemen with drawn guns emerged from the elevator and came running towards me. Another policeman approached me from the staircase.

Up against the wall, the latter shouted, pointing a cocked gun at my head.

He ran his hands over my body, gave me a mad desire to swing around, grab him by the neck, lift him as high as I could, and throw him at the other two policemen. The sober section of my brain told me not to try it.

Satisfied I wasn’t carrying a weapon, the policeman who searched my body, seized me by the shoulders, pushed me to the elevator, and ordered me to Get goin’.

The idea of being arrested had me more confused than ever. I managed to say, How about my bag and television set? May I bring them along?

Forget ’em, said a five-foot-five officer I hadn’t noticed before. Beneath his badge, he wore a button showing the face of a smiling, black, political candidate.

The owner of the hotel was mopping the floor when we reached the lobby. His nose was swollen and blue. You’re going to rot in jail, he shouted at me. You’re going learn you can’t hit me when I’m not looking.

Although I’d lost my room in the hotel, was about to become a jailbird, and eventually join the homeless in New York City, I wasn’t sorry to sever ties with Tumulty. Do a good job on the floor, I counseled him.

I was escorted into a police car. The little officer drove the machine. He took delight in zooming past speeding taxicabs, keeping the siren going till we reached a dull, red brick, police station that must’ve been a hundred years old. Inside the police station, I wondered if the furniture was as old as it appeared to be. The officer scribbled on a dog-eared report, pausing occasionally to ask