The Executive Washroom Key to My Heart

The trouble with living in Manhattan in 1959 was that everyone was either running a racket or writing a play about someone running a racket. Arthur Pendelton was doing neither. Arthur was an accountant at the Consolidated Fountain Pen & Novelty Corporation on Forty-Second Street, which meant his entire life was a matter of double-entry bookkeeping, cold coffee, and two-tone polyester suits that wore out at the elbows before you finished paying for them.

Arthur had one goal in life. It wasn't wealth, and it certainly wasn't romance. Arthur’s entire existential universe revolved around a three-inch piece of brass stamped with the numbers 14-B.

It was the key to the Executive Washroom on the fourteenth floor.

To the uninitiated, a bathroom is merely a sanitary convenience. But at Consolidated Fountain Pen, the Executive Washroom was Mount Olympus. Below the twelfth floor, the general staff made do with the Communal Facilities—a damp, linoleum-lined dungeon that smelled perpetually of pine disinfectant and defeat, featuring two stalls with doors that stopped at the knee and paper towels with the texture of fine-grade sandpaper.

The Executive Washroom, however, was a palace of imperial decadence. It boasted plush sea-green carpeting, brass fixtures polished to a blinding glare, individual cloth hand towels rolled like Cuban cigars, a radio that played soft orchestral waltzes, and a small glass dish filled with imported mints that Mr. O’Malley, the Senior Vice President of Domestic Marketing, personally had imported from Zurich.

For eight years, Arthur had watched junior executives with half his brain and twice his hair cut past his desk, jingling that brass key on a golden chain like the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. He had calculated that at his current rate of promotion, he would qualify for the key around the time he turned seventy-four—assuming he didn't die first of kidney failure from waiting for Stall Three on the ninth floor to open up.

And then came J. Harrison Clett.

Clett was a young man whose primary qualifications for the position of Junior Vice President of Ink & Viscosity were a pristine Harvard accent, teeth so white they practically glowed in the dark, and the fact that his uncle happened to own thirty-four percent of the voting stock in Consolidated Fountain Pen.

Clett arrived on a Monday. By Tuesday afternoon, he had been granted the brass key. By Wednesday, he made his fatal mistake: he left it sitting on the marble counter of the ninth-floor water cooler while showing off a photo of his polo pony to a secretary from the steno pool.

Arthur, who had been hiding behind a copy of The Wall Street Journal, didn't hesitate. It wasn't theft; it was a emergency requisition. In one fluid, practiced movement that would have made a pocket-picker in Naples weep with pride, Arthur palmed the brass key and slipped it into his vest pocket.

By 5:15 PM, the ninth floor was in a state of sheer panic.

J. Harrison Clett was pacing the corridor like a caged panther, clutching his silk necktie and sweating through a tailored Oxford shirt.

"It’s missing!" Clett wailed to anyone within earshot. "My key! The 14-B! It was on the ledge! I turned around for five seconds to explain the mechanics of a chukker to Miss Gable, and somebody lifted it!"

Arthur sat at his desk, carefully typing a ledger sheet on his Underwood typewriter. He didn't look up, but his heart was pounding a frantic mambo against his ribs. The brass key felt like a red-hot ingot against his ribs.

"Now, now, Clett," said Mr. Henderson, the Chief Comptroller, leaning over Arthur’s desk. "Are you sure you didn't leave it in the executive sauna?"

"I haven't been in the sauna since four o'clock!" Clett shouted, his voice cracking like a teenager's. "I need that key, Henderson! You don't understand—I have a delicate digestive system! I can't use the ninth floor! The acoustics in there are terrifying!"

"We'll have Security look into it," Henderson said smoothly. "In the meantime, why don't you use the facilities in the annex?"

Clett looked at Henderson as if he had just suggested he wash his hands in a gutter. "The annex? With the billing clerks? I’d rather contract typhoid!" He spun on his heel and stormed down the hall toward the elevator, clutching his lower abdomen with both hands.

Arthur slowly stopped typing. He reached into his pocket, his fingertips brushing the smooth, cool metal of key 14-B. A dark, triumphant grin spread across his face. The score had been settled. The Ivy League had been brought low by a man who brought his lunch to work in a paper bag.

At 6:30 PM, after the office had cleared out and the night custodians were just beginning their rounds, Arthur made his move.

He rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. The hallway was hushed, lined with deep mahogany paneling and oil portraits of former company presidents who all looked like they had been born without the capacity for laughter.

Arthur approached the brass-bound door at the end of the hall. The sign read: EXECUTIVE WASHROOM — PRIVILEGED PERSONNEL ONLY.

His hand was trembling as he inserted key 14-B into the lock. The tumbler turned with a soft, buttery click—the sound of pure, unadulterated class.

Arthur pushed the door open and stepped inside. He closed it behind him and locked it from the inside.

It was everything he had dreamed of, and more. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old money. The sea-green carpet swallowed his loafers up to the ankles. Soft, soothing violin music was drifting from a hidden speaker in the crown molding. On the vanity counter sat a crystal bowl piled high with mints, next to a stack of monogrammed linen towels that felt like spun cashmere.

Arthur stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. He adjusted his necktie, smoothed his lapels, and picked up a silver-plated comb from the vanity tray. He combed his thinning hair back with the slow, majestic grace of a monarch preparing for a coronation.

"Good evening, Mr. Pendelton," Arthur said to his reflection, deepening his voice to a resonant, executive baritone. "Care for a mint? Why, don't mind if I do, J.B. How are those Q3 earnings looking? Splendid, simply splendid."

He popped a Swiss mint into his mouth. It tasted like peppermint, victory, and upper-management stock options.

He spent forty-five glorious minutes in the Executive Washroom. He washed his hands three times using the scented almond soap. He dried them on three separate linen towels, tossing each one into the wicker hamper with the casual disdain of a man who didn't have to launder them himself. He sat on the velvet-upholstered bench in the lounge area and flipped through a copy of Fortune magazine, humming along to "The Way You Look Tonight."

It was the greatest hour of Arthur’s thirty-eight years on earth.

He stood up, adjusted his coat, and walked over to the door. He turned the brass deadbolt.

Nothing happened.

Arthur blinked. He jiggled the knob. It turned smoothly, but the latch didn't retract. He tried the key. The key turned round and round in the keyhole with a hollow, useless click-click-click, like a toy watch.

The lock was jammed.

"No," Arthur whispered to the quiet, lavender-scented air. "No, no, no."

He rattled the knob with more urgency. He pulled. He pushed. He put his shoulder against the heavy oak door. The door remained as solid and unyielding as the U.S. Treasury.

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the peppermint haze in his throat.

He looked at his wristwatch: 7:25 PM. The main office doors on the lower floors locked automatically at seven. The night cleaning crew worked from eight to midnight, but they didn't have fourteen-floor security clearance—the fourteenth floor was serviced exclusively by a private maintenance firm that came in on Sunday mornings.

Arthur was trapped in Mount Olympus.

"Don't lose your head, Pendelton," Arthur told himself, his voice pitching an octave higher than normal. "You’re an accountant. Work out the math. There has to be an exit."

He searched the room. There were no windows; the Executive Washroom was an interior room designed for maximum privacy, so no rival fountain pen company could spy on Consolidated’s board members through binoculars. There was a ventilation grate near the ceiling, but it was six inches wide and made of cast iron—unless Arthur could somehow compress his ribcage down to the thickness of a folded newspaper, he wasn't going anywhere through the ductwork.

He ran back to the door and pounded on the oak paneling with both fists. "Help! Is anyone out there? Security!"

His voice bounced off the Italian marble tiles and died against the plush sea-green carpet. The violin on the hidden speaker continued to play a jaunty rendition of "A Fine Romance."

Arthur sank down onto the velvet bench, clutching his head in his hands.

If he stayed here until Monday morning, he would be discovered by Mr. O’Malley himself. He would be fired on the spot for unauthorized entry, grand larceny of a corporate key, and possibly industrial espionage. His pension would be canceled. His name would be blacklisted across the entire tri-state stationery industry. He’d end up selling pencils on a street corner in Queens, wearing a coat held together by safety pins.

An hour passed. Then two.

By 10:00 PM, Arthur had exhausted all logical avenues. He had tried to pick the lock with a brass paperclip he found in his pocket (it snapped immediately). He had tried to unscrew the hinges using his dime (the dime bent). He had even considered flushing a linen towel down the toilet to cause a flood that would bring the fire department, but the executive plumbing was so ridiculously over-engineered it swallowed the towel whole without even a hiccup.

He lay back on the sea-green carpet, staring at the brass chandelier on the ceiling.

"This is the end," Arthur muttered. "Died of luxury. Cause of death: excessive mint consumption and an overdeveloped sense of class consciousness."

And then, through the heavy oak door, he heard it.

A faint, metallic scraping sound.

Arthur sat up so fast his neck popped. He scrambled across the carpet on his hands and knees and pressed his ear against the keyhole.

Scratch. Click. Scratch-scratch.

Someone was outside, messing with the lock.

"Hello?" Arthur squeaked, then caught himself and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Is someone there?"

The scraping stopped abruptly. A high, nervous voice came through the oak panel: "Who's in there? Is that you, Eddie?"

Arthur froze. He recognized that voice. It was nasal, arrogant, and currently trembling with sheer desperation.

It was J. Harrison Clett.

Arthur’s accountant brain immediately went to work, calculating the compound interest of the situation.

Clett was outside. Clett didn't have a key. Clett had come back to the building in the middle of the night, presumably using a master passkey he had stolen from his uncle’s desk, to break into the Executive Washroom because his delicate Ivy League digestive tract couldn't survive until Monday.

"Clett?" Arthur whispered through the keyhole.

A sharp intake of breath came from the other side. "Who is that? How do you know my name? Are you with the police?"

"It’s Pendelton, Clett. From Accounting."

There was a long, stunned silence. "Pendelton? What in the world are you doing in the Executive Washroom at ten o'clock on a Friday night?"

"I’m having a meeting with the board of directors," Arthur said dryly. "What do you think I'm doing? I'm trapped! The lock is jammed!"

"Trapped?" Clett groaned. "Pendelton, you idiot! You have to open the door! You don't know what I've been through tonight! I ate three hot dogs from a street cart on Fifty-Ninth Street out of sheer emotional distress, and now my stomach sounds like a cement mixer!"

"I can't open it from the inside!" Arthur hissed. "The deadbolt is stuck! How did you get up here anyway?"

"I took the freight elevator!" Clett said, his voice rising in panic. "I borrowed my uncle’s passkey! I’ve been trying to pick the lock with a silver nail file for twenty minutes!"

"A silver nail file?" Arthur sneered. "That’s your problem, Clett. You Ivy League boys think every problem can be solved with sterling silver. You need a stiff wire and a flat blade!"

"I don't have a stiff wire, Pendelton! I have a nail file and an agonizing pain in my lower abdomen! Now do something!"

Arthur stood up and looked around the vanity. His mind was racing. If Clett got in, Clett would see that Arthur had his missing key. Clett would expose him. On the other hand, if Clett didn't get in, Clett might faint in the hallway, the security guards would find them both in the morning, and they’d both be ruined.

It was a classic Mexican standoff, Manhattan style.

"Clett," Arthur said, pressing his face against the crack of the door. "Listen to me. If I help you get this door open, we need an understanding."

"I'll give you fifty dollars!" Clett begged. "One hundred! Just let me at that sea-green porcelain!"

"I don't want your money, Clett. I want a deal."

"Anything! What do you want?"

"On Monday morning," Arthur said slowly and deliberately, "you are going to go to Mr. Henderson’s office. You are going to tell him that you found your brass key under a stack of invoices on your desk. And then you are going to tell him that you’ve decided to appoint me as your Assistant Vice President of Ink & Viscosity."

"Assistant Vice President?" Clett gasped. "You’re an accountant! You don't know the first thing about ink!"

"I know it comes in bottles and it doesn't leak into my trousers," Arthur snapped. "Which is more than you can say for your current arrangement. Do we have a deal, or should I go back to reading Fortune magazine on the velvet lounge?"

A agonized whimper echoed through the keyhole.

"All right!" Clett howled softly. "All right! You're the Assistant Vice President! Just get the door open!"

Arthur didn't waste a second. He ran to the vanity, picked up the heavy silver-plated comb, and smashed the decorative plastic tail off against the edge of the marble basin. He was left with a thin, rigid wedge of hard acrylic.

He dropped to his knees at the door, inserted the plastic wedge into the seam between the door and the frame right above the brass latch, and kicked it with the heel of his loafer.

CRACK.

The wedge slid into the jamb, forcing the sticky deadbolt pin back a quarter of an inch.

"Now, Clett!" Arthur yelled. "Lean into it! Put your shoulder against the wood!"

From the other side, Clett hurled his whole hundred-and-forty-pound frame against the door.

The lock gave way with a loud, metallic POP, and the heavy oak door swung inward. Clett stumbled across the threshold, lost his footing on the plush carpet, and landed flat on his stomach at Arthur’s feet.

For a long moment, neither man moved.

Arthur stood over him, holding the broken comb, looking down at the future Senior Vice President of Ink & Viscosity with the calm, unblinking authority of a man who owned the building.

Clett looked up from the carpet, his hair disheveled, his silk tie crooked, his eyes wide with a combination of sheer relief and profound humiliation.

"Pendelton," Clett whispered, gasping for air. "You... you saved me."

"Don't mention it, J.H.," Arthur said smoothly. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out key 14-B, and tossed it casually onto the velvet bench. "Your key was on the floor by the mirror. You really ought to be more careful with company property."

Clett scrambled to his feet, grabbed the key, and bolted into the nearest stall, slamming the door behind him.

Arthur walked over to the mirror. He dusted off his sleeves, straightened his collar, and picked up a fresh Swiss mint from the crystal dish. He popped it into his mouth, savoring the cool, crisp taste of executive privilege.

He took a linen hand towel from the stack, dried his hands—which weren't even wet—and tossed it carelessly into the hamper.

"Goodnight, Clett," Arthur called out toward the stall. "Don't forget to lock up when you're finished. The company has very strict security policies regarding the Fourteenth Floor."

Arthur walked out into the carpeted hallway, pulled the oak door shut behind him until it clicked securely, and strolled toward the elevator, whistling "A Fine Romance" all the way down to the street.