“I am King of all I survey!”
At least as far as the building lobby goes. And not actually King but a
foot soldier, a Guardian, a first line of defense for this luxury NYC high-rise
building. Outside of my (their) lobby is 20 feet of building property and
then the wide, 25-foot NYC sidewalk to the street.
Two resplendent 10-foot high concrete
pillars each hold a classy, antique-style lamp in which to announce and
illuminate the building entrance.
I am, at a minimum, a lowly night doorman on the Upper East Side
of Manhattan. Not much happens here night to night yet 24 (freakin’) (other,
more terse expletives may be inserted here) years has provided this keen
observer with many happy, and a few sordid tales of the rich and somewhat
famous. At a maximum, I am a top-notch,
security-conscience, experienced and, at times, witty, night doorman,
keeping the building secure and the tenants safe. When you walk by, yeah, take a good look, but
if you have no business here, keep on walking.
Go bother someone else.
How the other half lives comes to mind, yet my existence in an
outer borough is happy and safe and as successful as a doorman's salary can
provide. My loving lady provides a beautiful apartment and home for us.
Door! I hear it in my
sleep. Door! My primary concern. My primary function is to get the lobby door. I am a doorman, not a doorman console man, or
a smartly dressed man in a spiffy uniform.
Chicks dig a man in a uniform, just not this uniform.
Door! I open it with a smile and
a perfunctory salutation and, again, secure the lobby.
Protect the building, protect the tenants, alert the super to any pressing
issues involving boilers, fire, water, or personal harm. To alert
management as to breaches of security, unkempt sections of the lobby, light
bulbs that are out, unsafe conditions, or any anomaly that our beautiful lobby
elects to present to me. Oh, look,
there's a cracked outlet cover. I must write up a Work Order for it to be
fixed. Oh, there's a ceiling bulb out or excessive trash in the
shrubberies. Oh, no!!!
This fine job, though hardly intellectually stimulating, provides me
many muses in which to write about.
Along with the pride and gloriousness of being a New York City doorman,
one day when I grow up I hope to have a job where I won't have to clean up
throw up. Yes, I’ve done that, too.
I
will give you the lobby tour. Our
doorman desk, with telephones and security cameras sits to the rear left of our
expansive lobby. Perched behind the
console, a doorman is “King of all he can survey.” Directly to our front is 25 feet of lobby
with two wings containing furniture and a glass coffee table on each side. Each wing has four classy chairs you'd want
in your own living room, the coffee table with a pretty plant on top, and a
super comfortable, light blue couch.
Book-ending the couch are two end tables with an ornate lamp. The walls of each wing have two three-light
candelabra sconces and 20-feet above are nine recessed ceiling lights. Surrounding the lobby is a splendid brown
wooden paneling that rises from floor to ceiling. The lobby center, to the right front of the
doorman desk has a five-foot diameter sculpted cement table with an expensive,
rich-people-building flower arrangement or orchid display atop it. The high
ceiling has 12 recessed lights. Over the
table middle, six feet above it is the piece
de resistance, the chandelier. This
magnificent chandelier has 30 candle lights capped with small lampshades and
over 120 hanging glass jewels and 3-inch-long glass teardrops. God forbid, if one were to be under the
chandelier if it were to fall, they would be sure to perish. So, no messing around in my lobby, got it?
I
am extremely proud to be employed there as my professionalism and good attitude
have allowed me to remain there for 24 years.
Wow. Plus, at age 61, I really
need my job and would fear a job search at my advanced age.
One important fact. Our management company does not allow us to sleep on the job, which is reasonable since we are the eyes and ears that secure the premises. Some buildings have doormen that can sleep, some looking like the mob just shot them. We, however, cannot sleep, or even get comfortable.
Now
enter the couches. One couch on each
side of the lobby. Each could sleep 3
sitting comfortably, or two at opposite ends, resting their heads peacefully on
the amply padded armrests. If able to attain full horizontality, forget about
it. You are out. You are done. Fast
asleep. Into a dream state that only a soft, rich-people-building couch can
provide. The couch will swallow you
whole, I can tell you, like a big foam and blue fabric whale.
The couches are my sirens, wailing and
luring me to my assured doom. An upholstered
Scylla and Charybdis. That doom being a restful, late night sleep that will put
the building’s security in jeopardy.
Oh, the east couch. The east couch
stares at me all night. She calls to me all night. Wanting. Desiring.
Needing. Aching. Come. Sit. Rest. I will tell you a story.... Remember when we were young...... Sleep on my big, soft….
I
cannot stand it. Go to her now......I mustn't. I cannot. I won't. I have a job to do. Did I say that I really need my job?
Behind
the doorman desk is a doorway to the building’s parking garage, and other doors
to the renting office, the stairwell, and the mop closet. A corridor to the elevators and the service
entrance completes the maze.
I
am so proud to work in this building knowing full-well that I may never live
there. My only chance to make it big is
sales of two unfinished books or that magical five-letter word: Lotto. My cash flow dictates that I can only live in
the mop closet for about four days.
As
a night doorman, I study local L.I.C. history and, additionally, have written hundreds
of poems, dozens of short stories, 50 jokes, most corny yet endeavoring, and
optimistic; 20 comedic sketches; I have drawn visual jokes, and have jotted
down ideas I’ve had on any number of topics.
Some of the poems are darn good, many of them are mindless rhymes or
drivel, triggered by a word or an event.
I also have a comedic knack for self-deprecation.
With
a history book in the works for four years now, I have written 150+ doorman stories. Most of those stories are light-hearted and
observational, yet not a few have class commentary and my realization of my
place in the scheme of things. Twenty four years has had me witness many things. For instance, I have seen five or six elderly
tenants leave in body bags, yet I have gotten taxis for 15 couples going to the
hospital to have their babies. I’ll take
that upside three to one ratio any day.
Such is the life of an under-achieving night doorman, and aspiring historian. One day, when I grow up, I’m gonna…
Richard Melnick
WftH
student since 2018.
