I'm not — I mean, I'm fine here. It's a good job. yeah like people seem to like me here? Which is strange, 'cause I'm not sure exactly what I'm doing. I just hold it. Hold the door. Really. Mr. Lance, he took my resume, but didn't even really glance. I just, sometimes I worry that I'm not — you know — ideally the doorman type? The other guys, they've all got, like, a presence. Costas booms. I sort of squeak. I'm working on my pleasan-ce. The jacket they provided is a joke. It doesn't fit. It pulls across my chest so tight the buttons nearly split I told the super it’s too tight around my arms and waist, He winked and said the tailor put the taper there "with taste." Just yesterday, a woman passing by just stopped and stared, And whispered "Mother of God." I must have looked so unprepared. The girl from 6A tripped today. She walked right in the door— The glass one, not the open one. Spilled matcha on the floor. She just stood staring at my chest. I felt so bad for her. I asked if she was feeling faint; she mumbled, "Yes, please, sir." It happens twice a week, I swear. Folks tripping in the hall. I must be standing awkwardly. Or maybe I'm too tall? And take the Penders' daughter, 13A, Chloe. Home from school. She's very bright, but honestly, she completely lacks all cool. Whenever I deliver mail, she drops her keys. She trips. She forgets how to speak English. She just stares right at my lips? Like she's trying to read them? She must have hearing loss. I speak up very slowly so I don't come off as cross. It's hard for teens to talk to working staff. I empathize. I try to be as gentle as I can when she walks by. And 11J Jimanji NYU. She's studying, I think, Anatomy? Or sketching? 'Cause she'll stare without a blink And ask me how the shoulder works. "To help with her exam." I always try to help the youth. I'm helpful. Yes I am. She touched my collarbone today and turned bright apple red. She must be running on a fever. Sick, or underfed. I told her, "Get some rest." She sighed and said, "You are the best." Ah What? No clue. It's tough to be a student here. The pressure gets to you. The job is physical, of course. The packages are dense. I work out just to carry them, it's basic common sense. But lately, people ask me up to "move a heavy chair." Like Mrs DeWinter in 10C. It is stifling in there. She turns the heating up to ninety-five, and then she asks If I could shift her armoire. Which is not in doorman tasks But I'm polite. I take my jacket off. I do the lift. She sits and watches, breathing hard. I think she needs a shift In medication? 'Cause she gets so flushed. She says, "Go slow. Which is nice of her, you know? When I sweat, she looks so frail. I think she needs a doctor. Or a fan. Or ginger ale. And Mr. Crisper-Schnaub, the seventh floor. He walks a little hound. A pug that somehow only needs to pee when I'm around? Like, six times every afternoon, he walks the little guy, And asks me what my regimen is, staring at my thigh. He dropped the leash the other day, and when I bent to grab it, He made a noise—like, choked a bit? I think he has a habit, A breathing thing. Asthma, perhaps. I asked if he was well. He just said, "Jesus, you're a dream." ...He's quirky, I can tell. And four-B — Mr. D---, the, um — he's very stylish, very — is the word urbane? He's nice to me. Like, very. Almost scary how nice? He'll hold the elevator, ask me up for "just a drink," to "talk about my future," which is — generous, I think, 'cause no one's asked about my future. Ever. So that's sweet. I always say I'm working. 'Cause I am. Out on the street, you know, the door — I can't just leave it. But I feel so rude declining, 'cause he's only being mentory and good and taking interest. People here take interest. It's a nice building. The whole building's, like, unusually The husbands, though — the husbands cannot stand me. That's just true. They tip you when they like you, and they tip me like you'd do a meter. Curt. They look at me like — sizing-up? Like, checked? And I get it. I'm not good yet. I don't have the right effect, the doorman gravitas. They see right through me to the kid who doesn't know the protocol. So that's — yeah. That's what that did to my, like, confidence. I try with them. I really do. I stand up straighter, firmer voice — and somehow that's worse too. Maybe I try too hard? Maybe they smell it? I don't know. The wives are warmer, weirdly. Wives'll linger. Wives'll glow. But the men just want the package signed and gone. Can't win the room. I think they think I'm — something. Can't tell what. I'll figure it out soon. The guests take photographs sometimes. Of, like, the lobby? Sweet — I always step aside so they can get the whole receipt of, you know, the ceiling, 'cause the molding's actually nice, and point it out — "the cornice there's original" — say it twice in case they didn't — but they sort of wave me back, like, in? Which, I'm not gonna block their shot. I duck behind the bin. They seem put out. I must be doing — something. Can't tell what. I try to give them room and somehow that's the wrong spot. Got to learn the building better. There's a system. I'll get there. I keep the cards they slip me. The producer. The — there's so many cards. I think they're scams? Like, "you should model"? Me? — they mean well, but they've got the wrong — I throw them out. I keep the clean ones, sometimes. In a drawer. I don't know why. Take Mrs. Ashb---, fourth floor, widow, lovely, kind of grand.. she stops. Like, every morning. Stops and talks. And once she'd planned her whole day just to ask me had I eaten, had I slept, was I warm enough, did somebody look after me. I kept just saying "Yes ma'am, thank you ma'am," 'cause what is there to say? She must be lonely. Sad, a little. So I let her stay and chat, you know, to cheer her — it's the decent thing, I think, to give her someone. Last year, Christmas, she — I had to blink — she gave me, in an envelope, like — I won't say. But a lot. For listening. To a lonely lady. Which is all I've got to offer, really. Patience. So I felt a little bad just taking it. For nothing. For the only thing I had. Were kind to someone ordinary. Plain. Who holds a door. — What? — No, I've got no — why would I have — me? — I'm not, I'm sure you've got the wrong — I'm nothing special. Look at Costas. He's the handsome one, the — what's so funny? Did I — guys? — oh please don't tell me there's a — is my collar — what? — okay, okay, forget it, you're all weird, I've gotta — someone rang for — I should — — She rang again. The fourth floor. Coming, Mrs. Ashb---! — Yeah. Hold on. I'm coming up.
