look disturbingly familiar.
But the second one's wearing sneakers, the one in the front's wearing white socks, and the one in the back's wearing brown shoes. The super must be a slacker.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Theater of the Absurd
Day. The elevator. A building lobby on the Upper Best Side, quietly and tastefully decorated in the style of the co-op board decorating committee.
The elevator operator is in his elevator, stage right. Minutes pass. Although there is no one in sight, the elevator operator stands at military attention. The elevator bell rings, prompting the elevator operator to spring into action.
The elevator door closes as the stage darkens. The elevator remains lit. The light from the golden dome in the temple of vertical motion suffuses the space that is understood to be the elevator. The elevator operator turns the knob that runs the elevator. An engine is heard to start. The elevator is moving. As the elevator is understood to be ascending, a light just in front of the elevator door begins to become brighter, revealing The Maestro. He is wearing knee socks, corduroy knickers, a Boy Scouts of America windbreaker and a Smoky Bear-style hat. The engine stops. The elevator operator opens the door for him, taking no notice of his strange attire- it is The Maestro’s everyday garb.
The Maestro- Good morning, sir. (His accent, while legible, is thick and soupy, as though he has several accents at once, say, upper-crusty English, along with Portuguese and Castilian Spanish.)
The elevator operator nods a quiet good morning as he closes the elevator door. The bell rings. The engine starts again when the door closes, although it does not run as long as it did when the elevator went up before. Although it is understood that the elevator is on its way down, because passengers are never made to ride in the opposite direction they intend to go, it is also understood that the elevator is making another stop before the lobby. As before, a light outside the elevator brightens to reveal Miss Barbera. She is wearing a huge green snorkel-style fur-trimmed parka which obscures her face, which is further obscured by red plastic-framed spectacles. A pair of white sneakers stick out of the bottom of the parka. She is carrying a large worn paper shopping bag from a defunct department store and a shoulder bag, both of which are as full as they can possibly be with indeterminate matter. She will be carrying the same bags, equally full, when she returns to the building an hour later. As she enters the elevator, she asks The Maestro, who has been her neighbor for decades…
Miss Barbera- Oh, are you a state trooper?
Maestro- No, I am a scoutmaster. What are you dressed up as?
The elevator engine stops as all the lights come on. The elevator has arrived at the lobby. There is an awkward moment as the neighbors, who are now dramatically ignoring one another, negotiate the etiquette of leaving the elevator. The elevator operator returns to his posture of military attention, although the dazed look on his face leads other residents, who will ride the elevator later, to speculate that he is under the influence of something. He wishes he were.
The elevator operator is in his elevator, stage right. Minutes pass. Although there is no one in sight, the elevator operator stands at military attention. The elevator bell rings, prompting the elevator operator to spring into action.
The elevator door closes as the stage darkens. The elevator remains lit. The light from the golden dome in the temple of vertical motion suffuses the space that is understood to be the elevator. The elevator operator turns the knob that runs the elevator. An engine is heard to start. The elevator is moving. As the elevator is understood to be ascending, a light just in front of the elevator door begins to become brighter, revealing The Maestro. He is wearing knee socks, corduroy knickers, a Boy Scouts of America windbreaker and a Smoky Bear-style hat. The engine stops. The elevator operator opens the door for him, taking no notice of his strange attire- it is The Maestro’s everyday garb.
The Maestro- Good morning, sir. (His accent, while legible, is thick and soupy, as though he has several accents at once, say, upper-crusty English, along with Portuguese and Castilian Spanish.)
The elevator operator nods a quiet good morning as he closes the elevator door. The bell rings. The engine starts again when the door closes, although it does not run as long as it did when the elevator went up before. Although it is understood that the elevator is on its way down, because passengers are never made to ride in the opposite direction they intend to go, it is also understood that the elevator is making another stop before the lobby. As before, a light outside the elevator brightens to reveal Miss Barbera. She is wearing a huge green snorkel-style fur-trimmed parka which obscures her face, which is further obscured by red plastic-framed spectacles. A pair of white sneakers stick out of the bottom of the parka. She is carrying a large worn paper shopping bag from a defunct department store and a shoulder bag, both of which are as full as they can possibly be with indeterminate matter. She will be carrying the same bags, equally full, when she returns to the building an hour later. As she enters the elevator, she asks The Maestro, who has been her neighbor for decades…
Miss Barbera- Oh, are you a state trooper?
Maestro- No, I am a scoutmaster. What are you dressed up as?
The elevator engine stops as all the lights come on. The elevator has arrived at the lobby. There is an awkward moment as the neighbors, who are now dramatically ignoring one another, negotiate the etiquette of leaving the elevator. The elevator operator returns to his posture of military attention, although the dazed look on his face leads other residents, who will ride the elevator later, to speculate that he is under the influence of something. He wishes he were.
Friday, March 21, 2008
servility, obsequiousness
Oscar’s use of the word slave to describe himself in the last chapter really bothered me. It seems unreal and impossible to me. This is the 21st century. I am wanting to believe that he was responding in kind to a teasing question, or that some language issue is at issue in his use of the word, although I well know that the words for slave and servant, in Spanish are esclavo and sirviente, respectively, and that it would be difficult to confuse them. Besides that, the workers in my union are neither slaves nor servants- they are building service professionals who make an excellent salary- close to 40,000 a year, and with our celebrated Christmas bonuses, we must take home close to what someone making 50,000 a year does, hardly slave wages, especially when you consider that the work we do is not physically taxing in the same way that, say, construction labor is. So why would he say that?
I’m as baffled as you are, although I suspect I have a clue.
There’s a sort of self-abasing false humility that we service people use sometimes that insults our own intelligence, and what’s more, insults the people we work for. Servility is not the reality, but our obsequiousness implies it.
I prefer deference, myself.
I’m as baffled as you are, although I suspect I have a clue.
There’s a sort of self-abasing false humility that we service people use sometimes that insults our own intelligence, and what’s more, insults the people we work for. Servility is not the reality, but our obsequiousness implies it.
I prefer deference, myself.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
the febreze.
Does the building really have to smell like K-Mart's Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval?
enough.
enough.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
A way you could think me to be
A friend of mine who thinks too much thinks he’s a writer, but the only thing he’s ever written, as far as I know, are a few entries in a blog. He says the blog was supposed to be a joke, mostly, but I don’t see much humor in it. It’s mostly him blowing himself up like he’s some kind of big deal. He hasn’t written in months, though. He says he doesn't have time- he goes to school and he works full-time. He’s ambitious, my friend. He always says "if I'm still doing this when I'm thirty..." while he shoots himself in the head with his finger, rolling his eyes. I think he’s kidding. I hope he’s kidding. He’s got a couple of years. I think he’ll figure something out before then.
I like having someone I can talk to about work, though. When he quits, I’ll miss the conversations we have.
I’ve done all sorts of work. The best job I ever had was summers in high school when I worked for a landscaper. I’d get up at five in the morning and spend the day walking behind a four-foot Honda mower, mowing rich people’s lawns all over the suburbs where my parents used to drive on Sunday afternoons, hoping someday to own a house like those ones. I wish I would have thought to have worn a pedometer one day, to keep track of how many miles I walked, up and down and back and forth in razor sharp rows. Many, many miles I walked behind that mower. I was the only white boy on the crew, but I didn’t let anybody think I slacked off because of it. By the end of every summer I was burned dark red and brown. My friends called me a Mexican, but I didn’t care. I had more money in my pocket than them. I saved a lot, too, enough to put me through a year of college at NYU. I was lucky to get in. I wrote a good application, I can talk smart when I need to. I wanted to be a lawyer back then, not that I knew anything about it- the first lawyer I ever talked to was at this job, although I’d mowed plenty of lawyer’s lawns. I just thought it would be a cool life, to be a big shot with plenty of money, nice suits, nice car, and a hot secretary, like on TV.
I remember the summer before I started classes at that school, there was an orientation for freshmen. There was this girl I liked, she was beautiful, I was talking to her, small talk, but flirting, too, even though I didn’t know too much about that. I was surprised when she acted like she really liked me, she got real close to me and squeezed my arm, feeling the muscles I built up lifting green barrels full of grass clippings. She asked how I got so tan. When I told her, she backed off me like I was a really cute puppy she just found a flea on.
It’s like that with this job, too, my friend agrees. When you’re wearing this uniform, women look right through you, it doesn’t matter how good you look, you’re not getting anywhere. I’ve tried telling the women I meet outside work that I work in real estate, which is what my friend does, but that doesn’t explain why I can’t meet up any nights but Tuesdays and Wednesdays. The black and Spanish guys at work, they don’t have any trouble getting women, but when I try to talk to black and Spanish girls, I just come off like another soft white boy, and with American girls, the first question is always “What do you do?” I tell them and shazaam! I’m invisible.
I couldn’t afford to stay at NYU, and my parent’s wouldn’t co-sign student loans. Or they said they wouldn’t. They were real religious and they said they wouldn’t pay for the kind of godless education I would get at a school like that. I think they couldn’t, but they were too proud to tell me. I wish I was black or Spanish sometimes. I knew kids whiter than me at NYU that had lower grades than me and lower SAT scores that got full free rides because they had Spanish last names. Meanwhile I’m the white kid with a GED and broke-ass parents and nobody cared if I had to drop out or not. They made such a big deal out of diversity at NYU, but they didn’t need any white boys who had to get GED’s because their parents were crazy fundamentalist Christians who sent their kids to school in the church basement. I’m the diversest person I know.
I’m the only white guy on staff where I work, besides this one other older guy. The only white American, I mean, if that means anything. There’s a couple guys from European countries I’ve never heard of that I can’t pronounce the names of either, but mostly Jamaicans and Dominicans and Puerto Ricans. There’s another older white guy, but he’s not really someone I can talk to either. He’s the kind of guy that says he’s not racist but whenever anyone messes up, he’s like “whaddayou expect from these animals?”. Sometimes I think that’s how he keeps it together, “at least I’m not an animal” he can tell himself.
It’s real funny to me that most of the guys I work with- the ones that come over here from somewhere else, or the ones that grew up here in the city- the only white people they’ve ever really spoken to are the ones that live in the building where we work, and me and the other white guy. I like that I get to be the coolest white boy these guys ever met.
I feel bad saying I pity some of these guys, because you almost have to feel like you’re better than someone to pity them, but I do. For most of them, this is their dream job. I envy them, because I wish I could say I had my dream job. They just think different. One night last summer, beautiful night, clear, warm, not too muggy, I was working with Oscar and this guy that lives on the 7th floor comes in. Mr. 7th floor, he’s a real cool guy, doesn’t talk down to you or try to pretend to be your buddy, just acts natural. Anyway, he’s kind of teasing me and Oscar, like “what are you guys doing here? It’s a beautiful night, you should be out enjoying it.” I got the joke, I don’t mind being teased a bit, especially when the alternative is pretending like there’s no where else in the world I’d rather be, or feeling like someone feels bad for me, because that just makes me feel worse. Anyway, Oscar, who’s Dominican, says “But Mr. _______, we are slaves.” And he was serious.
One day I’m going to try to write some kind of book about all the stuff I see at work. I took this class once with all these black writers, and they wrote about a lot of the kind of stuff I think about, except they thought that everything that happened to them was because they were black. I think the same way as a lot of those guys do, except I can’t say it’s because I’m black, because I’m not.
But I’m not a very good writer. In fact, that friend of mine I told you about before, he’s the one that wrote this, but he said I could have it because the words were mine.
I like having someone I can talk to about work, though. When he quits, I’ll miss the conversations we have.
I’ve done all sorts of work. The best job I ever had was summers in high school when I worked for a landscaper. I’d get up at five in the morning and spend the day walking behind a four-foot Honda mower, mowing rich people’s lawns all over the suburbs where my parents used to drive on Sunday afternoons, hoping someday to own a house like those ones. I wish I would have thought to have worn a pedometer one day, to keep track of how many miles I walked, up and down and back and forth in razor sharp rows. Many, many miles I walked behind that mower. I was the only white boy on the crew, but I didn’t let anybody think I slacked off because of it. By the end of every summer I was burned dark red and brown. My friends called me a Mexican, but I didn’t care. I had more money in my pocket than them. I saved a lot, too, enough to put me through a year of college at NYU. I was lucky to get in. I wrote a good application, I can talk smart when I need to. I wanted to be a lawyer back then, not that I knew anything about it- the first lawyer I ever talked to was at this job, although I’d mowed plenty of lawyer’s lawns. I just thought it would be a cool life, to be a big shot with plenty of money, nice suits, nice car, and a hot secretary, like on TV.
I remember the summer before I started classes at that school, there was an orientation for freshmen. There was this girl I liked, she was beautiful, I was talking to her, small talk, but flirting, too, even though I didn’t know too much about that. I was surprised when she acted like she really liked me, she got real close to me and squeezed my arm, feeling the muscles I built up lifting green barrels full of grass clippings. She asked how I got so tan. When I told her, she backed off me like I was a really cute puppy she just found a flea on.
It’s like that with this job, too, my friend agrees. When you’re wearing this uniform, women look right through you, it doesn’t matter how good you look, you’re not getting anywhere. I’ve tried telling the women I meet outside work that I work in real estate, which is what my friend does, but that doesn’t explain why I can’t meet up any nights but Tuesdays and Wednesdays. The black and Spanish guys at work, they don’t have any trouble getting women, but when I try to talk to black and Spanish girls, I just come off like another soft white boy, and with American girls, the first question is always “What do you do?” I tell them and shazaam! I’m invisible.
I couldn’t afford to stay at NYU, and my parent’s wouldn’t co-sign student loans. Or they said they wouldn’t. They were real religious and they said they wouldn’t pay for the kind of godless education I would get at a school like that. I think they couldn’t, but they were too proud to tell me. I wish I was black or Spanish sometimes. I knew kids whiter than me at NYU that had lower grades than me and lower SAT scores that got full free rides because they had Spanish last names. Meanwhile I’m the white kid with a GED and broke-ass parents and nobody cared if I had to drop out or not. They made such a big deal out of diversity at NYU, but they didn’t need any white boys who had to get GED’s because their parents were crazy fundamentalist Christians who sent their kids to school in the church basement. I’m the diversest person I know.
I’m the only white guy on staff where I work, besides this one other older guy. The only white American, I mean, if that means anything. There’s a couple guys from European countries I’ve never heard of that I can’t pronounce the names of either, but mostly Jamaicans and Dominicans and Puerto Ricans. There’s another older white guy, but he’s not really someone I can talk to either. He’s the kind of guy that says he’s not racist but whenever anyone messes up, he’s like “whaddayou expect from these animals?”. Sometimes I think that’s how he keeps it together, “at least I’m not an animal” he can tell himself.
It’s real funny to me that most of the guys I work with- the ones that come over here from somewhere else, or the ones that grew up here in the city- the only white people they’ve ever really spoken to are the ones that live in the building where we work, and me and the other white guy. I like that I get to be the coolest white boy these guys ever met.
I feel bad saying I pity some of these guys, because you almost have to feel like you’re better than someone to pity them, but I do. For most of them, this is their dream job. I envy them, because I wish I could say I had my dream job. They just think different. One night last summer, beautiful night, clear, warm, not too muggy, I was working with Oscar and this guy that lives on the 7th floor comes in. Mr. 7th floor, he’s a real cool guy, doesn’t talk down to you or try to pretend to be your buddy, just acts natural. Anyway, he’s kind of teasing me and Oscar, like “what are you guys doing here? It’s a beautiful night, you should be out enjoying it.” I got the joke, I don’t mind being teased a bit, especially when the alternative is pretending like there’s no where else in the world I’d rather be, or feeling like someone feels bad for me, because that just makes me feel worse. Anyway, Oscar, who’s Dominican, says “But Mr. _______, we are slaves.” And he was serious.
One day I’m going to try to write some kind of book about all the stuff I see at work. I took this class once with all these black writers, and they wrote about a lot of the kind of stuff I think about, except they thought that everything that happened to them was because they were black. I think the same way as a lot of those guys do, except I can’t say it’s because I’m black, because I’m not.
But I’m not a very good writer. In fact, that friend of mine I told you about before, he’s the one that wrote this, but he said I could have it because the words were mine.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
A Formula For Keeping It Real
The Formula For Keeping It Real in the reality that is this blog can sometimes be expressed as a ratio.
(the mundane banality of the dominant reality)/(the elevator operator’s sanity)=(the elevator operator’s sanity)/(high-blown tone)
(the mundane banality of the dominant reality)/(the elevator operator’s sanity)=(the elevator operator’s sanity)/(high-blown tone)
Friday, March 14, 2008
The elevator operator in modern literature
There are four writers I can think of who used elevator operators in their work- John Cheever, P.G. Wodehouse, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Kurt Vonnegut.
In "The Startling Dressiness of a Lift Attendant", a "Jeeves" story from Wodehouse, Bertram Wooster gets a flashy pair of socks, much to Jeeves' dismay. Later, Bertram becomes involved in a sticky situation, as is his wont. Jeeves extricates him, as is his. Therefore, Bertram can voice no objection when the elevator attendant, speaking in a Wodehoustian take on "Negro" dialect, thanks him for his generosity in the gift of the lavender stockings, which, if I remember correctly, he lifts his trousers slightly to display. He is a comic character, but his freedom to wear the flashy socks denied Bertram by his valet hints at the tension between a supposed freedom to play the peacock in the more "primitive" black elevator man, and the restraint, enforced by Jeeves, that the aristocratic gentleman Bertram must display. This is the Jazz Age. Analogies can be made to hip-hop, but I haven't got the time.
In The Great Gatsby, "a reluctant elevator-boy" (one is unsure if boy refers to his age, or to his social status) is sent to fetch milk for the puppy bought on a whim by Mrs. Wilson, Tom Buchanan's mistress. He is described as taking "initiative" by adding dog biscuits to the meal of milk. Later, as Nick Carraway descends the elevator drunk with Mr. McKee, who is even drunker, the elevator operator (again called a "boy") snaps at McKee "Keep your hands off the lever." McKee denies the knowledge of having touched it, but McKee is drunk and we are unsure of his intentions, as ellipses trail off to McKee in bed, clad only in his underwear, with Nick at his side. I once took a class that read heavy subtext into the interactions immediately preceding and within the ellipsis. I am content to the read the ellipsis as an ellipsis.
The Cheever story is that of an elevator man who must work on Christmas. He courts the sympathy of all his passengers, and the resulting gifts of food, but especially, drink, leave him satiated and drunk, unable to do his job. He is summarily fired. Many aphorisms are appropriate to this situation, but the one I choose is Be careful what you ask for- you may get it.
In Slaughterhouse-Five, Vonnegut's narrator, who vaguely is Vonnegut, recalls an elevator operator whose remains he'd come across in the course of his work as a newspaper reporter in Chicago after World War II. The man got his wedding band caught in the workings of a landing door somehow, and he was maimed, then crushed by the machine he was driving. I cannot visualize this. The narrator (Vonnegut,) recalls telling a stenographer how horrific the sight was, to which she replied that she'd seen worse in the war. How Vonnegut hated war. I wonder what his life as a writer would have been had he not experienced the war so intensely.
As far as I can tell, no literary or sub-literary work has been narrated by an elevator operator, nor- with the exception of the Cheever story, whose protagonist is unsympathetic and seems one-dimensional- have they appeared as more than tangential minor devices off which are reflected the characters, the protagonists. What sort of writer would use such a character as an elevator operator as a narrator? What sort of experience would inform the life of such a writer?
In "The Startling Dressiness of a Lift Attendant", a "Jeeves" story from Wodehouse, Bertram Wooster gets a flashy pair of socks, much to Jeeves' dismay. Later, Bertram becomes involved in a sticky situation, as is his wont. Jeeves extricates him, as is his. Therefore, Bertram can voice no objection when the elevator attendant, speaking in a Wodehoustian take on "Negro" dialect, thanks him for his generosity in the gift of the lavender stockings, which, if I remember correctly, he lifts his trousers slightly to display. He is a comic character, but his freedom to wear the flashy socks denied Bertram by his valet hints at the tension between a supposed freedom to play the peacock in the more "primitive" black elevator man, and the restraint, enforced by Jeeves, that the aristocratic gentleman Bertram must display. This is the Jazz Age. Analogies can be made to hip-hop, but I haven't got the time.
In The Great Gatsby, "a reluctant elevator-boy" (one is unsure if boy refers to his age, or to his social status) is sent to fetch milk for the puppy bought on a whim by Mrs. Wilson, Tom Buchanan's mistress. He is described as taking "initiative" by adding dog biscuits to the meal of milk. Later, as Nick Carraway descends the elevator drunk with Mr. McKee, who is even drunker, the elevator operator (again called a "boy") snaps at McKee "Keep your hands off the lever." McKee denies the knowledge of having touched it, but McKee is drunk and we are unsure of his intentions, as ellipses trail off to McKee in bed, clad only in his underwear, with Nick at his side. I once took a class that read heavy subtext into the interactions immediately preceding and within the ellipsis. I am content to the read the ellipsis as an ellipsis.
The Cheever story is that of an elevator man who must work on Christmas. He courts the sympathy of all his passengers, and the resulting gifts of food, but especially, drink, leave him satiated and drunk, unable to do his job. He is summarily fired. Many aphorisms are appropriate to this situation, but the one I choose is Be careful what you ask for- you may get it.
In Slaughterhouse-Five, Vonnegut's narrator, who vaguely is Vonnegut, recalls an elevator operator whose remains he'd come across in the course of his work as a newspaper reporter in Chicago after World War II. The man got his wedding band caught in the workings of a landing door somehow, and he was maimed, then crushed by the machine he was driving. I cannot visualize this. The narrator (Vonnegut,) recalls telling a stenographer how horrific the sight was, to which she replied that she'd seen worse in the war. How Vonnegut hated war. I wonder what his life as a writer would have been had he not experienced the war so intensely.
As far as I can tell, no literary or sub-literary work has been narrated by an elevator operator, nor- with the exception of the Cheever story, whose protagonist is unsympathetic and seems one-dimensional- have they appeared as more than tangential minor devices off which are reflected the characters, the protagonists. What sort of writer would use such a character as an elevator operator as a narrator? What sort of experience would inform the life of such a writer?
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
fiction(non)fiction
I am still horrified by the thought that it is very possible that everyone in my building is reading this blog, but what is even more horrifying to me is the idea that no one is, in which case I must be some kind of hyper-imaginative megalomaniac.
It's fun anyway.
I would like to construct another blog, completely fictional, in the voice of some person who lives in a building where there is an elevator operator and a doorman, and link it to this one. It would make for an interesting narrative. There are a few paranoid types in this building who would make fine narrators for such a blog, but I don't have time right now.
Of course this blog is completely fictional as well, at the same time that is completely not.
It's fun anyway.
I would like to construct another blog, completely fictional, in the voice of some person who lives in a building where there is an elevator operator and a doorman, and link it to this one. It would make for an interesting narrative. There are a few paranoid types in this building who would make fine narrators for such a blog, but I don't have time right now.
Of course this blog is completely fictional as well, at the same time that is completely not.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
A Bit Much
The tension generated by my suspicion that more relevant people than I know know about this blog may know about this blog is getting to be a bit much. I told exactly two people, a married couple in the building, about this quite some time ago. I told my brother about it. There was a link to this blog on my private myspace account a long time ago, but that’s been since removed. I also allowed the residents of a certain other apartment in the building to find out about this blog in a roundabout way, last week. In short, the only two people in the building who know for sure that I write this blog are two in whom I have the highest confidence, and the two others, who I allowed to find out round-aboutly, may suspect but could never prove it, and I am confident that they would not feel the need to.
Why then the round-about references from people I haven't told, the “in” comments in guise of small talk? People who should absolutely not know about this blog seem to know about this blog. Some one by whom my presence once went unacknowledged for years said “thank you” to me four times the other day in the course of a simple elevator ride. I am flabbergasted.
It’s a bit much. I’m not sure if I can keep doing this.
In the meantime, here’s something everyone should read.
Why then the round-about references from people I haven't told, the “in” comments in guise of small talk? People who should absolutely not know about this blog seem to know about this blog. Some one by whom my presence once went unacknowledged for years said “thank you” to me four times the other day in the course of a simple elevator ride. I am flabbergasted.
It’s a bit much. I’m not sure if I can keep doing this.
In the meantime, here’s something everyone should read.
Friday, March 7, 2008
In which, it's not that bad
The positive has gone unaccentuated for too long on this blog. While I reserve the right to complain about about my boss and write confusing (confused?) bad poetry about misunderstandings between me and the people I work for, I have to say that my experiences are not overwhelmingly negative- in fact they are mostly positive.
I am an immigrant. I must work.
I love my work. I see every possible different kind of people every day. I manufacture a high-quality product. I like people, and I am able to provide a valuable service to many dozens of people daily. I enjoy this. I enjoy working in a relic of a Jazz Age building and polishing the surface of things until they reflect light. I like to like people, and I like for them to like me. The disdainful ones I like, if only because I feel badly for them and hope they may feel better soon. Also, I like the people who are happy to say nothing more than "thank you" when they arrive at their designated floor. I like the people who like to make prosaic pronunciations about the weather while they ride the elevator. I like the Spanish nannies and housekeepers who seem so weary sometimes, some of whose children will one day live in buildings like this, some of whose children already live in buildings like this. I like the people who wear their sunglasses indoors and affect a world-weariness that leaves me unafraid to slouch a bit. I like the suited lawyers and financiers whose deeply felt importance and bearing makes me stand a little straighter as I go about my business. I like the Carribean nannies whose lilting accents are like tunes, and whose sometimes anxious smiles belie a faith full of Armegeddon and Jehovah's fire. I like the old money people, whose finely wrought accents and intonation are same with the intricate molding in the elevator, who do not pretend to be able to relate, and so do not try, and instead just accept, gracious and aloof. I like the young couples who have just moved into their dream New York apartment and are still in awe a bit at their good fortune, who are anxious not to seem snobbish, like those "other people". I like the people who do not bother to ask "how are you?" if they don't mean it, equally as I like the people who ask "how are you?" simply because it is a pleasant thing to do; I like neither as much as the people who ask "how are you?" because they want to know, but to these I never tell the truth, because I, too, must maintain distance. I like the childless married couple, who mean it every time they ask "how are you?", whose uncalled-for kindness makes a difference. I like the woman who was unafraid that I would be insulted when she offered me her left-over chili which had been in the fridge three days because she hates to waste food- it was delicious. I like the economics professor who was the terror of all the doormen and the one none of the other apartment owners were as bad as; he recycles his soup-stained copies of right-wing journals by giving them to me to criticize on my own time. I like the old lady who lives on a lower floor and has for all her life, who must pinch pennies, and who must live on less than I do to afford to live here; she can't imagine living anywhere else; her Christmas bonus of 5 dollars is worth as much to me as any other. I like the children, who are not in on the game or the joke, allowing all of us to act naturally. I like the high-school aged young people, not yet formed, who will later be away at school, seen only between semesters, enthusiastic, who will all turn out all right. I like the senior doormen, with whom I work, who have known these children since they were brought home from the hospital, and who feel an avuncular affection towards them. I like the porters, who work in the back, because they couldn't stand to wear this ridiculous uniform, who are men who work for a living, and who lower their heads for no one. I like the immigrant doormen, whose American Dream this is. They each must have some deep secret hope that cannot be communicated in English or perhaps any other language.
I am an immigrant. I must work.
I love my work. I see every possible different kind of people every day. I manufacture a high-quality product. I like people, and I am able to provide a valuable service to many dozens of people daily. I enjoy this. I enjoy working in a relic of a Jazz Age building and polishing the surface of things until they reflect light. I like to like people, and I like for them to like me. The disdainful ones I like, if only because I feel badly for them and hope they may feel better soon. Also, I like the people who are happy to say nothing more than "thank you" when they arrive at their designated floor. I like the people who like to make prosaic pronunciations about the weather while they ride the elevator. I like the Spanish nannies and housekeepers who seem so weary sometimes, some of whose children will one day live in buildings like this, some of whose children already live in buildings like this. I like the people who wear their sunglasses indoors and affect a world-weariness that leaves me unafraid to slouch a bit. I like the suited lawyers and financiers whose deeply felt importance and bearing makes me stand a little straighter as I go about my business. I like the Carribean nannies whose lilting accents are like tunes, and whose sometimes anxious smiles belie a faith full of Armegeddon and Jehovah's fire. I like the old money people, whose finely wrought accents and intonation are same with the intricate molding in the elevator, who do not pretend to be able to relate, and so do not try, and instead just accept, gracious and aloof. I like the young couples who have just moved into their dream New York apartment and are still in awe a bit at their good fortune, who are anxious not to seem snobbish, like those "other people". I like the people who do not bother to ask "how are you?" if they don't mean it, equally as I like the people who ask "how are you?" simply because it is a pleasant thing to do; I like neither as much as the people who ask "how are you?" because they want to know, but to these I never tell the truth, because I, too, must maintain distance. I like the childless married couple, who mean it every time they ask "how are you?", whose uncalled-for kindness makes a difference. I like the woman who was unafraid that I would be insulted when she offered me her left-over chili which had been in the fridge three days because she hates to waste food- it was delicious. I like the economics professor who was the terror of all the doormen and the one none of the other apartment owners were as bad as; he recycles his soup-stained copies of right-wing journals by giving them to me to criticize on my own time. I like the old lady who lives on a lower floor and has for all her life, who must pinch pennies, and who must live on less than I do to afford to live here; she can't imagine living anywhere else; her Christmas bonus of 5 dollars is worth as much to me as any other. I like the children, who are not in on the game or the joke, allowing all of us to act naturally. I like the high-school aged young people, not yet formed, who will later be away at school, seen only between semesters, enthusiastic, who will all turn out all right. I like the senior doormen, with whom I work, who have known these children since they were brought home from the hospital, and who feel an avuncular affection towards them. I like the porters, who work in the back, because they couldn't stand to wear this ridiculous uniform, who are men who work for a living, and who lower their heads for no one. I like the immigrant doormen, whose American Dream this is. They each must have some deep secret hope that cannot be communicated in English or perhaps any other language.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Understanding
Oh, I thought I had an understanding with the super. I was wrong.
Tonight at 11:12 (I took specific note of the time, passengers), I was acting as the doorman because Albert had worked a double and he needed to relax in the back. I had taken inventory of who was at home and who wasn't and decided that it was safe to sit on the stool at the front door and read the copy of Rights of Man and Common Sense by Thomas Paine I'd found at a bargain price at the Strand this week. I was wrong.
There are certain times of the day when I believe it is safe to read while on the door. After 9 on a Sunday is one of them. Traffic is exceeding slow.
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the super coming towards the door on my right. I put the book down, got to my feet and opened the door before he even needed to break stride.
He couldn't ignore it. He had to say something. Brusquely, at that. "In the back." I think he may have been a little drunk. If I was home on a Sunday night, I would sure be a little drunk by 11:12. In fact, I'd be asleep in bed.
Maybe I should have just acted sheepish. But I couldn't resist telling him that I had done an inventory of who was in and who was out, and that it was safe for me to be reading, that there was no danger of it distracting me from doing doormanly duties.
He told me that the doorman should be like a statue. The doorman should be at the door like a statue.
I am not a statue. I am a human being.
I value my job, and I feel privileged to have one. This is the best job I can get with the resume I have. I do my absolute best to do my job as well as it can be done, but I am not a statue. I am a human being.
It doesn't bother me so much. At least it doesn't any more. Because I can let it go here.
Thanks for reading, passengers.
Tonight at 11:12 (I took specific note of the time, passengers), I was acting as the doorman because Albert had worked a double and he needed to relax in the back. I had taken inventory of who was at home and who wasn't and decided that it was safe to sit on the stool at the front door and read the copy of Rights of Man and Common Sense by Thomas Paine I'd found at a bargain price at the Strand this week. I was wrong.
There are certain times of the day when I believe it is safe to read while on the door. After 9 on a Sunday is one of them. Traffic is exceeding slow.
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the super coming towards the door on my right. I put the book down, got to my feet and opened the door before he even needed to break stride.
He couldn't ignore it. He had to say something. Brusquely, at that. "In the back." I think he may have been a little drunk. If I was home on a Sunday night, I would sure be a little drunk by 11:12. In fact, I'd be asleep in bed.
Maybe I should have just acted sheepish. But I couldn't resist telling him that I had done an inventory of who was in and who was out, and that it was safe for me to be reading, that there was no danger of it distracting me from doing doormanly duties.
He told me that the doorman should be like a statue. The doorman should be at the door like a statue.
I am not a statue. I am a human being.
I value my job, and I feel privileged to have one. This is the best job I can get with the resume I have. I do my absolute best to do my job as well as it can be done, but I am not a statue. I am a human being.
It doesn't bother me so much. At least it doesn't any more. Because I can let it go here.
Thanks for reading, passengers.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Popular Mechanic
The super is starting to figure it out, I think. Yesterday I was sweeping the rug when he came in and I made a big production of being caught sweeping as opposed to being caught reading, as if to say See, I told you so, I take my job seriously and I take my leisure to read only when the tasks at hand have been completed. It’s nice to feel like you’ve come to an understanding.
This lady, she lives on the _th floor, she was coming in at the same time, she’s been nice to me since she recently moved in, she’s a writer, she appreciates seeing people reading, she’s told me so. As I drove her to her floor, I explained to her my unusual exuberance with the broom, and she commiserated with me and wondered why reading should be against the rules at all and I told her it’s because the printed material of choice for “lotsatheseguys”, as I put it, would be indecorous (not as I put it). When I had the midnight shift, on more than a few occasions I would find skin magazines stashed in various spots around the lobby. I have nothing against centerfolds any more than any other average male, but I do have the good sense to realize that this lobby is not the place to appreciate them. There are only a couple men on staff who are inclined at all to read books, journals, serious magazines or newspapers (and a prohibition on newspapers makes sense- they just look messy), but there are a few guys there who I’m convinced are illiterate and uninclined to read even if it weren’t prohibited, and the rest are aliterate, and pretty much only interested in cheesecake pictures and glossy magazines full of things they can’t afford, which make them resentful of those who can afford them, and sometimes scornful of those who can afford them but don’t buy them. And electronics store circulars for some reason. There are more than a few guys there who could draw a graph for you of the fluctuations in the prices at of large-screen televisions at the major retailers in the area over the last five years and I only wish I was joking.
This lady, she’s flattering towards me, which is nice, as a little flattery goes a long way, I myself use it, she tells me I’m exceptional, (which I’m just vain enough to believe), that I should be allowed to read without being bothered or called out on it. I told her that that could not be the case, as, if I were not called out or somewhat reprimanded each time I was caught, the rules would become unenforceable. I alluded vaguely to many other’s choices of reading material, not wanting to subject her to the indelicacy of saying "pornography"- it makes me blush to speak of it to a certain kind of woman.
This lady, she said to me,
-Yeah some of these guys would read Popular Mechanics.
Popular Mechanic? She must have been joking. What must be her impression of me? Does she think, just because I read (ahem) literature (ahem) I would affect to look down on reading material that is merely useful? I wish some of these guys were inclined to read Popular Mechanic. In fact, left entirely up to me, I would subscribe to Popular Mechanic for the whole crew to read during idle times. And if a copy of Popular Mechanic was lying around, I would definitely read it to keep up my technological knowledge. I wish everyone I have to work with read Popular Mechanic. It would give them something to think about other than the fluctuations in the large screen television market.
I just had to clear that up.
This lady, she lives on the _th floor, she was coming in at the same time, she’s been nice to me since she recently moved in, she’s a writer, she appreciates seeing people reading, she’s told me so. As I drove her to her floor, I explained to her my unusual exuberance with the broom, and she commiserated with me and wondered why reading should be against the rules at all and I told her it’s because the printed material of choice for “lotsatheseguys”, as I put it, would be indecorous (not as I put it). When I had the midnight shift, on more than a few occasions I would find skin magazines stashed in various spots around the lobby. I have nothing against centerfolds any more than any other average male, but I do have the good sense to realize that this lobby is not the place to appreciate them. There are only a couple men on staff who are inclined at all to read books, journals, serious magazines or newspapers (and a prohibition on newspapers makes sense- they just look messy), but there are a few guys there who I’m convinced are illiterate and uninclined to read even if it weren’t prohibited, and the rest are aliterate, and pretty much only interested in cheesecake pictures and glossy magazines full of things they can’t afford, which make them resentful of those who can afford them, and sometimes scornful of those who can afford them but don’t buy them. And electronics store circulars for some reason. There are more than a few guys there who could draw a graph for you of the fluctuations in the prices at of large-screen televisions at the major retailers in the area over the last five years and I only wish I was joking.
This lady, she’s flattering towards me, which is nice, as a little flattery goes a long way, I myself use it, she tells me I’m exceptional, (which I’m just vain enough to believe), that I should be allowed to read without being bothered or called out on it. I told her that that could not be the case, as, if I were not called out or somewhat reprimanded each time I was caught, the rules would become unenforceable. I alluded vaguely to many other’s choices of reading material, not wanting to subject her to the indelicacy of saying "pornography"- it makes me blush to speak of it to a certain kind of woman.
This lady, she said to me,
-Yeah some of these guys would read Popular Mechanics.
Popular Mechanic? She must have been joking. What must be her impression of me? Does she think, just because I read (ahem) literature (ahem) I would affect to look down on reading material that is merely useful? I wish some of these guys were inclined to read Popular Mechanic. In fact, left entirely up to me, I would subscribe to Popular Mechanic for the whole crew to read during idle times. And if a copy of Popular Mechanic was lying around, I would definitely read it to keep up my technological knowledge. I wish everyone I have to work with read Popular Mechanic. It would give them something to think about other than the fluctuations in the large screen television market.
I just had to clear that up.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
