Friday, April 18, 2008
fiction(non)fiction
This is fiction(non)fiction in that I am using a narrative voice you can feel comfortable ascribing to me, in order to improve your understanding of a real situation. In doing so, I hope to make my own situation more bearable.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Pretend Like You Don't Read This
There was a board meeting this week.
The board works in mysterious ways, its wonders to perform. We find the board fascinating. We wish we knew what they talked about in those meetings, because we are sure they talk about us, at least sometimes. But when we overhear them in the lobby or the elevator, they only seem to talk about really important stuff that we don't understand. They use big words like "asbestos abatement" and "architectural specifications".
Everybody on staff is always super aware who board members are. We single them out for special treatment. We kowtow to them. We know they are the ones who make the decisions that affect the way the building is run, and thus, our working lives. Although the building is a community of almost one hundred apartments, we know that less than a dozen of the people that live here wield any real power, and we pay special attention to that half-dozen or so. If we can remain in the good graces of the board members, we can feel assured that we will be somewhat comfortable at work no matter how we behave when the board members aren't around. It's ugly, but that's politics. After all, we are really just children, a bunch of boys in uniforms, and who is more baldly manipulative than a child? Besides, I suppose that if I were on the board, I would enjoy being singled out for special treatment by the staff. It would make me feel very important, to have a uniformed man baldly making a fool of himself trying to please me.
Speaking of uniforms, I do hope the board discusses the issue of uniforms for the staff. I can't speak for the others, but I badly need uniforms for working in the front.
The day I made the move from overnight doorman/elevator operator to evening elevator operator two years ago, I went to a uniform store on 6th avenue looking for a tie. I remember when I was in school, part of the move from little boy to big boy was when a boy learned to tie his own tie. I remember my father teaching me to tie a tie the way he’d learned in the Air Force. I looked for a tie that matched the uniform and was the same texture as the clip-on ties that we get as part of our uniform. I couldn’t find one. I went across the avenue to Filene’s Basement, where I found a navy blue tie on sale that matched the navy of our work uniforms. Although it was silk and had a bit of a sheen, it was close enough to the color of my uniform that I was willing to risk it. Besides, it was only 10 dollars. I did not want my status to regress to little boy so many years after I became a big boy.
There was some commotion in the locker room that day. Everybody noticed me tying my tie. Achilles said I was going to get into trouble. Oscar told me that we wore clip-on ties because if we were ever called to physically defend the building, the attackers could use our ties like garrotes against us. Although I was flattered to think of myself as the bold and fearless defender of ## Best ##th St, I could not recall doormen ever manning the barricades against howling mobs of marauders, so I stuck to my Filene’s Basement tie. Almost every doorman had something to say about my tie, and most of them were very impressed that the little tag on the back said Tommy Hilfiger on it, although they concluded that I thought I was better than them and left it at that. Some of the residents noticed my tie, too. They were very complimentary, and I was flattered red in the face.
The only uniforms I was issued were 6 short-sleeve shirts. Most of these were pilfered by my colleagues, understandable in a scarcity situation, but annoying nonetheless. By last summer, the only uniform I had was the single pair of dress uniform pants that even resembled my size, with a glossy seat and a seam in the crotch that refused to hold no matter how many times I sent it to be repaired, and a single jacket missing one of its buttons, the cuffs of which were so worn that the place where they fold under no longer had frayed away. I made do with that uniform, and it didn't matter extremely much to me, but I did wonder why the Co-Op corporation, understandably concerned with keeping up appearances, would allow an employee to look so shabby.
I asked the super for uniforms. I told him I needed them. I asked until I felt like a beggar. I offered to buy them myself, as now I felt and looked like a beggar, albeit in a gorgeous (if shabby) uniform. I had no answer.
As my supply of shirts was reduced, I took to taking them home to launder myself, sometimes twice a week, as my supply was reduced to two, otherwise I would have had no clean shirts at all. But it was too much trouble to iron them myself, so I folded them neatly and wore them soft. But that didn't look right. So I started ironing them at home and folding them neatly onto a rigid cardboard square to carry to work. But that too was messy. Finally I brought my own iron in to work one day, and ironed my shirts on the break-room table, but that was way too much of a production, although no one complained about my shirts for a few days.
Finally I sent them out to be cleaned by the cleaners the corporation chose for our uniforms. I always wondered why we used that cleaner. They lost stuff all the time, and the shirts never smelled clean. They were very nice, though. They always sent a tip for the doormen at Christmastime. I thought that was inappropriate, but I appreciated the ten dollars, and besides that, I’m not paid to think. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that. Maybe they tipped the super as well. I would have mentioned this to someone, but that person would have had to have been the super. I respect the chain of command. I’m a responsible person. Besides, the super was chosen by the board. The board never makes mistakes. The board does not even deign to communicate with us directly, only through the super, and in the kind of language you would use with a child. The super’s paid to think. We’re just children, although some of the guys that have been here twenty years have been here long enough to be considered grown-ups. They get a pin to prove it.
One day last summer, my shirts and pants were missing when I went to pick them up from the cleaners. None of the clothes that were on the rack downstairs fit me- in the waist or in length. A tall slim guy wearing the pants of a short or even medium sized fat guy looks like a clown, and I do not like to look like a clown. I still had the uniform from my time as a midnight porter, though, and as the lobby was under renovation and extremely dusty, I thought I might get away with wearing it. I even clipped a tie to the collar of it, as my real tie looked funny on the collar of the scrub shirt. I started my shift at the usual time, and gave one elevator ride to a very particular lady who always keeps up appearances. Not five minutes later, the super, who was not in the habit reviewing uniforms, nor in fact, of even coming into the lobby at that time of day at all came over and looked me up and down with an appraising eye and told me I had to go and change. He was well aware of my uniform situation. I told him the cleaners had what little uniform shirts I had. I told him that the only shirts on the rack were 3 and 4 sizes too big and that I felt like a fool wearing them. He insisted, although I acquiesced, believing myself to be the bigger man, although my strongest urge at the time was to bloody his nose, because he, of all people, put me in this humiliating situation, as he was aware of my dire lack of uniforms, and he was the only person in a position to do anything about it. I also suspected that the particular lady to whom I’d given the elevator ride had him on speed-dial, as she had the ear of the president of the board at the time, but I could never prove it.
I was furious for a while after that, because there was nothing I could do about my uniform situation. Luckily, someone who was only a bit smaller than me retired soon after, and I inherited lots of shirts, a jacket that still had two buttons and intact cuffs, and best of all, two pairs of pants. I had been wearing the same pants every working day for a year, and although it didn’t bother me personally, I can tell that the people I work for are very concerned with keeping up appearances. The pants were a little tight, but I’m in good shape, and I’m not embarrassed to wear tight pants. And I’d already learned that these people don’t care what condition your uniform is in, or whether or not it fits- they just care that you’re in uniform.
The union contract says that if uniforms are required, the building must provide them, and I almost want to get the union involved, but everybody knows that only trouble makers go to the union. I would talk to someone about this, but it would take too long to explain, much longer than the time it takes to get the elevator from the lobby to the floor where any of these people live, and it’s not my place to make demands on any of these people’s time. After all, I’m just the elevator operator.
The board works in mysterious ways, its wonders to perform. We find the board fascinating. We wish we knew what they talked about in those meetings, because we are sure they talk about us, at least sometimes. But when we overhear them in the lobby or the elevator, they only seem to talk about really important stuff that we don't understand. They use big words like "asbestos abatement" and "architectural specifications".
Everybody on staff is always super aware who board members are. We single them out for special treatment. We kowtow to them. We know they are the ones who make the decisions that affect the way the building is run, and thus, our working lives. Although the building is a community of almost one hundred apartments, we know that less than a dozen of the people that live here wield any real power, and we pay special attention to that half-dozen or so. If we can remain in the good graces of the board members, we can feel assured that we will be somewhat comfortable at work no matter how we behave when the board members aren't around. It's ugly, but that's politics. After all, we are really just children, a bunch of boys in uniforms, and who is more baldly manipulative than a child? Besides, I suppose that if I were on the board, I would enjoy being singled out for special treatment by the staff. It would make me feel very important, to have a uniformed man baldly making a fool of himself trying to please me.
Speaking of uniforms, I do hope the board discusses the issue of uniforms for the staff. I can't speak for the others, but I badly need uniforms for working in the front.
The day I made the move from overnight doorman/elevator operator to evening elevator operator two years ago, I went to a uniform store on 6th avenue looking for a tie. I remember when I was in school, part of the move from little boy to big boy was when a boy learned to tie his own tie. I remember my father teaching me to tie a tie the way he’d learned in the Air Force. I looked for a tie that matched the uniform and was the same texture as the clip-on ties that we get as part of our uniform. I couldn’t find one. I went across the avenue to Filene’s Basement, where I found a navy blue tie on sale that matched the navy of our work uniforms. Although it was silk and had a bit of a sheen, it was close enough to the color of my uniform that I was willing to risk it. Besides, it was only 10 dollars. I did not want my status to regress to little boy so many years after I became a big boy.
There was some commotion in the locker room that day. Everybody noticed me tying my tie. Achilles said I was going to get into trouble. Oscar told me that we wore clip-on ties because if we were ever called to physically defend the building, the attackers could use our ties like garrotes against us. Although I was flattered to think of myself as the bold and fearless defender of ## Best ##th St, I could not recall doormen ever manning the barricades against howling mobs of marauders, so I stuck to my Filene’s Basement tie. Almost every doorman had something to say about my tie, and most of them were very impressed that the little tag on the back said Tommy Hilfiger on it, although they concluded that I thought I was better than them and left it at that. Some of the residents noticed my tie, too. They were very complimentary, and I was flattered red in the face.
The only uniforms I was issued were 6 short-sleeve shirts. Most of these were pilfered by my colleagues, understandable in a scarcity situation, but annoying nonetheless. By last summer, the only uniform I had was the single pair of dress uniform pants that even resembled my size, with a glossy seat and a seam in the crotch that refused to hold no matter how many times I sent it to be repaired, and a single jacket missing one of its buttons, the cuffs of which were so worn that the place where they fold under no longer had frayed away. I made do with that uniform, and it didn't matter extremely much to me, but I did wonder why the Co-Op corporation, understandably concerned with keeping up appearances, would allow an employee to look so shabby.
I asked the super for uniforms. I told him I needed them. I asked until I felt like a beggar. I offered to buy them myself, as now I felt and looked like a beggar, albeit in a gorgeous (if shabby) uniform. I had no answer.
As my supply of shirts was reduced, I took to taking them home to launder myself, sometimes twice a week, as my supply was reduced to two, otherwise I would have had no clean shirts at all. But it was too much trouble to iron them myself, so I folded them neatly and wore them soft. But that didn't look right. So I started ironing them at home and folding them neatly onto a rigid cardboard square to carry to work. But that too was messy. Finally I brought my own iron in to work one day, and ironed my shirts on the break-room table, but that was way too much of a production, although no one complained about my shirts for a few days.
Finally I sent them out to be cleaned by the cleaners the corporation chose for our uniforms. I always wondered why we used that cleaner. They lost stuff all the time, and the shirts never smelled clean. They were very nice, though. They always sent a tip for the doormen at Christmastime. I thought that was inappropriate, but I appreciated the ten dollars, and besides that, I’m not paid to think. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that. Maybe they tipped the super as well. I would have mentioned this to someone, but that person would have had to have been the super. I respect the chain of command. I’m a responsible person. Besides, the super was chosen by the board. The board never makes mistakes. The board does not even deign to communicate with us directly, only through the super, and in the kind of language you would use with a child. The super’s paid to think. We’re just children, although some of the guys that have been here twenty years have been here long enough to be considered grown-ups. They get a pin to prove it.
One day last summer, my shirts and pants were missing when I went to pick them up from the cleaners. None of the clothes that were on the rack downstairs fit me- in the waist or in length. A tall slim guy wearing the pants of a short or even medium sized fat guy looks like a clown, and I do not like to look like a clown. I still had the uniform from my time as a midnight porter, though, and as the lobby was under renovation and extremely dusty, I thought I might get away with wearing it. I even clipped a tie to the collar of it, as my real tie looked funny on the collar of the scrub shirt. I started my shift at the usual time, and gave one elevator ride to a very particular lady who always keeps up appearances. Not five minutes later, the super, who was not in the habit reviewing uniforms, nor in fact, of even coming into the lobby at that time of day at all came over and looked me up and down with an appraising eye and told me I had to go and change. He was well aware of my uniform situation. I told him the cleaners had what little uniform shirts I had. I told him that the only shirts on the rack were 3 and 4 sizes too big and that I felt like a fool wearing them. He insisted, although I acquiesced, believing myself to be the bigger man, although my strongest urge at the time was to bloody his nose, because he, of all people, put me in this humiliating situation, as he was aware of my dire lack of uniforms, and he was the only person in a position to do anything about it. I also suspected that the particular lady to whom I’d given the elevator ride had him on speed-dial, as she had the ear of the president of the board at the time, but I could never prove it.
I was furious for a while after that, because there was nothing I could do about my uniform situation. Luckily, someone who was only a bit smaller than me retired soon after, and I inherited lots of shirts, a jacket that still had two buttons and intact cuffs, and best of all, two pairs of pants. I had been wearing the same pants every working day for a year, and although it didn’t bother me personally, I can tell that the people I work for are very concerned with keeping up appearances. The pants were a little tight, but I’m in good shape, and I’m not embarrassed to wear tight pants. And I’d already learned that these people don’t care what condition your uniform is in, or whether or not it fits- they just care that you’re in uniform.
The union contract says that if uniforms are required, the building must provide them, and I almost want to get the union involved, but everybody knows that only trouble makers go to the union. I would talk to someone about this, but it would take too long to explain, much longer than the time it takes to get the elevator from the lobby to the floor where any of these people live, and it’s not my place to make demands on any of these people’s time. After all, I’m just the elevator operator.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Pigeons
There are pigeons in the courtyard faced by our lobby window. Should I bring birdseed and train them to be my friends?
I would have to be very careful how much birdseed I allowed them. Otherwise it would get very messy.
I would have to be very careful how much birdseed I allowed them. Otherwise it would get very messy.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Loose ends
The silver braid on my uniform jacket tends to fray. I went to fix it, but I didn’t want to unravel the whole thing so I went about it very carefully. There are always loose ends, and pulling one end of a thread increases tension on the other, and sometimes the weave, the warp and the weft, is so complex you just can’t be sure what the result of worrying an end will be. If I were to pull on the frayed threads, the results could be disastrous for my magnificent silver braid. First I pulled at it slowly, and it seemed to be coming out too easily, so I wrapped what of it I could around my forefinger and gave a sharp tug, and it broke off clean.
Oscar taught me a better trick for dealing with this, though. He showed me how to hold a flame close to the loose end and melt it down- the thread is synthetic material. The results of this operation are much cleaner than the other method, although holding a flame to one’s sleeve is never recommendable.
Oscar taught me a better trick for dealing with this, though. He showed me how to hold a flame close to the loose end and melt it down- the thread is synthetic material. The results of this operation are much cleaner than the other method, although holding a flame to one’s sleeve is never recommendable.
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