Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 33

CHAPTER 31

Thursday, 5:39 pm

L ong after my shift was to have ended, Jacob enters from the back hall, singing about him and Julia down in the pool hall.

“I think you mean Julio, Jacob,” I say. “You and Julio.”

“Nope. No Julio with me,” he says. “This here was Julia. Believe me, I know Julia and that was Julia. Don’t know no Julio, didn’t see him mucking about.”

“And I’m quite sure Paul Simon had you in the schoolyard. Not in the pool hall.”

“Hell, no!” he says. “We sure as he-ll warn’t in no schoolyard, I can tell you that, my man. It was me and Julia down in the pool hall . Had it all to ourselves. Don’t know who your Paul or Simon are, but, ’less they was peeking around some corners or some shit, doing some creepy stalker-like stuff, they don’t know shit about what me and Julia were doing, ’kay? It was beautiful, man—shoulda been there. You coulda been watching with your pals, Simon and Paul. Did you know you can get carpet burns from the tops of pool tables?”

“Okay, very good. I believe we have plumbed the depths of that topic to its fullest extent,” I say, attempting to bring a certain level of decorum to the evening proceedings within L’Hermitage . After all, there is sufficient traffic in the lobby that would dictate a more professional demeanor among staff. “Are you ready to assume your duties, Jacob?”

“Hell, yeah. Besides, Julia ain’t coming around until your skinny ass is tucked into bed, most likely around nine fifteen or so. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Hah!” he roars. “I’m just messing with you. Don’t go getting all serious on ole Jakey, ’kay?”

“Very good,” I respond. Though Jacob is late tonight, I would happily have continued overseeing the front desk, feeling slightly at sixes and sevens. I’m not quite ready to head upstairs and so, after giving him the evening report about expected visitors, deliveries, and ordered cabs, I stroll down the hallway to inspect the progress of L’Hermitage’s retail space, rather than heading out to the street via the front doors.

Although the workers have nearly finished renovating the interior, the space has still received only limited interest among potential renters, making Judith nervous. She deals regularly with our hired real estate broker, badgering her to get more showings and, if necessary, lower the required rent.

I unlock the door and enter the dim space, lit only by the diminishing light coming from the bank of windows. Street sounds bleed into the space: passing cars, taxi horns, pedestrian conversations, and . . . a saxophone? I look and see my squonky friend—or a very good impersonation thereof—from the other day outside of Mr. Stewart’s gallery. He is playing an insouciant version of “Every Time We Say Goodbye.” Either that or a very slow version of the theme to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg . Uncertain.

I survey the space. The workers have been making progress in their restoring and updating efforts, bringing it back from the sixty years it spent as a jewelry shop. As with any decades-old space, the “bringing it back” consists primarily of gutting it, stripping it, taking everything back to the original walls, and starting over. For the past month, workers have been covering the original brick walls with drywall, and painters have been coating all surfaces, including ceilings, with white paint. Judith, in her ever-efficient manner, felt that this space needed to be as neutral as possible in order to attract the largest number of potential renters.

“If we keep it looking like that jewelry dump, then the only folks who will even consider renting it are old jewelers, and that’s too small a market segment. I want dressmakers, flower peddlers, gallery owners, glass blowers, doggie-salon owners, chefs with the latest restaurant ideas, insurance sales twits—I don’t give a shit—I want them all looking at this place. Got it, Henry? Right now, it’s dead space, a huge cash cow, and I want it doing nothing but giving you sweet milk. Okay, kid?”

“Looks kind of like a museum, doesn’t it?” a voice behind me says.

I spin around and see the back-lit silhouette of Wendy standing at the door.

“Uh, Wendy, hi—I was just, uh, check—checking into the progress of the workers.”

“Really?” she asks. “A doorman’s work is never done, is it? It even stretches into areas which I wouldn’t think had anything to do with a doorman.”

“Yes, well, curiosity and whatnot. The entire building is my realm, so to speak.”

She enters the space, walking slowly, gently touching the recently painted wall to her right with her fingertips.

“What’s it going to become, Franklin? Was I right? A museum? It has that sense about it.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Nobody has rented it yet—I believe. I hadn’t heard any interest from museum directors, however.”

“All this white—it’s so sterile. It’s like a big canvas.”

“I have been told that real estate agents like it like this. Helps prevent future renters from being distracted. They can see its potential, rather than its history.”

“Well, looks like a big canvas to me. Why don’t we suggest to Charlotte that she recruit our friends Terry and Tomata to see what they can do on these walls? Keep them off the streets; keep them warm. Would also be far more artistic than just this . . . white blankness, don’t you think?” She suggests this while continuing her slow walk along the perimeter of the space, right hand still gently touching the wall, rising, falling, rising, falling. And as I watch her from the middle of the room, as the sax player segues into the highly unusual sax-solo song, “Isn’t It a Pity,” one of the best—well, if we were to be quite honest, brilliant— ideas I’ve ever had begins to form in my mind. It’s so brilliant and so obvious, in fact, that it almost seems as if it’s been sitting there, all along, just waiting to be invited to—

“Dance?” Wendy asks. She had slowly approached me during my musings and now stood fetchingly close.

“Right here? Right now?” I ask. “Wouldn’t that feel slightly awkward to—”

“Yes, it would. And, no, I’m not talking about right now, but I am talking about right here. The space has a high ceiling height, there’d be good acoustics. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if the building were to convert this space into an intimate music club? With a small dance floor. Where couples could dance? It would be a tight space, so couples would need to dance closely. And, no doubt, quite intimately. Don’t you think that would be, um, fun?”

My brief visit to the building’s retail space has taken a turn that I had not predicted or, certainly, foreseen. What had simply begun as a quick once-over pop-in to check on the progress of the work crew has progressed into a brainstorming sesh with distractingly suggestive undertones—or is it overtones?

After a moment, I say, “Good thought—let’s table that conga line of thinking for just a moment and hear me out. What if I—what if L’Hermitage were to turn this space into an exhibition gallery? A place where Terry and Tomata and other artists who might be homeless could show their artwork? I have no clue where they store their canvases now—if they store them at all. But has there ever been anything like it in the city? Certainly not on the Upper East Side. It could be so very cool—”

At this juncture, a throat-clearing interjection occurs behind us. Has this space always had this level of foot traffic in the evenings?

“Franklin? I’ve been looking for you. Jacob told me I might be able to find you here. Good lord, it’s like you’re in the belly of the whale. What a dank space.”

Although my only view is of a back-lit silhouette in the door, I recognize the voice to be that of Mr. Stewart’s.

“Franklin, tomorrow I have an important meeting in my apartment and I’m afraid that it may not have been mentioned to you. Wait, what was it you were just saying? What is this space becoming?”

“Well, I was saying it should be a small dance club,” Wendy chimes in helpfully, “but Franklin had an even better idea—a gallery for homeless art. Isn’t it a wonderful idea?”

“Excuse me, Wendy,” I say, recognizing the problem of exposing brilliant ideas to the light of day before their time, especially to gallery owners like Mr. Stewart. “We were simply playing a little game, sir. Kicking about ideas for this space—no wrong answers, you understand. I think our most intriguing idea, actually, was the one you came up with, Wendy, about a . . . about a, uh, small, intimate nightclub. With a dance floor. And a . . . a sax player. Who plays . . . out on the street. Really quite clever, don’t you think, sir? Something . . . quite similar to, well . . . this.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Sounds great. Anyway, Franklin, I just need you to make sure the caterers get in without any problems at nine thirty. They need to set up for an eleven thirty event with some clients of mine. I need you to personally greet them, indicate your awareness of this event, and point them in the right direction. This is an important meeting for Mrs. Stewart and myself, alright?”

“Of course, sir. Quite clear.”

The mood on the dance floor has been irretrievably snapped, at least for one half of our dance team. Not so much by Mr. Stewart’s interruption as by my realization that the homeless art gallery idea is a topper and that it will be extremely complicated to bring about, particularly because of the likes of Mr. Stewart, Charlotte, and, possibly, others. But it occurs to me that, for the first time in months—years, really—I feel as if I have a game plan. Wendy and I walk from the darkened space, heading toward the lobby.

Doors need to be opened.