Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 35

CHAPTER 33

Saturday, 6:28 a.m.

I leave Wendy’s apartment at 6:30 Saturday morning. Our sleepovers—or, I should say, more pointedly, my sleepovers at her place—have become common and the risk of detection of our nocturnal activities by other building residents increases dramatically. We’ve already had the brief, but awkward, run-in with Mr. Stewart in the retail space, as well as Mrs. Hill’s occasional monitorings of eighth-floor arrivals and departures. Charlotte encourages the doormen to go above and beyond, not below and within. Grounds for dismissal and whatnot.

Wendy’s unit is a pleasant space to spend an evening, as far as overnights go. Long hallways, white carpeting throughout; floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and items from her travels; a large kitchen with recessed lighting, marble countertops, white cabinets, and expensive-looking appliances of various sizes and purposes—some even appear to have been used; three bedrooms, one being employed as a well-equipped home office; and a den with a home entertainment center, a gas fireplace, and more book-lined shelves. It’s as light and sophisticated as my penthouse is dark and cavelike.

“When do I get to see your place?” she asks sleepily as I put on my uniform.

I am still in a bit of a groggy state of mind, shower notwithstanding, and am tempted to blurt out, “Let’s pop up there now, hmm?” before catching myself. Instead, I simply say, “Oh, it’s nowhere near as nice as your place. I’m a bit embarrassed by it, really, if you must know. Pretty small and insubstantial.”

Not much one can argue against when presented with a statement like that, seemingly, but she presses on, ineffectively squelching another gaping yawn, “Oh, I don’t care about that. I like small places. I’m actually more comfortable in them. It’s not like I’m expecting you to be living in a penthouse or anything, you know. I’m sure you’ve made it nice.”

At the mention of penthouse , I look up quickly from my busy buttoning endeavors at her reflection in the mirror to gauge her intent with this comment. Is she testing the waters? If so, she’s playing it coyly as she stretches, arches her back, and scratches her arm. All’s well. I go back to my buttoning activity. Double-breasted doorman uniforms are relentless in that way.

“So why are you rushing off?” she asks. “Who are you meeting with so early on a Saturday morning?”

Not many doormen have standing meetings with lawyers-slash-financial advisors on a weekend morning, so I simply say, “My godmother.”

“Your godmother?” she asks. “What, are you from a fairy tale? What do you mean your godmother? Is that still a thing?”

“She’s an old family friend. Kinda plays the role of a mentor, you could say.”

“Well, off the top of my head, I can think of far more interesting things for you to be doing this morning than meeting with an old family friend. What about your new family friend, lover boy?”

Saturdays present difficulties in my highly choreographed migration from Wendy’s apartment to my own. There is no way to get from point A to point B—either via elevator or stairs—without traversing through the lobby. That’s all well and good with the exception that my presence on the premises on a weekend day would invariably raise eyebrows. From Monday through Friday, nobody would think twice about my being anywhere in the building—in fact, seemingly, the residents would prefer that I be everywhere in the building. But on weekends, my appearance would border on trespassing. I would just as soon avoid the inevitable questions.

I crack Wendy’s door open and peer out in the hallway. With the exception of a vacuuming hubbub coming from the far end of the hallway—the instrument seemingly being employed more as a front door battering ram than a cleaning device—and some boisterous shouts emitting from the Williams’s unit—visiting grandchildren—the hallway appears quiet and, more importantly, empty. Quiet to the point that my journey to the stairwell would, seemingly, be undetected.

Except for Mrs. Hill.

“Oh, good morning, Franklin,” she says from behind her cracked door, just as I am quietly shutting Wendy’s door. “I’m surprised to see you here on a Saturday morning.”

“Yes, quite surprising, isn’t it?” I say, feeling my cheeks flushing. “Uh, but you see, I thought that, since I had popped into work this morning to pick up my paycheck, I would, I would, uh–—” sweet inspiration! “—take an extra minute to deliver some newspapers to this floor. A bit of added value and what have you. Here’s yours, ma’am.”

I happened to have picked up the Quinson’s, 7C, unclaimed Times from the mailroom the evening before, knowing that they were gone for the weekend, with the intention of perusing it at some point Friday evening while in Wendy’s apartment. That moment of newspaper-reading had never quite manifested itself, so I, once again, grabbed it with the best of intentions as I was exiting. It happens to be of great use at this particular moment, as I extend it—perhaps a bit too demonstrably and with an effusive amount of fanfare—to Mrs. Hill.

“Ooh, my,” she coos, “such terrific service. You do go above and beyond. Wonderful.”

“Enjoy, Mrs. Hill. Enjoy!” I splurt, rushing toward the exit sign above the stairway door.

“Oh, Franklin!” she blurts. “This is yesterday’s paper, not today’s.”

“Very slow news day yesterday, ma’am,” I say over my shoulder. “I thought that strange, too, but they seem to have repurposed the previous day’s offerings. We are in the rerun season, would seem. Unusual—not sure that they’ve ever done that before, hmm?”

Before the stairwell door shuts, I hear a slightly dispirited sound emit from Mrs. Hill, something smacking of a combination of disappointment and disbelief.

“Huh,” Judith harrumphs after listening to my plan. “So now you’re an art dealer? Where’d this come from?”

I had spent the better part of the last hour explaining my idea of converting the retail space into a gallery for artwork created by homeless artists.

“Well, no. I mean, not exactly. I wouldn’t be an art dealer art dealer. And it wouldn’t really be a gallery gallery.”

“Have you developed a stutter this week? Carpal tongue syndrome?”

“No. So it wouldn’t be a gallery like Mr. Stewart’s.”

“Good. But, why not?”

“For openers, he represents artists from throughout the world. The art in this gallery would be from, uh, the park.”

“Yeah, there’s that point of distinct differentiation. Weren’t you telling me that Stewart represents artists that paint in—what was it, again—soot?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Based on that alone, I would put your artists up against sootian artists any day. You’re going to need to work on your marketing message a bit though, Henry. But, what the hell, you have something that sounds like a plan or, at the very least, let’s refer to it as a talking point. And quite honestly, I’ve heard far worse schemes than this one, even from your own dad. It actually sounds kind of interesting to me, but it’s going to take a shitload of work to pull off.”

“Isn’t that what I overpay you for?” I say, before immediately adding, “That was a joke. Totally a joke. Have some more coffee.”

“Yeah, good one. But I will say, looking at it financially, the tax implications are actually pretty good, assuming you turn your idea into a nonprofit, which it would have to be. I don’t see this being a money-making endeavor. Its only success comes in its feelgood effect, nothing more. You’ve got the capital, Henry. So, pick up the ball and run with it.”

Mangled metaphors notwithstanding, Judith helps me think through the next steps, including the fact that the approval of any entity moving into the retail space would require majority consent by the owners of the condos within L’Hermitage. If a condo is under one person’s ownership, that person has a vote. If, however, a condo is under joint ownership—a married couple, for instance—then both owners have individual votes, potentially canceling each other out or doubling down on one outcome or the other.

“I do own the building. Is that correct?” I ask.

“You own the shell, the ground, the air rights, and the penthouse unit, thanks to your dad’s negotiating around the debt issue during the purchase. But the building comes with bylaws, as you’re well aware,” Judith says. “Think of yourself more as a benign—but absent— monarch, one whose power is dependent upon staying within the good graces of a parliament—the board of directors. This is a very democratic condo organization. I should know—I reviewed the existing bylaws before your dad agreed to the purchase. But doing it in this manner falls within the best practices of Upper East Side condos—it happens to be excellent for resale value. People will only pay top dollar if they feel they can have a firm say in the governance of the building they are buying into.”

“Is there any reason to believe that this might be controversial, that folks wouldn’t agree to use the space in this way?”

At this, Judith lets out a loud stage laugh, throwing her head back in a broad and theatric manner. “Oh, you are a babe in the woods, aren’t you, love?” she asks, in a perhaps slightly more condescending tone than is appreciated by all those gathered. “It’s a vote, Henry. And whenever you vote on something, you have the potential for some to vote one way and for others to vote another way, right? The reason this bylaw is in the building’s charter is to ensure that something doesn’t move in there that might be upsetting to the residents or problematic for future sales. It was a bylaw established to ensure that something loud didn’t move in—”

“A gallery’s not loud,” I say.

“Or something stinky—”

“Well, it’s certainly not stinky either.”

“Or something which might be perceived as bringing down the value of someone’s individual property by having a bunch of homeless folks trompsing around the outside—and potentially inside —the building.”

“Well, yes, I see there is that aspect about the undertaking.”

“Scary as hell, Henry. To lots of folks. There’s no such thing as a slam-dunk vote—in the building or in the nation. And an issue such as this requires leadership, a certain level of politicking, making the case for why this is a good idea, why it works well for L’Hermitage. If this comes up at the next board meeting without someone pushing for it strongly, there’s a better-than-even chance it goes down in flames. We’re a conservative lot, we humans. We’re wired to avoid change. Change is scary. So, here’s the million-dollar question: are you ready to assume the mantle? To lead the charge? To act as the sponsor of this action? ’Cause there ain’t no one else who’s going to push for your vision.”

“Well, uh, back to your role. Can’t I pay you to push for it?”

“Hah! To perpetually act as your surrogate? To live your life for you? Naw. You’re rich, but you’re not that rich and, at this age, I’m not that hungry. Think about it, Henry. Your identity will have to be revealed at some point. Do you do it when you can do the most good, or after the fact, when it’s too goddamn late? You’ve got an interesting cause here; I’ll give you that. Run with it—and do it right or don’t bother doing it. Ain’t no way your dad would have done something by just sticking his toe in the water. But you may have to kill Franklin, okay? I’m not convinced your doorman is the one who’s going to get this one across the goal line. No offense, Franklin .”

“None taken,” I say. I get up from the kitchen table where we’re sitting and head over to the windows overlooking the street. I pull the drapes and look out.

“Don’t jump,” Judith says. “It’s not all that bad.”

“That’s the thing with high units,” I say. “They give you the opportunity to enjoy great views while at the same time wondering what it would feel like to take the leap. Both at the same time.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, “one needn’t preclude the other. It’s just that if you do jump, your nice view becomes increasingly—and rapidly—diminished. It’s not a perfect long-term strategy. See you next week, hon.”