Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 36

CHAPTER 34

Thursday, 10:15 am

“ O ff to today’s art lesson, then?” I say, greeting Mr. Harrison as he pauses at the front desk to put on his jacket.

“No, not today, Mr. Hanratty,” he answers. “In fact, I’ve skipped the last couple of lessons.”

“Why is that, if I may ask?”

“To put it quite bluntly, I’ve been creating nothing but absolute shit,” he says, spitting out the last word.

“Given what I am led to believe from Mr. Stewart, there appears to be a ready market for that. Shit art, that is,” I say, taking a faint stab at humor.

“Hmm, yes, no doubt,” he says, smiling. “Mr. Stewart should know all about shit art. But even my brand of shit art wouldn’t sell. It’s really quite bad, as it turns out.” He walks to the reception area’s coffee urn, where Mrs. McAdoo, 11A, and Mrs. Tang, 9A, have been engaged in a lengthy discussion on some bit of low-volume gossip. He interrupts them with a flirtatious comment or two, pours himself a cup of coffee, and returns to my counter.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You mean with the art lessons? Gone. Dried up. Kaput.”

“But your talent is in there, is it not? I understand being a bit rusty—you didn’t think you’d be creating masterpieces by week five, did you?”

He smiles, takes a sip of coffee and looks out the front door. “Time passed, that’s what happened. I can’t tell you how many dreadful meetings I sat through in my career, how many briefs I filed, how many clients I put up with, all with the firmly established thought in my head that someday, someday, I wouldn’t have to endure this nonsense any longer, that I could get back to what I thought was truly important to me, not to anyone else, but to me . Creating art. It’s what I had loved to do throughout my childhood. I would daydream, saying to myself that I will retire from the law once Father died, that I needn’t continue living out his dreams for me. There’s no way I could have done so prior to his death. I was a pleaser, not one of those kids who tried to punish his parents by making poor choices. But once Father died, our kids were in high school—private schools—and it didn’t seem like a fitting time to put on the beret and pull out the oils. So, again, I held off. I became a partner and had a full pension dangling in front of me. It would not have been a responsible decision to leave so soon after achieving that status. And then, what I was most afraid of, what played at the back of my mind for years, turned out to be true. The talent—if it was ever there—was gone. As it turns out, there was an expiration date on that particular talent.”

“But, sir, isn’t it the act itself—the act of creation—that attracted you to the activity? Does it truly matter if it’s good or not? If you enjoy it, why not do it?”

“To me it matters,” he says. “If I’m just spinning my wheels, not producing anything of value, then the activity itself is meaningless, eh?”

“Well, maybe,” I say, “but it seems—”

“Why spin our wheels, Mr. Hanratty? We’re not caged gerbils. Our talents should be put to better use, don’t you think?”

I look at him for a moment, and then look down at the pile of papers in front of me. A day’s worth of delivery notifications, maintenance calls, and prearranged visitor listings. Mrs. McAdoo and Mrs. Tang loudly part one another’s company and others spill from the elevator, heading toward the mailroom or outdoors. A series of morning greetings and shouted instructions are tossed in my direction. Within minutes, the lobby is quiet once again.

“Yes, well,” I begin, “I suppose you may be right.”

“I’m afraid I missed it—my window,” he says. “Thought it would always be open for me. As I get older, I realize these opportunities might not always be there for us. And there’s something a little sad in that, I think. Wish I’d have considered that when I was younger. I let a job get in the way of the things that I really cared for.”

I’ve not seen Mr. Harrison in this type of mood before, somewhat maudlin and mawkish. But I recognize that there is far more to Mr. Harrison than his crossword puzzles and less-than-museum-quality etchings. A touch of the philosopher in him, really. He buttons his sport coat and heads toward the door. But before he exits, he turns and holds up his coffee cup, as if in a toast, “And so, young Hanratty, here’s to the lawyer I never wanted to be, and to the artist who never was.”

Once he steps outside, I push the papers on my counter off to the side. I open the drawer on my left, pull out a sheet of paper, and begin making a to-do list. The day’s priorities have changed.