Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 37

CHAPTER 35

Thursday, 4:16 pm

T here is a heightened level of excitement in the lobby this afternoon, a different energy from most Thursday afternoons. It is as if the wind has shifted direction a tad, or perhaps a rare and portentous bird has alighted on a nearby branch, or perhaps tea leaves at the bottom of a demitasse have arranged themselves in a meaningful and significant manner, or, perhaps better yet, a—

“What the hell is this?” Mr. Stewart bellows, to really no one in particular, as he explodes out of the mailroom holding a leaflet of paper. “Janet, do you know anything about this?”

Mrs. Catledge, 2E, who happened to be discussing the very topic with Mrs. Turnblad, 9C, in the living room, replies, “It’s talking about a gallery moving into Fitzger’s Jewelers.”

“Isn’t it great, Brendan?” Mrs. Turnblad asks.

“Great? No, I don’t think it’s so great. In fact, I think it’s terrible. I think it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, no, truly, Brendan, it’s great,” Mrs. Turnblad says. “You needn’t be afraid of artists—they’re really not so bad. I think it will be a wonderful addition to the building and the neighborhood.” I surreptitiously jot down on a notepad in front of me—Mrs. Turnblad, yes; Mrs. Catledge, maybe?

The flyer Mr. Stewart is waving about in what I would typify as a slightly hysterical manner is the agenda for the building’s next board meeting. Included within the agenda is Agenda item #1a: “Action Item: Discussion and vote on proposal to allow retail space to be leased as gallery space to Homeless Art Project (working title), 501(c)(3), Mr. Henry Franken.” I assume this is the item that has caught his attention, since the other listings are simply run-of-the-mill items: review of last month’s minutes, approval of the semiannual hallway art rotation, review of maintenance expenditures, discussion of proposed themes for quarterly building mixer, and so forth.

At this precise moment, Charlotte comes out of her office, seemingly heading out for the evening, sunglasses on, purse on arm, perfume freshly spritzed, lipstick applied, and diet soda in hand. From her point of view, a more ill-timed exit would be difficult to imagine. Charlotte catches a whiff of the energy that is ricocheting about the lobby, stops dead in her tracks, and—none too inconspicuously—attempts to slowly back into her office once again, but too late.

“Charlotte!” Mr. Stewart roars. “What is this about an art gallery moving into Fitzger’s? Do you know anything about it?”

“Well, uh,” she opens, none too strongly as she pushes the sunglasses further up her nose, “I, I don’t know too much about it. Something that Mr. Franken requested be put on the agenda.”

“Oh, Mr. Franken did, did he? Give me his number, please. Right now. I am really frustrated by the fact that in the months since he’s taken over the penthouse—since he’s taken over this building— he hasn’t once seen the need to introduce himself to any of us, but yet he puts a bombshell like this on the agenda for a vote, with no explanation?” He continues on in this manner, quite effectively filling what I believe those involved in the radio or television broadcast industry might refer to as dead air, as Charlotte, within her office, rummages about for my penthouse phone number or, perhaps, Judith Guncheon’s number. Mr. Stewart’s attempt to fill this lull continues, quite loudly, from outside her office while her muffled responses can be heard intermittently emanating from within her office, along with the sounds of drawers slamming, piles of paper and folders being shifted about, and cabinets being rapidly opened and closed.

I pick up a pen and Post-it note and begin to write down two numbers.

“Charlotte,” I say.

Charlotte sticks her head—hair now disheveled and white-rimmed sunglasses placed at an odd angle amongst the mass of black curls—out of her office to shout instructions to me to look through the contact database on my computer for both Mr. Franken’s and Judith Guncheon’s phone numbers.

“Wait,” says Mr. Stewart, “you don’t even know Franken’s phone number?”

“Charlotte—” I attempt again.

“I’ll have it for you in a moment, Brendan. Franklin, would you please hurry? Brendan needs those numbers. I totally agree with you, Brendan. It is so weird that Franken would put a bombshell on the agenda like this and who knows if he’ll show up for the meeting? I would, of course, have confirmed with him, but I haven’t even met the guy yet. How am I supposed to do my job, huh? How am I?”

“Charlotte—”

“Franklin, would you please hurry up and look for the numbers? I don’t want to keep Mr. Stewart here waiting.” And then, in a confidential stage whisper, “You know, Mr. Stewart, I think it’s really weird how we never see Franken, don’t you? I mean, don’t you think that’s creepy? After all, I’m the manager of this building and I’ve never even met him face-to-face? And now he’s moving ahead with a vote on something as important as this and he’s never met with the residents? I mean, I just find that peculiar. Maybe that’s just me, but what am I supposed to do? Franklin!”

“Char—” I say.

“He just keeps sending that lawyer chick, Gucci, or whatever her name is.”

“Judith Guncheon. And Charlotte I have the numbers you’re looking for right here.” I hand her the Post-it with two numbers, the penthouse unit’s and Judith’s.

“Where did you get this?” she asks. “You didn’t even go to your computer.”

“I’ve got a mind for numbers,” I say.

She looks at me with a questioning expression over her sunglasses, which have fallen to the end of her nose, before turning to Mr. Stewart to hand him the Post-it.

“Brendan, if you’re successful in getting through to Henry Franken, you tell him he owes me a call—or, like, fifty. Tell him I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to meet him—my boss , I might add—someday.”

Mr. Stewart, with Post-it in hand, is already at the elevators. “Yeah, okay, Charlotte, got it. Although only one battle is going to be fought at a time and, right now, yours ain’t it. A deep second.” The elevator doors shush open, and he is gone. Charlotte turns back to me from the elevators.

“Say, Franklin? You never even got near your computer to write those numbers down—Franken and Guncheon’s numbers.”

“Oh, I did, though, Charlotte. While you were looking in your office, I took a moment to open the database and pull up the numbers. Nothing more than that.”

“Let me see,” she says. “Turn the screen around.”

Confounded woman, this one. Really quite tenacious when she sets her mind to something. I start to turn the databaseless screen toward her, when all of a sudden, coming out of the mailroom, we hear–—

“Hey, Franklin-wiener, how’s the schtuppin’—Ho! Charlotte! Hey-hey-ho! Did not see you there. So DID not see you there. No way, no how. Say! Am I early today? Or are you working late? Wha-hat is going on in this here lobby, huh?”

“Oh, Jacob, shush,” she says. “Help us pretend you’re a doorman, just this once, would you? Knock off the fucking street talk when you’re on the premises, okay?”

“Yes, you are absolutely right, Charlotte. Consider said street talk—fucking or otherwise—to be off-knocked. That goes for you too, Franky. Wa-ay too loud in here—bring it down, now. You heard what the lady said. I’m on it, Charlotte. I’ve got your, uh, back. Hmm-hm.”

The lobby is filling up with the evening rush. People are greeting one another, asking how each others’ days were. Clusters of short conversations begin and end. A deliveryman from Hour Drop approaches the front counter and signs in. There are sufficient distractions at this point that Charlotte loses interest in the mysteries surrounding jotted-down phone numbers.

“Franklin, can you and Jacob handle all this? If so, I’m going to take off,” she says, halfway out the door.

“No problem, Charlotte,” I say. “Many thanks.”

“Goddamn, I’m losing my timing in my advancing years,” Jacob says. “Time was, I wouldn’t see her for weeks—like the saying, two shits passing out of sight.”

“Yeah, that’s not, uh, really the—”

“But now, hell, I might just as well move in with her. You have GOT to scoot her out earlier, Frank-man. You springing your little surprises of having her hang around here until I show up is just about giving me a major heart attack-ack-ack. Ain’t no damn way I can be my charming self to the fine residents of L’Hermitage with little Miss Dark Cloud floating about here. I gotta smile, man. I gotta make people feel good, know what I mean? I gotta be up. I swear, when I’m working and she’s around, she throws me off my game, you with me on this?”

I certainly want everyone to be at the top of their game, so, suspecting that I might be putting a slight crimp in Jacob’s style, I beg his leave.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, with a dismissive shooing gesture. “Go, go. But I’d ask you to give thought around some sort of signal system that you can rig up letting me know when Charlotte is and isn’t here, got it? Maybe just a warning text, or, no, no, no, better yet, just shoot me one of those ’moji things, maybe the one that looks like the devil, that’ll be our code. That wouldn’t be so difficult, right? You don’t want your number-one man croaking from another, what do you call it, corollary. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Richards? Howdy-do to you. And to you, too, Mrs. Berger. Don’t think for a minute I didn’t see you ladies over there looking all lovely and hotsy too.”

As I head for the door, I hear the ding of the elevators and out walk Mrs. Turnblad and Mrs. Tang.

“Oh my god, will you look at these two CATS heading out for a prowl? Me-OWW!” Jacob says.

I turn back, aghast, expecting the two to be furious. But, instead, they break out into shrieks of laughter.

“Meow yourself, Jacob,” says Mrs. Tang. “By the way, sweetheart, the Bonairs are coming over at eight tonight for a little canasta.”

“Got it down right here in the schedule, ma’am. Here’s what it says: ‘The boners are gonna erupt tonight like Mount Shasta.’ It’s all down here in black and white; I’m on top of it. I don’t care what you say about him, Mrs. T., my boy, Franky, keeps excellent notes. I’ve trained him well.”

Again, screeches of laughter from the two ladies. Although my shift and Jacob’s have certainly overlapped—it’s part of my job to see that they do with the passing on of notes and updates—I realize that in the half year that I’ve been here, I’ve rarely seen him in action with the residents. And while his style might be radically different from my own, what with his insouciance and, shall we say, irreverence, he does, indeed, seem to know how to play to an audience.