Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 41

CHAPTER 39

Thursday, 9:53 pm

F rom the elevator bank, I walk down the long hallway to Wendy’s apartment. The corridor is empty, which suits my present mood, although in this instance, unlike within the alley earlier this evening, I am better prepared to run into a resident.

I knock on Wendy’s door and, a moment later, I hear a voice behind me.

“Oh, Franklin, I didn’t recognize you, at first. More messages? At this hour?”

“Good evening, Mrs. Hill,” I say. “Feeling well, I trust?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Not bad this evening, although I certainly wouldn’t mind feeling better, of course. If I felt better, I could go out of an evening, you know. Perhaps to the theater with friends, but probably not tonight.”

“Yes, well, anyway, I hope you feel better soon, ma’am. Have a nice evening.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs, continuing to look at me.

“Yes, well, you have a good evening then . . .” I say.

“These messages, Franklin, who sends them? Are they telegrams, or cables, or some such thing?” she asks, while looking down at my empty hands.

“This is, uh, actually a verbal message that I’m delivering tonight,” I say with a slight smile and wink. Most mysterious, I am, but I allow the proverbial door to open just a crack for our bit of collusion.

“Hmm, so unusual in this day of pocket phones. Oh, and computers . . . and the like.”

Finally—finally!—Wendy’s door opens. She is dressed in a bathrobe with a towel wrapped in her hair.

“Oh! Franklin,” she says, “and Mrs. Hill, too. Huh—hi. How nice to see . . . both . . . of you.”

“Hello, Wendy. I am here in my official duty. That being of bringing a message. Uh, to you,” I say. Mrs. Hill continues to stand in her doorway. “Well,” I begin again, “it is of a somewhat personal and confidential nature, so—” looking at Mrs. Hill and then back at Wendy—“perhaps I should enter your apartment—this one I’ve never, or, not never but rarely, been in before—to deliver . . . said personal . . . and confidential message . . . that has been given to me . . . to deliver to you. And just you.”

“Yes, yes, of course, come in,” she says, “to deliver your confidential message. To me.”

“Very good. Well, goodnight then, Mrs. Hill,” I say quickly before jumping across the threshold.

“Goodnight, Franklin,” Mrs. Hill says. “Oh, and Franklin—did you bring any messages for me? Did any come in?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Hill,” I say. “But as soon as I get downstairs, I’ll check once again for you, if you would like.”

“Good night, Mrs. Hill,” Wendy says while shutting the door. Before the door clicks shut, however, we hear one more utterance from Mrs. Hill, “Most myster—”

“Hmm, such a deep, deep mystery,” Wendy says, putting her arms around my neck. “Can’t wait to find out what your personal and confidential message is.”

“The message is, ‘Get dressed.’ We’re going out tonight.”

“The two of us are going out? Together? Wow . . . brave young boy. This is a first.”

“It’s time to celebrate my birthday,” I say.

“Well then, I’m dressed appropriately,” she says, letting her robe drop and kissing me, pulling me close to her still-damp body.

An hour later, we jump in a cab on Madison.

“Carlyle Hotel,” I instruct the cabbie.

“Carlyle?” Wendy asks. “As in John Pizzarelli, Woody Allen Carlyle?”

“Yes, but I’m not taking you to the Cafe Carlyle tonight—and, by the way, before we go any further, this entire evening—what’s left of it—is on me. I’m taking you to another bar within the Carlyle, Bemelmans. Have you been there? It was Dad’s favorite in all the years he lived here. He always said there was no finer bar in the entire city.”

“That sounds like high praise,” she says. “I’ve never been there. But if it’s your birthday, shouldn’t I be the one paying?”

I turn from the window and say to her, “Yeah, probably, but it’s not really my birthday. I lied. My birthday is months off. I just feel like celebrating.”

“Well, anything within the Carlyle sounds expensive. Truly, I’d be just as happy celebrating with you at Taco Bell.”

“I wouldn’t,” I say. “Tonight, this doorman doesn’t worry about costs. Besides, I do very well with my tip money and my coupon clipping.”

We ride the next several blocks in silence, Wendy sidled next to me and my arm around her. Our cabbie, who I suspect was an ambulance driver in a previous career, deftly weaves his way in and out of Madison Avenue traffic, gunning through yellow lights, passing other cabs, and putting his horn to good use—depending upon one’s viewpoint. For the first time in months, I feel comfortable contemplating my future and allowing myself a sprinkle of optimism and excitement. Hence, the spontaneous celebration.

The cab pulls up in front of the Carlyle and a doorman opens my door.

“Good evening, sir. Ma’am,” he says. I pay the cab driver and hand the doorman a ten-dollar tip.

We enter the Carlyle, go up the stairs and to the left to enter Bemelmans. This was the venue Dad always wanted to go whenever a celebration was in order, and if there was no reason to celebrate, he would make up one (“Another day of life? Close enough.”)

Wendy lets out a small gasp upon our entrance. “Franklin, it’s beautiful,” she says.

The bar area is fully occupied, but a few tables remain available near the midroom stage. My preference, however, is the same as my father’s the first time he took me to Bemelmans. I hand the maître d’ two twenty-dollar bills and ask for a table in the back corner.

“Yes,” he says, “I believe that can be arranged.”

After a few moments, he leads us to a table with a perfect view of the piano and musicians, who are just coming back from their break for the final set of the evening. The bar’s decor is an intersection of childhood and adulthood—from one angle, it could be a kid’s bedroom; from another, a speakeasy. The bar is lit softly by table candle lamps, each with small Bemelmans-painted shades. While the Café Carlyle, just across the hall, receives most of the attention due to the standing or renown of the musicians who perform there, the distinct artwork of Bemelmans is what always attracted Dad. “The martinis are cold and deep and who wouldn’t mind sitting inside a children’s book for a few hours, Henry? Just keep the little kiddies on the outside of the book; that’s all I ask,” he would say, unsentimentally, whenever he took me here on my visits to the city.

“Please don’t do that on my account, Franklin,” Wendy says, seemingly out of the blue since I haven’t done a thing for her as of yet.

“Do what?”

“Ten dollars for a doorman to open a cab door? Forty dollars for the maître d’ to walk us to this table, which, if you hadn’t noticed, was open anyway? It’s all very impressive, but I truly don’t want you throwing money away like that for my sake. Don’t worry—you impress me already. You don’t need to do that.”

I’m not sure what to say at this moment. To begin with, I had attempted to be subtle with my tips. Secondly, I thought I had handed over the currency in such a way that, were she to have noticed, she could not see the denominations.

“I tend to be generous with those in the service industry,” I confess. A true statement, but my intimation is misleading. “We’re a subset of the population that tends to take good care of each other, that’s all.”

“Franklin,” she says, in a tone that is slightly less endearing than the last time she uttered my name, “please. I know about these things—how people can sometimes throw money around in a way that’s meant to impress those around them. Trust me, I know all about those motivations. All I’m saying is that it’s not necessary to do so with me. I would like for us to be able to be ourselves around each other. No pretend games, no posing. I just find it takes so much energy.”

At this point in our conversation, the three musicians, led by the piano player Loston Harris, take their spots and begin tuning up. Judging by the badinage that takes place between the piano player and a few chaps at nearby tables and at the bar, there appear to be several regulars in attendance tonight. And then, as if a switch has been flipped, the three go from chatting, tuning up, and taking swigs from their drinks, to launching into a finger-snapping version of “From This Moment On.”

The waiter quickly comes to our table—no doubt made aware by the maître d’ that a generous tipper has entered the premises—and takes our orders. In tribute to Dad and the history of this place, I order his favorite drink, a Bombay Sapphire martini with a thimble of Lillet Blanc wine and a lemon twist.

“Well, if it’s a cocktail evening, I’ll have a Cosmopolitan, made with Absolut Citron,” Wendy says.

“Very good, then,” he says. I order the croque monsieur, the cheese plate, and eight fresh oysters on the half shell for appetizers.

Once the waiter has left our table, Wendy turns to me and says, “Franklin, this place is incredibly expensive. What are you doing? And, by the way, what was it you just ordered?”

“The croque monsieur. It’s just a ham and cheese sandwich on soft bread. The French name allows them to jack up the price by fifteen bucks.”

“But, about the expense—please, let’s just split the bill. Look at the people around here. I love this place, but aren’t we a little out of our league?”

Her question surprises me, coming from a person who is accustomed to playing amongst this league, but I say to her, “We’re celebrating my coming out.”

She has a blanched look on her face, and I realize my statement might lead to a misinterpretation that doesn’t necessarily work toward the betterment of our relationship. “Oh, sorry,” I say. “I was speaking broadly. Here’s what I mean: ever since my dad died, I’ve been in somewhat of a fog. I’ve put my life on hold, hidden within the comforts of a doorman position. But, recently, I’ve been feeling I’m ready for new challenges, to maybe move on from this position. And so, I’m . . . excited to be celebrating this decision with you.”

“Ah, now I get it. You scared me for a moment. Well, not scared me, that’s not the right word. More like . . . concerned me. But, you can afford this splurge tonight?”

“I told you—I do very well with my tips, all in all.” For a moment, I’m tempted to go the full distance with Wendy, telling her the whole story of Franklin Hanratty and Henry Franken, but right then, our drinks arrive. I pick up my martini, take a long pull on it and, as Dad always did after that first sip, say, “Doesn’t that take the edge off the day?”

“You’re a very unusual man, Franklin,” Wendy says, after taking a sip from her drink. “So unlike most of the guys I’ve dated —oh, wait. We are dating, right?”

I take another sip before heaving a bon mot in her direction. “Well, you’re in very sophisticated company right now.” The trio begins a mid-tempo version of “The Lady is a Tramp” at just the moment that Wendy slides over to me and puts her arm through mine.

“Franklin, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while,” she begins. “My . . . the condo I live in? I just, well, really, have a problem with money.”

“ You have a problem with money? I’ve got a problem with money,” I say. “I’ve been wrestling with it for years. I’ve wanted to talk to you about it, but I was too ashamed. But I feel I’m ready to come out from under it, you know? You and I just need to . . . you know, the thing is, I’m coming to believe it’s all right. Accepting our financial situation is a necessary part of maturing, don’t you think? It’s taken me years to come to that realization, but I truly think—for the first time in my life—that I’m coming to grips with it. And it feels great, I have to say. In fact, it feels so damn good, let’s have another round. I got a plan for the first time in my life. And it feels so good.”

“Jesus, give the man two sips of a martini and he turns into a regular jukebox Saturday night. Anyway, I was afraid you wouldn’t understand. I was afraid you would think poorly of me. So to speak.”

I look at her askance. “Well, it’s not exactly like your situation was a secret. You are, after all, living in Unit 8D. It’s one of the building’s most beautiful units.”

“Thank you, Ella Fitzgerald,” Wendy says, in a slightly tipsy, nonsequitorish sort of way, hoisting her glass up in a mock toast to the trio. I realize that the musicians have just segued into “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” and her gesture becomes clear.

“You’re good with music,” I say.

“They can’t take that away from me,” she says, smiling. “But I’m afraid they can. And will.”

She puts her head down on my shoulder. The waiter walks over with another round for us. “Sir, this is on the house. It sounded like the two of you were celebrating something, so Bemelmans would like to be a part of that celebration. Compliments of Anders, our maître d’.”

Anders gives a nod from his post at the door. “Ah, terrific,” I say, thanking the waiter and holding my hand up in Anders’ direction. “Very nice touch,” I add. A second waiter comes up behind the first waiter and delivers our ordered hors d’oeuvres.

“You see?” I say to Wendy. “That’s what a generous tip just bought us. I assure you, they are not sending free rounds to everyone in this place who exudes a hint of celebration. A generous tip always puts everyone in a good frame of mind—both the giver and the recipient. And that’s the point, Wendy. It’s okay to have and to give. It took me a while to get there, but I believe I’ve finally arrived. And that, my friend, calls for celebration.”

She looks up at me slightly glazed—the cosmo has gotten to her—gives me a kiss and sits up to take in the food that has just been brought to us. “All I know, Mr. Doorman, is we’re both very good at the giving out— that I’ve seen tonight. What we need to improve on—fast—you and I, with our money problems, is this part about bringing it in, that you’ve touched upon so elegantly.”

A bit of a lull descends upon our table as we begin the eating portion of the evening, a welcome relief to the heady—and slightly woozy—drinking segment of the festivities. Wendy appears to be drawn more to the croque monsieur than she is to the half-shell oysters. I slurp two down, take another sip of my martini and broach another topic with her. Since we’re on such an agreeable course, it only seems right to take the opportunity to do a little backroom politicking, so to speak.

“Wendy, you’re aware that we’re having a condo board meeting, right? And you’re aware that there’s an important vote coming up regarding the Fitzger’s retail space, yes?”

“Yes, but I don’t go to those meetings. Too busy.”

“It’ll be very important that you attend this meeting, however,” I say, in my best lobbying mode. “To begin with, we’ll need a quorum, but we’ll also need as much support around the art gallery proposal as possible. I know Stewart is pushing hard for his agenda item, which has done nothing but muddy the water. Anyway, I know we haven’t discussed this directly, but may I assume you’re in support of that space being used as a homeless artist gallery and studio space, like what we talked about the other night?”

“Yeah, but I’m not entirely sure I can be there,” she says. “I’ll do my best, okay?”

Odd, this. I would’ve thought she’d jump at the chance to assist me in this endeavor. But, of course, though she may regard it as my idea, she doesn’t recognize it as my endeavor. For all she knows, I’m simply wrangling a crowd on behalf of Mr. Franken.

“Well, in a large way this would certainly benefit Terry and Tomata and others. But beyond that, there’s something else you need to understand about me.”

“And now, a little something for our two lovebirds in the corner,” says the piano player. I look up and see both him and Anders, the maître d’, smiling in our direction.

Good heavens, a big tip certainly goes far these days—some might say, too far. I hold off on saying what I was about to say to Wendy for the time being, but I realize that the moment may have passed. I settle back in my seat, put my arm around her, and hold up my martini glass in a toast back to our hosts.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a little song we like to play when we see two lovers snuggled up in one of our corner tables,” Harris says. “Whenever folks are as cuddled up as those two are in a dark corner, and when they order eight—not two, not four, but eight— oysters on a half shell, then we know there’s some secrets floating about back there, isn’t that right, Anders? When they order eight, someone’s gonna ’preciate, hey?”

At this, both Anders and Harris let out an all-knowing stage guffaw, which the audience joins in with a smidge of laughter and a few catcalls.

“Anyway, young lovers, this is a song some in this audience will recognize from their old Frank Sinatra or Doris Day albums. It’s a beauty called ‘Secret Love.’”