Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 42

CHAPTER 40

Friday, 3:42 pm

T hat there is an energy in the lobby this afternoon—the afternoon of our vote—is palpable. People have been gathering in clusters throughout the day, primarily during the morning’s rush hour, and even more so now, as increased traffic moves and dawdles through the lobby in the late-afternoon hours. There is an anticipatory party atmosphere as residents, rather than rushing through the doors to head to the mailroom or directly to the elevators, linger, looking for the latest news or gossip about the evening’s proceedings.

I, too, have been doing a bit of politicking or, at least, canvassing and surveying, in my own subtle, doormanish way. In my arguably unscientific method of research, I am sensing that the vote will be a close one, but that the tide, in recent days, has been moving in the direction of the homeless art gallery and away from the rather off-putting horse trading Mr. Stewart has recently resorted to.

“I discern the slightest aroma of panic,” Mrs. Rubin, 6D, said to me under her breath yesterday morning after passing one of Mr. Stewart’s strong-handed jawboning sessions, this time with Mrs. Pelletier, 5D, at the coffee cart. “A most repugnant smell, wouldn’t you agree, Franklin?”

I only smile. Any further reply or encouragement of such remarks would be highly impolitic on my side.

“Franklin, come over here please.”

Mrs. Hill has entered the eye of the storm this afternoon. She has not been feeling well lately and has been absent from the lobby space for the past week. This afternoon, however, she has managed, albeit slowly, to make her way with her walker into the living room to assume her favorite seat near the fireplace. Her progress from the elevator to said seat, while residents flow quickly around her, would not inaccurately be likened to a human version of Frogger.

“Franklin? Please come over here,” she says again quietly, once seated.

I approach her quickly, for I cannot be away from the front desk at this time of day for too long a period before Charlotte begins to bellow my name.

“Any messages for me, Franklin?”

“Ma’am?”

“Any messages? I’m just wondering if any have been delivered for me that you may not have been able to bring me yet. Like the ones you’ve been bringing with a noted frequency to Wendy?” She asks this with the greatest of sincerity and not a hint of irony.

I cough into my hand, the better to stifle a guffaw. “No, Mrs. Hill. I’m sorry. No messages for you this afternoon . . . like . . . the ones I’ve been . . . delivering to Wendy. None. Sorry. Were you expecting any communications?”

“No, no, just wondering.”

“Oh, wait a minute, that’s not entirely true,” I say. “There was something that came for you. Wait here, please.”

I head back to the front desk, pull six yellow roses out of the overly large desk bouquet, and bring them to her.

“How silly of me,” I say, before presenting the bouquet to her. “These came for you, just within the last hour. From your secret admirer.”

Could it possibly be that a blush has come across her face?

“Oh, Franklin,” she says, “What a wonderful surprise. They’re beautiful. Who’s my admirer?”

“Well, if I were to tell you, he could hardly continue being your secret admirer, now could he, ma’am? The gentleman swore me to secrecy, but I have no doubt he’ll reveal himself soon,” I say. “Speaking of surprises, I’m glad to see you up and about this afternoon. May we assume you will be in attendance at this evening’s board meeting? There’s an important vote, you know.”

“Yes, I believe I will attend. It’s an important issue tonight, isn’t it, Franklin?” Although Mrs. Hill is, clearly—as I like to phrase it—in the sunset years of her life, and, seemingly, almost at the green flash portion of said sunset, I am aware that, not so very long ago, she was deeply connected and heavily involved in the politics of this city. She has indicated as much within stories she has told me but, beyond that, Mr. Harrison gave me greater context around the topic within various morning discussions. He informed me that she would hold well-attended gatherings on the Monday nights before national elections, in which invitees would make their predictions for the next day’s results. In the ’90s, it became a fairly coveted invitation to receive. Due to intermittent health issues, however, Mrs. Hill has been unable to hold the party for both of the past two election cycles but vows to renew the tradition once again. To look at her today, slumped over in the leather chair in the building’s living room, one would never know or fully appreciate the political circles she once ran in. According to Mr. Harrison, no one loved a political discussion more than Mrs. Hill. And no one was more informed.

“It is, indeed, an important vote, Mrs. Hill,” I reply. “If I may be so bold to ask, I can’t help but wonder what your opinion is on the matter of the Fitzger’s space and Mr. Franken’s proposal of a gallery for homeless artists?”

“Hmm, yes, well I do love art,” she says, her voice quavering. “And you do know that I sat on several museum boards, don’t you?”

“And, so . . .?” I prod after a moment.

“Yes, I love art,” she repeats.

After another pregnant moment, I realize Mrs. Hill is either unwilling to commit or hasn’t yet fully made up her mind.

“Well, from where I sit, this seems like a wonderful opportunity,” I say. “A wonderful and interesting way to help a segment of our society. Is there anything I can get to make you comfortable, Mrs. Hill?”

“Sandra, there you are,” Mr. Stewart says, addressing Mrs. Hill. He comes blowing in and I back up, returning to my desk. As I do so, I hear him continue, “I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m glad you’re here.”

At this point, Charlotte comes out of her office and approaches my desk. I lose the thread of the conversation between Mr. Stewart and Mrs. Hill.

“Franklin, what time are you off tonight?” she asks.

“My usual departure time, Charlotte.”

“Impossible. Forget it. I need your help at tonight’s meeting.”

“Are you asking if it’s possible for me to work overtime tonight?” I ask.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay fine. Might it be possible for you to work overtime tonight? Just say yes.”

A most persuasive argument, and quite well approached. There is a side of me—a slightly sadistic side, I do admit, but I do have one—that would like to watch this sheet twist in the wind, in a manner of speaking. It would be akin to dangling a piece of yarn in front of a kitten, just out of reach, watching it stretch for something it so desperately wants but can’t quite have. Just one dangle.

“Hmm, I’m not sure if I can juggle my schedule this evening to accommodate this last-second request—”

“Please, PLEASE,” she says, timber rising. “These people drive me crazy when they’re all hopped up about something. It’s like the whole fucking building is going to be in the common room tonight. I’m supposed to take the minutes, and for a normal meeting, that’s fine. But this happened one time before when everyone got into this Excited States of America bullshit about the roof’s HVAC system, and they all showed up for the meeting. I was trying to take minutes, but then they all kept asking me to get them sodas and stuff and THEN they would ask me to read back the minutes from a half hour ago. Come on, Franklin, I need your help. I just need another pair of fucking hands in the room with me. Your hands. To get them sodas and stuff.”

“Well, when you put it so nicely, as you just did, and impress upon me how important my role will be, I can’t possibly turn you down.”

“Oh, thank god,” she says. “Go ahead and get some dinner, expense it, and then be back here a quarter to seven.”

Charlotte’s request, little does she know, actually helps a conundrum I had been in. Although I had told Judith that I was not going to be in attendance—despite her strong recommendation that I be there, as Henry Franken, in order to make as strong a case as possible—I did, indeed, want to witness the discussion and the vote. Being the soda server allows me to be the necessary fly on the wall.

“Franklin! What the hell?” roars Mr. Stewart from the corner of the living room. The corner in which he has been conferring with Mrs. Hill. This shout by him, following my recent conversation with her , would seem to indicate something unpleasant this way comes.

“Franklin, what the fuck?” he says again, approaching the desk in as quick a manner as possible, nearly upsetting a table lamp and floor planter on the way. Charging bulls are not widely known for their grace or light-footedness.

“Sir?”

“I just told Sandra to vote yes for my gallery, but she just told me that you had convinced her to vote for the homeless shelter.”

“Uh, Mr. Stewart, I’m assuming you’re referring to the homeless artist gallery. I can assure you, I didn’t instruct her to vote one way or the other,” I say.

“Like hell,” he says. “What was it you said, Sandra? ‘Franklin was most convincing?’ Was that it?”

“‘Persuasive,’” Mrs. Hill says. “I said Franklin was most persuasive. And he truly was, Brendan. You should listen to him.”

“Yeah, persuasive,” he says, turning back to me. “What the fuck, kid? Why would you be lobbying for one of the agenda items? You’re the guy who’s supposed to open doors half the time and distribute Amazon packages the other half.” And then, under his breath, “Don’t go confusing the old ladies, got it?”

“Sir, she may have misconstrued a comment I made. I was only making idle conversation as I was helping her settle into her place by the fireplace. Nothing more than that—”

“Most persuasive, Franklin was,” Mrs. Hill says from the living room. “And charming. He was also very charming, Brendan, as always,” Mrs. Hill adds, bringing the recently delivered roses up to her nose, in no way helping my interaction with Mr. Stewart.

“Has the meeting begun, Brendan?” Mr. Harrison asks, having just entered and noticing the flow and energy of the conversation. “Because if it has, I want to make sure my vote is cast.”

“No, Ted, it hasn’t be gun .”

“Good, because I had set aside some time to do some arm-twisting, make sure the right votes are cast.”

“Oh, Ted, please. Can we move beyond all that shit? You’ve been trying your damnedest for years to make something very grey into something black and white. We both know that putting a homeless shelter—”

“Homeless artist gallery,” I helpfully toss in.

“Semantics! A homeless make-and-play center in that space is ridiculous—”

“What part of it is ridiculous, Brendan? If you’re concerned about a nonprofit organization being a part of a residential building, that model plays out throughout the city. Go on down to Battery Park and visit the Poet’s House. It works, Brendan. Is it the gallery space you don’t think can work in this neighborhood? Please. You can’t swing a cat on the Upper East Side without banging into an art gallery. They seem to work. So, is it the homeless angle that makes you uncomfortable?”

At this, I feel it is time that I intercede, to tamp the tempers, so to speak. There is, after all, work to be done. “Gentlemen,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I’m wondering if this might not be tabled until this evening’s meeting. There’s a bit of paperwork I must deal with here and it needs to be done before I turn the reins over to Jacob.”

“Fine,” Mr. Stewart says, turning to head to the elevators. “I’m wasting my breath here, anyway.”

“Brendan,” Mrs. Hill calls out, as best she can. “You really should listen to Franklin. He’s most persuasive on this matter. And charming, too. It strikes me that a little more charm would go a long way in this building, you know.”

“Ah, god!” Mr. Stewart shouts before entering the elevator. “Loonies! I’m living in a damn loony bin!” And, with this rather inelegant exit line, the elevator doors close.

“A born politician,” Mr. Harrison adds, before heading to the elevators. “A born New York politician.”