Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 43

CHAPTER 41

Friday, 6:42 pm

T he common space, or The Commons, as the room has been dubbed and labeled, is one floor above the front entryway. It is a converted space, formerly two smaller private units that were combined into one large community room in the early ’90s, when such amenities became a requisite of upper-end condominium buildings, just as a shared workout and exercise room became in the early ’80s. The room is used for monthly board meetings, occasional all-resident mixers—primarily around the holidays—as well as for private parties. For this particular meeting, the room has been redecorated. In place of the original oil paintings and signed lithographs that normally hang upon the walls are numerous offerings from the relatively unknown artists by the names of Terry, Tomata, Johnny, Suze, and Emily. Judith had called Charlotte earlier today, purportedly passing on a request from Mr. Franken, asking that the new artwork be put in place for this evening’s meeting. Charlotte delegated the task to me (“Can you believe this bullshit?”), as I knew she would.

Charlotte and I are the first to arrive, in order to make sure the chairs and tables are arranged properly. Judith comes in at 6:45, casts me a slightly quizzical look, throws in a smirk for effect and greets Charlotte.

“Charlene, how ya doing?”

“Charlotte, Judith,” she says, barely containing her irritation.

“Aw, dammit,” she says. “Why can’t I ever get that straight? I’m sorry, hon. Problem is, I used to know someone who looked exactly like you. Gorgeous, lots of hair, lots of strong personality, big teeth, know what I mean?”

“Yes, I understand,” Charlotte says. “Her name was Charlene?”

“Nah,” Judith says. “Cindy or Jackie or something. I can’t remember. You just look like a Charlene to me. Anyway, we all set for tonight? I see you brought the doorman with you.”

Charlotte looks over at me quickly. I know her well enough at this point to know her thought process, how this innocent observation of Judith’s plays out within the Charlotte brain. It will have occurred to her that what may have been intended initially as a proactive gesture may now appear, to some, as a possible sign of weakness. As a sign that she is unable to handle her duties appropriately or, worse, singly.

“Well, I . . . we can send the doorm—Franklin—away if you feel it’s not good for him to be here. Will Mr. Franken be here tonight? Would he rather the doorman—Franklin, sorry— not be here?”

“I don’t care. Franken’s not going to care if the doorman’s here, this much I know. I was just surprised, that’s all. Hey, the more the merrier, right . . . Franklin ?”

“Ma’am,” I nod.

At this point, people begin entering The Commons, largely in pairs and clusters. The Longworths and the Wallins, two sets of spouses I know to be casting opposing votes, enter together, wife paired with wife—two “yes” votes for the homeless gallery—and husband paired with husband—two “no” votes.

“Ah, Jesus, it’s going to be a mob scene tonight,” Charlotte says to me. “Nobody ever comes early to these meetings. In fact, they don’t normally start until a quarter after. I swear, if people start shouting and I’m supposed to be taking minutes, I’m just going to toss my pen across the room. Truly.”

“I’ll do what I can to help you, Charlotte. I know you’re doing the best job you can under the circumstances,” I say to her, attempting to put on my most comforting smile.

“Yeah, well, thanks,” she says, softening somewhat. “Tell that to Franken.”

Mrs. Rubin of 6D enters, sees me, and says, “Why, Franklin, I didn’t realize everyone from the building was coming to this meeting. Such a surprise to see you.”

“Well, ma’am, in a way, I’m with her,” I say, with a touch of humor, pointing toward Charlotte. “I’m her plus one. Actually, I’m here just to lend a hand, where needed.”

“Yes, well, you’re certainly very good at that. We appreciate everything you do.”

At 7:06, Judith, from the head of the table, begins to make peremptory-type noises and grunts, in the hopes of ending the table chatter and calling the meeting to order. I look around and am disappointed—and mildly surprised—that Wendy has not yet arrived. I have brought the topic up to her twice since broaching it at Bemelmans, and both times, she seemed eager to change the topic.

As Judith is about to bang the gavel, or what she employs as a gavel—a can of diet soda—a further noise comes from the entryway. Mrs. Hill, with Jacob just behind her, slowly enters with her walker.

“Please wait until I’m seated, everyone,” she says. “It took Jacob more time than I expected to come get me from my apartment.”

“Oh, ma’am, that’s cold,” Jacob says, holding Mrs. Hill’s purse, newspapers, and other sundry items that are typically on her walker’s tray. “You can’t go blaming your man Jacob for your being late. Un-uh. No way. That move’s going to cost you extra in your tip. I ain’t taking the fall for your tardiness. No way! I swear, Jacob’s the fastest dude around these parts. In fact, Sandy, let’s you and I have a race down the block tomorrow, we’ll settle this once and for all. You and me—let’s do it!”

Mrs. Hill giggles in a coquettish way as she makes her way across the room to an empty seat at the table. Step by minuscule step she walks, with Jacob’s attendant patter continuing behind her. This routine works for both of them—achieving a level of attention, drama, and notice.

Finally, Mrs. Hill is seated, Jacob moves to the door, and the meeting begins. In the opening minutes, Judith makes note of the fact, while glancing in my direction, that Mr. Franken has asked her to speak for him and that she, Judith, has been fully briefed on his intentions and can speak firmly thereon as well as knowingly cast votes in an appropriate matter.

“As has happened in the past, and as is written in the corporate bylaws, I will cast Henry Franken’s vote only if need be, that is, in the case of a tie, much like the Senate president,” she explains.

She also points out that the first two action items—the proposed uses for the Fitzger’s space—do, in fact, compete against each other. A yes vote on one precludes the possibility that the other can be voted on in the affirmative. A discussion takes place in which it is decided that the two action items be combined into one item: a vote for the homeless art gallery, or a vote for Mr. Stewart’s private gallery.

“Okay, at this point, with the changes made to action items 1a and 1b, we can proceed with discussion around the use of the space, known as Fitzger’s, prior to taking our vote. I open it up for discussion.”

A slight disturbance occurs at the entryway. Jacob, who is still watching the proceedings, moves aside as Wendy sidles in. From my post at the sink at the opposite side of the room, I attempt to make eye contact. Wendy, however, is focused on finding a seat. None are available at the table, so she sits at one of the folding chairs lined up against the wall. Mr. Harrison scoots his chair closer to Mrs. Delacroix, and motions for Wendy to pull her chair up to the table.

“Discussion, folks? If not, do we have a motion?”

Several arms shoot in the air and Judith does her best to preside over the spirited discussion that follows. Mr. Stewart angles to play off the fears that the homeless can so often elicit. He does all but give assurance that, if the homeless are allowed to enter any portion of the building on one day, they’re bound to appear in your living room with their feet propped up on your coffee table the next.

“Oh, god, Brendan, let it rest,” Mrs. Pelletier jumps in. “That’s just fearmongering garbage to—”

“Excuse me, excuse me, one at a time, please,” Judith says. “Bob was next, I believe.”

And so it goes. Comments, counter-comments, questions, assumed answers. From the gist of the discussion, the vote will be as I suspected—close. Based on recent conversations, both direct and overheard, I know how many people fell on the subject. A few comments and clarifying questions surprise me, however. I assumed Mr. McAdoo was in the Stewart camp, but his reactions to Judith’s answers around lease length, assumed hours of operation, the number of homeless served, etc., makes me think that he has moved into the homeless gallery camp.

“Think of the cachet this would bring,” Mrs. Pelletier opines. “Whether you like the art or not, or whether you like the artists or not, we’re the ones living in the building that became a home to homeless artists. It’s a true point of diff-er-en-ch-ee-ha-shun, don’t you think? We become a—whadya call it?—a landmark building. And my friend, Natalie, she’s a real estate agent. Natalie says that kinda cachet brings all kinda ka-ching. That’s a saying of hers. She’s very clever with wordsy things—”

The to-ing and fro-ing goes on for more than thirty minutes until finally it begins to peter out. Folks are repeating themselves, repeating what others have said and, at 8:05, Judith closes the discussion.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says. “It is time to vote.”

“Wait a minute, Judith,” Mr. Stewart says, “I just want to make sure everyone is clear on my point about unit de valuation. I also want it understood that Stewart Galleries is ready to move in immediately, while the homeless people still need to establish a 501(c)(3) organization, which could take months—”

“Sorry, Bren,” Judith says, cutting him off. “You’ve made both points very well throughout this young—but aging quickly—evening. You’re bordering on filibuster. Unless you have a new point to make, I’m going to ask for a motion.”

Mr. Harrison moves that the Fitzger’s space be allowed to be used as a homeless art studio and gallery, seconded by Mr. Cohen—another surprise from my tabulations. Mr. Cohen, I’m quite sure, had entered the Stewart camp but, perhaps, has been persuaded through the course of the conversation.

“Alright, we have a motion on the table,” Judith says. “All those in favor, please raise your hand. Charlene, count up the votes.”

Twenty-two hands are raised, some immediately, some more slowly. One hand that is conspicuously missing from the group is the one that is attached to Wendy, who is slowly pushing her chair back from the table.

“Twenty-two yes votes, Judith,” Charlotte says. I quickly do the math. I had counted the people at the table at the beginning of the discussion, noticing there was an odd number of people—forty-five, not including Judith, which means we would not be in a tie-breaker situation. Twenty-two yes votes means . . .

“All those opposed?” Judith asks.

Again, some hands go up immediately, others more slowly. Perhaps the tentative hands are an attempt to show that, while, yes, they are voting in favor of Stewart’s gallery, they are doing so reluctantly. Again, Wendy fails to cast a vote.

“Charlene—”

“Charlotte!”

“Dammit! Sorry. Charlotte , gimme a count.”

“Twenty-two, Judith.”

“Goddamn it,” Mr. Stewart mutters, knowing a tie vote goes to Judith.

“Wait a minute,” Judith says. “Is someone abstaining? I’d counted forty-five available votes around the table. Did somebody leave?”

“No, there’s forty-five, Judith,” Mrs. McAdoo, 11A, says. “But you might be counting Wendy in your total.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, she can’t vote,” Mrs. Hill says, quite matter-of-factly. “She’s not a unit owner.”

I look from Judith’s quizzical look to Wendy’s blushing face.

“She’s just house-sitting, Judith. She’s in Wendith’s condo. Wendith is in China,” Mrs. McAdoo explains.

“Who the hell’s Wendith? Isn’t that you, Wendy?” Judith grunts.

“Wendith is my aunt,” Wendy finally says. “I’m named after her. I’ve been house-sitting.”

“For, like, years ?” Judith asks.

“Yes. Well, during college. And work. I’m sorry if I’ve caused any confusion by being here. Am I allowed to vote for my aunt? If I can, I would like to vote for the homeless art gallery.” At this, Wendy shoots a quick glance at me.

“You can’t vote by proxy if you haven’t signed the affidavit ahead of time saying that you’ve discussed the matter with the owner and know exactly how they want to vote,” Judith explains. “That’s why I mentioned up front that I had spoken with Henry. It’s, essentially, absentee voting. Have you spoken with your aunt about this?”

“No,” Wendy says. “I haven’t talked to her in months. She’s in Shouzhu, China. Working.” She, again, looks to me and quickly looks down.

“Uh-huh,” Judith grunts. “So, it would appear that Mr. Franken and, yeah, me, have had a bit of confusion between Wendy and Wendith in the building’s ownership files. That differentiation may not have been abundantly clear when he bought the building last year. We’ll sort that out tomorrow. But for tonight, not knowing Wendith’s—the unit owner’s—intentions around Fitzger’s and with no allowable absentee vote, it would seem we have a tie. In that case, I will cast the tie-breaking vote—”

“Wait a minute,” Mr. Stewart interrupts. “This voting-by-proxy bullshit is unfair.”

“Brendan, it’s in the bylaws,” Mr. Harrison says. “Maybe, at some point in your life, you’ll appreciate established rules and laws.”

“I don’t care if it’s in the bylaws or etched in the cornerstone of the building. There are certain votes—this being one of them—that are more important than others. We’re not allowing Wendy’s aunt to vote on a technicality. I know Wendith. I have no doubt she would have sided with my gallery, had someone taken the time to contact her. In a vote that’s this important, I demand that either Henry Franken—who started this entire shitshow—take it seriously enough to be here and vote, or we end deadlocked and bring it up again at next month’s meeting. And, by the way, there’re lots of people missing. This should be the type of issue where everyone—every owner—votes, not just those who happen to show up on any particular evening. Hell, I’ll even trust mail-in votes if people don’t want to spend time in a meeting.”

There are so many things of import that have just happened that my head is slightly swimming. I am attempting, as quickly as possible, to process the revelation that Wendy, in fact, does not own the unit which she had always positioned to me as her own, as well as this offensive thrust by Mr. Stewart, which could quickly gain traction and, quite honestly, makes a degree of sense. I realize that, as Judith might put it, my hand has been forced.

“I’m sorry, Brendan, but it’s in the bylaws,” Judith says. “My casting Franken’s vote is not out of order.”

“Judith, please,” I say, stepping forward. I hesitate for a moment before saying, as simply and elegantly as possible under the given situation, “Allow me.”

The entire room has turned to me, their doorman. Charlotte is somewhat slackjawed as her charge—her water boy—has stepped forward; she no doubt assumes my actions will reflect poorly on her decision-making capabilities. As our eyes meet, she inaudibly mouths the words, “What the fuck?” Others merely turn with varying amounts of bemusement and curiosity. What is this new entity that has entered the stage?

“The final vote is mine,” I say. “And I would like to break the tie. As owner of the penthouse in L’Hermitage, I vote yes for the homeless art gallery. And, Mr. Stewart—uh, Brendan—Henry Franken is, indeed, in attendance. ’Tis I.”

“What’d he just say?” Mrs. Pelletier whispers. “Tizzeye? What’s a tizzeye?”

“Sorry, too theatrical?” I ask. “It’s me. The doorman. I’m Henry Franken.”

“Franklin, what the fuck?” Charlotte blurts out, this time around, audibly, in a manner less professional than I, as the owner of the building, would have preferred. “Go stand back by the sink and be quiet. What, are you delusional? Mr. McAdoo needs another soda, and you can’t vote.”

I look at her for a moment, waiting for the reality of the situation to sift down through her layers of grey matter and realize that others, as well, are a tad slow on the uptake of what has just transpired. Judith sits back in her chair, with a slight smile on her face, and tosses her pencil onto her pad of paper. Mr. Harrison looks at me with a smile and says, “Henry Franken, Franklin Hanratty. Damn it, Franklin, I knew you were better at word games than I was. I should have seen this from a mile away, eh? Hah!” At this, he claps loudly, tilting his head back, and the rest of the room fills, for the most part, with soft murmurs and laughter. Brendan appears more pained, however.

Jacob, from the door, shouts out, “Good goddamn! This is one upside-down, topsy-turvy world we’re all living in. The doormen are taking over. Look out, people! Rise up! The revolution has begun, y’all!”

At this, Wendy jumps up from her seat and runs from the room, a reaction I hadn’t totally anticipated in the seconds before my declaration.

“See there, what’d I just tell you?” Jacob continues. “The hermit of L’Hermitage has done risen up; people are heading for the hills! Grab the children and all the old ladies. And Mrs. Hill, I’m looking right at you. Get out while you can!”

To fill this somewhat awkward void, Mr. Longworth, 7E, says in a loud stage whisper to Mrs. Wallin, “Had I known these meetings were so entertaining and richly produced, I wouldn’t have missed the last six years’ worth.”

Brendan, sitting with both hands flat on the table, looks up over his glasses and simply says, “What . . . the . . . hell, Franklin?”

“I’m sorry, folks,” I begin. “I probably owe you all an explanation—”

“Yes, and Henry will be more than happy to give you one,” Judith jumps in. “But before we get to that, I’m going to suggest we take a five-minute break. Anyone need to take a wee tinkle?”