Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 44

CHAPTER 42

Friday, 8:51 pm

T he evening show’s intermission commences, and Judith approaches me, briskly, and spins me around by the elbow, while others talk animatedly amongst themselves, both at the table and as they head to the outer hallway. I have, after all, tossed a bombshell in their midst. I recognize the fact that their world order has been upset. Seemingly, half the room understands what has just transpired. They explain, while filing out of the room, to the other half who thinks that I have lost my mind, or they theirs.

“Are you ready for this?” she asks.

“Well, it would seem a bit too late to ask that question, no disrespect intended, Judith,” I say. “You have, after all, been exhorting me to come out of my shell, or, out of my penthouse, as it were. I would say that we can now, most assuredly, check that to-do off the list, hmm?”

“Yeah, well, you certainly came roaring out, pally-boy. As a lawyer, I have to say, I’m not real comfortable with courtroom bombshells, know what I mean? I wouldn’t have minded being told in advance what the game plan was. I think you’ve been watching too many Perry Mason reruns.”

“Uh, a reference I’m not entirely clear on, but I think I understand the general drift. So, duly noted. But then I guess neither of us foresaw a twenty-two to twenty-two tie with one abstention, now did we? I felt the need for a little impromptu tap dancing right at that moment.”

“Yeah, speaking of which, what the hell? I thought your chicky-poo owned her fucking condo. This little topic never came up during your pillow talk? Seems you’re not the only one throwing out surprises in this meeting. Nothing like a little mystery in a relationship to keep it fresh and alive, huh, kid?”

Judith is admirably able to keep a sense of humor in moments like this, but I’m currently neither so inclined nor disposed. I’m not sure which of the news events has me more rankled—my unmasking, Wendy’s revelation, or the long-term implications of both.

“So, what do I do now?” I ask. “What do you recommend? I mean, when everyone comes back?”

“Hah!” Judith snorts. “There’s nothing for me to recommend. Not like you got a lot of options here, eh? No, no, wait. Here’s a recommendation. Go pour yourself a big glass of scotch from your bar over there, take a long slow drag from it, and tell us a story. Trust me, everyone loves a story, Scheherazade.”

The residents begin reentering the room and taking their seats at the table. Many had not left, perhaps refusing to give up their ringside seats to what, no doubt, is one of the greatest dramas to unfold at L’Hermitage in years. All have returned, with the exception of Wendy and Jacob, who, presumably, was instructed by Charlotte to resume the reception desk. Either that or he’s securing the battlements.

Judith opens Act II of our meeting by saying, “Let’s see, where were we? Oh, yes, now I remember. We were about to begin the financial report. Just kidding, ladies and gentlemen, settle down. Unless there are objections, we’re going to go off agenda for a few moments. Henry— Franklin— well, to me, Henry, to the rest of you, Franklin, would like to address you. Henry, you now have the floor.”

I move from my post near the sink to the head of the table, opposite Judith’s position. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin. “I would first off like to apologize to each of you. I am sorry if any of you feel deceived. That was never my intention. I am, indeed, Henry Franken, owner of the penthouse unit and, for that matter, of the entire building in which you reside.”

At this proclamation, there is a round of eye darting, nudged elbows, some head shaking and grimaces, and smiles and laughter.

“Good, god,” Mrs. Pelletier interjects. “Our doorman’s richer than the Donald.”

“Yes, well, so’s everyone in this room, as fate would have it,” says Mr. Harrison.

Only Mr. Stewart remains firmly focused on me, perhaps trying to make sense of not only this evening, but the past six months, as well.

“So, wait a minute,” he says. “Let me see if I got this straight, Franklin. When I saw you in the alley, you weren’t testing the lock—you were just going home.”

“That’s correct. Nor was I cat burgling. As you say, I was simply heading to my home after a long day at the office. And on this one particular evening, unlike most others, I just got careless.”

“Jesus,” he says, shaking his head and looking down at the table.

I explain to them how shocked I was when my father passed away; shocked not only over the premature loss of my father, but also by my financial gain, and the accompanying responsibility—a responsibility I was, in no way, prepared for—that was attached to that gain.

“Hey, kid, what’s the problem?” Mr. McAdoo shouts out. “When ya got it, flaunt it, baby. That’s what MY daddy taught me—har!”

“Yeah,” Mr. Pelletier chimes in. “We’ll give you lessons on how you can spend that fortune. No problem. Our hourly rates are cheap, too!”

“Yes, were it that simple,” I say. “I fully understand how odd this affliction, if I may call it that, must sound to you.”

I explain how, starting as a teenager, I often attempted to hide my father’s wealth, or, at the very least, avoid conversations in which the source of that wealth was touched upon, to the point that, during and after my college years, I purposely entered social service work, followed by my current position.

“When I came to L’Hermitage after Dad died, it wasn’t my intention to become the doorman. I was headed here to sign some papers.” I look to Charlotte for a sign of recognition or acknowledgment of the events of that day. “Remember, Charlotte? You had an appointment with me—with Henry Franken—that morning, but Henry never showed up. Instead, an applicant for the doorman position, Franklin Hanratty, came into the building. When I came that day and saw the ‘Doorman Wanted’ sign out front, something, quite candidly, snapped. Instead of appearing as Henry Franken, I entered as Franklin Hanratty—a name transposition that I simply pulled out on the spot—and applied for the job. It was stupid, I admit that. But it allowed me to hold off the reality of my new situation a bit longer. And then, I was trapped. But, I must say, I was kind of partial to the cap and cape that came with the job.”

My attempt at levity is met by blank stares, so I soldier on.

“You can probably keep those, Franklin,” Mrs. Hill says, helpfully.

“Yes, well. As most of you know, Judith became my surrogate. Until finally, this evening arrived. Again, I humbly apologize to any of you who feel deceived by my actions. Charlotte, to you, especially, I apologize. This deception put you in an awkward—and perhaps, at times, frustrating—position.”

“Yeah, well, shit—stuff—happens,” she says. “By the way, am I supposed to be taking all this down in the minutes?”

Judith snorts at this. “No, honey. Sit back and enjoy the show. I’ve been recording the whole thing, anyway,” she says, waving her cell phone.

“If it’s any consolation, I do want to say that I was consumed with pulling myself out of this situation, more or less the moment I got into it,” I continue. “Very much to her credit, Judith pushed me constantly”—I look at Judith, who looks around the room with a subtle smile of satisfaction on her face—“to shed my doorman uniform. Figuratively.”

“Yeah, well, what else are you going to do for a thousand clams an hour, eh? Push your client to move on, right? Huh? Hey, am I right? That’s a family-friends-only rate, by the way.”

“In this position,” I continue, “I learned a lot. I learned that many of you were willing to share things with me—your doorman—that you probably would not have chosen to share with me if you knew me as the owner of the building. Your perception of who I was and what my background was affected our interactions. And that, in a certain way, was what I dislike the most about my financial situation. I’m treated so differently than if you were to simply see me as the doorman.

“I also learned a lot about the people who walk by the doors of this building, those with whom I interacted in my position—the creators of the artwork on these walls, Terry, his friend Toma—Tom, and several others. In my uniform, they were comfortable in approaching me and talking with me, in a way that, I’m confident in saying, they probably would not have done were they to have taken me for just another resident in an Upper East Side condominium building. Through those conversations and interactions, I realize that the line between their existence and ours is a far thinner space than any of you might like to think. In many cases, certainly in my own, where we all land is just the luck of the draw. But what I would like to do, once I shed this uniform, is help reverse some of the misfortune that has fallen upon these artists.

“Look at their art on the walls around you. These are examples of the work they can do. Terry and his friends are good—really, really good. Their voices and their take on the world are substantially different from those you represent, Mr. Stewart. They’re not your competition. Their art, their message, their perspective is radically different from artists such as de Smet—”

“Well, that makes you a lucky bastard, then,” Mr. Stewart says.

“—and they’re passionate about the healing qualities of art, both in creating it and owning it,” I continue. “I’ve seen that passion. Go on a tour of the Met with them if you’re in doubt. They’re characters, yes, but, my god, so was Pollack. So was Kahlo. So was Warhol. And, so, all I ask, is that you, the residents of this building, come along on this journey with me. Be supportive of this endeavor, no matter what your motive may be, whether it simply is out of the goodness of your heart, or if you love the creation of interesting impassioned art, or, as Mrs. Pelletier said, because it will bring some cachet—”

“I emphasized the ka-ching part!”

“— cachet to this address. But whatever your rationale, please help give this a chance of success.”

“Where will they live, Franklin?” Mrs. McAdoo asks.

“They won’t live here, Mrs. McAdoo, if that’s your concern. I know that’s been on some of your minds. Clearly, we’re not set up for that. This studio is simply meant to be their workplace. It’s where they will have the opportunity to earn their living and display their creations, their works of art.”

“But, Franklin, are they truly what you could call artists?” This, from Mr. Prasad.

“Yes, look at these examples. When you walked in and saw the art, I have no doubt that it was the emotional impact that struck you, not what the background of the artist was. They have a firm grasp on not only art history, but design, the creative process, the direction and the importance of art. I’ve witnessed their artistic passion up close. I want to provide them with an outlet, a conduit, to express themselves. These are voices that have something important to say.”

Mr. Prasad turns to Charlotte and asks her to reread the results of the vote, taken twenty minutes earlier.

“Twenty-three to twenty-two, in favor of allowing the homeless art gallery to take over the Fitzger’s space,” Charlotte says.

“Yeah, well, I know it’s a moot point, but I’m wondering if I can change my vote,” Mr. Choates says. “I voted against Franklin’s gallery, but I’d be more comfortable if my vote was reflected in the minutes as being in favor of it, rather than being against. Now that I understand it better—you should have come out before the meeting, Franklin, and explained what you wanted—but, now that I understand it better, I’m all for it. Sounds pretty great. That okay, Judith?”

“Well, Roberts Rules would probably object,” Judith says. “But, we’ll let it slide.”

“That makes the final vote twenty-four to twenty-one,” Charlotte says.

“Make it twenty-five to twenty,” Mr. Pelletier says.

“Twenty-six to nineteen,” Mr. McAdoo says.

At this, much noise and confusion erupt around the table, with everyone chiming in. There seems to be a land rush, of sorts, for those who had voted against the measure to shift their vote into the pro column. When the dust settles, the vote, which had moments earlier been a squeaker, can now be considered a landslide, forty-four to one.

“Brendan, care to make it a clean sweep?” Judith asks, looking at him with a slight smile.

“I get the merits,” Mr. Stewart says, “and I understand what Franklin—or Henry, or whatever the hell we’re going to call him now—is attempting to accomplish, so I get all that. But I still don’t buy it. This has nothing to do with my line of work, or a competing gallery, or anything like that. It doesn’t make sense for this building to add a nonprofit organization into its mix. For years, Fitzger’s rent underwrote a ton of the maintenance costs in this building, and a nonprofit is not going to have the wherewithal for that kind of cash flow; that’s all I’m saying.”

“Oh, admit it, Stewart, you’ve been beaten fair and square,” Mr. Prasad says.

“Well, perhaps, if I may be so bold,” I interject, “I would suggest we not position those of us within this building as falling into winner or loser categories over this particular matter. We’re doing an important thing here and there are many who will benefit from our efforts, both artists and customers. And, although it’s irrelevant to this discussion, I will benefit greatly from this endeavor. For me, it’s time to move on.”

At this, Judith suggests our meeting get back on agenda. I excuse myself, asking that Judith continue to represent me within the meeting, and leave The Commons.

“Franklin,” Mr. Harrison says, as I arrive at the threshold, “well done.”