Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 45

CHAPTER 43

One month later . . .

T he weeks that follow the board meeting were a whirl of activities. I tendered my resignation as head doorman at L’Hermitage; promoted Jacob to that position which he, reluctantly, accepted (“Shit, man, there goes my freedom of the night shift—keep Queen Char-lotta butt out of my face, got it? Lonely at the top, my ass. I like lonely. We comedians are always inter-verted, you know”); filed the necessary paperwork—along with Judith’s help—for the establishment of the nonprofit organization, entitled Opening Doors Art Gallery and Studio ; began soliciting community members for board positions, starting with Mr. Harrison as chair, Judith as vice chair (“Clever, Henry—you’re just looking for a way to get my services for free”), and Mrs. Hill as head of our development committee. Her knowledge of the giving community will be priceless.

Over the course of the past three weeks, I have, on numerous occasions, attempted to reach Wendy, whom I haven’t seen since her quick departure from The Commons on the night of the vote. Repeated visits to her unit—her aunt’s unit—have been unsuccessful. I have called her cell phone, with the call on each occasion going directly to voicemail. Emails and texts have gone unanswered. I have even knocked on Mrs. Hill’s door to see if, by chance, she has caught a glimpse of Wendy since the board meeting.

“I’ve heard the door open and close on a few occasions, Franklin,” she said. “But I haven’t actually seen her. When I have heard the door shutting, it’s been either early morning or late at night. I’m not such a good sleeper, you know, so I’m aware of people’s odd hours.”

And then, tonight, as I’m working on the paperwork and financial statements necessary for an upcoming Opening Doors meeting, my cellphone rings.

“Are you in your unit? Can I come up?” Wendy asks, without any preamble, small talk, or hint of an explanation as to why she disappeared.

“Yes, of course,” I say, “please do.” I tell her the elevator keypad code and then, she asks, “By the way, what am I supposed to call you? Franklin? Henry? Something else?”

I sigh quietly. The anger and disconnection are audible in her voice. “Call me Henry,” I say.

“Yes, of course—Henry. Henry Franken. I’ll be up in a moment.”

I set the phone down and arrange my papers back in their folder. I move from the kitchen, where I had been working, to the living room, turning on lights throughout in order to make the space more welcoming for this visit. I suspect Wendy may appreciate a tour, current state of the relationship notwithstanding—it is a Manhattan penthouse, after all—so I turn lights on in the library, the living room, the back hallway, the bedrooms, the family room, the dining room, the recreational room, the media center, the office, the walk-in closets, and the bathrooms, including mine. Although it’s a summer evening, there is an early indication of autumn in the air; the seasons will soon change. I turn on the fireplace in the library, but leave those in the master bedroom, living room, and recreation room off. I open the sliding doors between the living room and the deck and, for good measure, turn on the deck fireplace.

At which point, the elevator doors open. Wendy enters the marbled foyer, the one area in which I had failed to turn on lights. She pauses in the middle of the space, backlit, until the doors close.

“Well, if I do say so, you’ve been a difficult one to reach,” I say. “But I’m glad you’ve come.”

“I needed to be by myself for a while, Franklin,” she says. “Sorry—Henry. God, that sounds strange to say. I never realized how important a person’s name is to a sense of identity until the name— your name—was changed on me.”

“You can certainly continue calling me Franklin, if you’d like.”

“No, I’ll call you by your name. It’s so disorienting, that’s all. By the way, nice place you have here. Must be a step up from your modest Queens apartment.”

I smile at this jab. “Yes, well, certainly makes for a more convenient commute. Or, did , considering I technically no longer have a job here.”

I show her around the condo, a tour that takes almost twenty minutes, allowing us to avoid the topic before us. When all that can be said is said about the art on the walls, the lighting throughout, the fireplaces, the walk-in closets, the walk-out patios, and the rooftop views, we arrive at the point of the evening’s visit. We stand on the outside deck, leaning against the balustrade, with the firepit behind me and the city lights serving as an appropriate distraction, if needed.

“I came by to say goodbye to you. Properly, this time. This one won’t end with me running out of the room. I guess we’ve both said goodbye to Franklin, in our own ways, and for me that was hard. That goodbye is what I’ve been trying to get my arms around since I last saw you—him. As far as saying goodbye to Henry? That won’t be so difficult. He,” she says, looking at her surroundings, “I don’t know so well. That’ll just be like saying goodbye to an acquaintance. Like saying goodbye to Ted or Lorraine or Sandra—just some people who lived in the same building as me. I’m leaving tomorrow morning to go back to Wisconsin. That’s actually where I’ve been the past few weeks. I went home to sort things out.”

“And, in sorting things out, you’ve decided that you’re done with New York? That you’re done with me?”

“Yes. I should also probably mention that I’ve had several conversations with the OTGB team to—”

“The OTGB team? The overtime . . . Green Bay team? The Occidental . . . transportational . . .”

“Sorry, the On the Gaux Bar team—”

“Yes, of course.”

“They’re based in downtown Milwaukee. Anyway, I’ve been talking to them about a position, a senior-level position, in their marketing department. I’m thinking seriously of accepting it. Kind of funny how these things work out—I’d be a part of the team overseeing BergMan’s work.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Funny.”

I shake my head slightly at this. In the weeks since I last saw Wendy, I realized and appreciated how important a part of my life she had become. In the days immediately following my coming out, I was looking forward to tearing down the walls of deceit that I had built up prior to and during the course of our relationship. I was looking forward to acknowledging that we lived in the same building. I was looking forward to having another presence within this condo, sharing it at times with someone else, beyond the weekly visits from Judith.

“I feel you’re running away from me, more than running away from New York,” I say. “And, if that’s true, I’m, quite honestly, surprised by it. I would have thought that my revelation—my disclosure—would have pleased you. After all, weren’t you the one who was posing to be rich? I was only posing to be . . . not rich.”

“But that’s just it. You deceived me. How could we ever have any form of a relationship—be it a friendship or something more serious—when I can’t even trust you? When you don’t even present yourself in an honest way? Turns out I didn’t even know your name—your name , for god’s sake. I don’t even know who you are or what to call you.”

“But, Wendy,” I stammer, “I’m sorry about the name issue. That and my entire facade had been fabricated well before you and I ever became friends. I was simply maintaining it with you—it wasn’t developed because of you. But, please, keep in mind, I’m not the only one in this relationship who was misrepresenting themself. You regularly presented yourself to me as the owner of your condo. An Upper East Side condo.”

“I never said that to you. You, as the doorman, assumed that. I never once actually told you that I owned that condo.”

“Yes, I guess I failed to ask for your title of ownership, but your reference to the condo—on numerous occasions—was misleading. You consistently referred to it as ‘mine’ whenever—”

“But, what did you want me to say each time, ‘my aunt’s’?”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been entirely inaccurate had you done that perhaps once or twice, or consistently. The thing is, the irony of all this is that I had assumed that you were the rich girl slumming it with me, the doorman. And, in fact, I found that terribly comforting. I went through high school and college, Wendy, never entirely sure if girls were interested in me —as in myself—or in me as in my wallet. Dad always told me to be careful in that differentiation. In fact, he said it so many times while I was growing up that I came to believe that any girl who was interested in me was only interested in my money. I came to distrust anyone who expressed the slightest bit of interest. Dad was only trying to protect me, but it got to the point where I couldn’t possibly conceive of anyone being interested in me for myself. So, in a way, my relationship with you felt so gratifying. There was none of the doubt or suspicion that came with earlier relationships. It just felt so comfortable. Of course, I would have eventually told you—had it not been for the vote the other night—but I enjoyed knowing you were interested in just me, not my money. Not my penthouse. Me. But let me ask you this—why did you continue the charade around your status when you knew that I was assuming you were wealthy?”

She looks down at the street below, bites her lip, and says, “I guess I just liked being who you thought I was. Most everyone else in this building knew I was just housesitting—they knew my aunt. But you saw me differently, and I liked that. I liked being able to slip into that persona. Everyone wants to be rich, Franklin. You may not be aware of that or appreciate it because of your situation, but that’s the way it is. This is America, right? You’ve got to be rich in America—certainly in New York—or you’re nothing. But then, at a certain point with you, I didn’t know how to get out of it. I was feeling trapped in my mask, too, because I knew what you were assuming about me. It’s kind of like when someone calls you by the wrong name and you don’t correct them that first time. Then they do it again and again. And, at a certain point, it becomes too embarrassing to correct them. Well, that’s kind of what happened here. I didn’t know how to correct you and I’m not even sure I wanted to. I liked seeing myself through your eyes.”

“So, you’re not averse to wealth, is that correct?”

“Well, sure. I guess.”

“Which would seem to imply that you’re not entirely averse to wealthy people. Am I correct again?”

She smiles. “There are some who are better than others,” she says.

“Then it would seem to me that we have solved our problem. Gotten past our impasse, as it were. Wouldn’t you agree?”

And at this, her face clouds over and she turns from me, looking at the buildings beyond us.

“No, Franklin, my leaving was not about money or wealth. It was about trust and honesty. I don’t know that I can truly trust you not knowing what other secrets are hiding just beneath the surface. I need someone who’s transparent with me.”

“So, speaking allegorically, maybe you were looking for a window washer and not a doorman?”

“Stop it.”

“But didn’t we just have a little laugh over the fact that neither of us was upfront—or transparent —about our backgrounds or our piggy banks?”

“You don’t understand,” she says. “Everybody in America poses to be richer than they are. We all buy big houses because we want to be seen as people who live in big houses, whether we can afford them beyond one paycheck or not. People buy big, expensive cars because we want to be regarded as the kind of people who can drive around in big, expensive cars. That’s just who we are; we can’t control it. But what you did, I . . . it just felt like . . . lying straight to my face. We’re breaking up, Henry, because we—”

“Is that what we’re doing right now?” I interrupt. “Breaking up?”

“Yes. I just need to get out of this city for a while. I need to collect myself back home. I’m not saying it’s forever. I do love New York. But I need to leave for a while. Please tell me you understand that.”

And like that, it’s over. We stand for another moment before undertaking the obligatory awkward, parting hug. She walks off the deck, passes through the living room and turns left toward the kitchen.

“Uh, Wendy,” I say. “Unless you’re wanting me to serve you a quick bite before you leave—which, believe me, I’m happy to do—you’ll want to turn the other direction. Maybe I should lead you out.”

“Dammit,” she mutters. “No, you stay there. Don’t move. I can’t leave you dramatically if you have to lead me to your elevator. I’ll find the damn thing myself.”

And at that, she disappears, this time in the correct direction.