The Return of Fall

Fall is here, and thank God. I hate those summer nights where it’s so gross out that you don’t want to leave the air conditioning. Living in New York with AC has spoiled me.

I hate those days and nights where you can’t get comfortable no matter how far to the left the thermostat knob is turned. What do they call them? The dog days of summer. Everywhere you go, your balls were swimming in a swarmy soup of nastiness. I don’t think you can shower enough on days like that, so you can only imagine how I feel sitting in the lobby on that same ripped leather stool for nearly nine hours at a time. It is enough to drive anyone else mad, with the large glass window and door panes sweating profusely.

Our windows are covered obstructed by large fabric drapes – they were never opened – but the fogged front doors reminded me of the mirror in my tiny bathroom after taking a hot shower. It gets so thick that I cannot see who was coming in until the doors swing open.

Global Warming is a bitch.

Over the past few months, I’ve gotten to know one of our newer tenants, Jordan Reisch in 17P, who I assumed was either a closet gay or did not have the charm necessary to have any success with either gender. I actually found him to be quite annoying. Immediately after moving into his small studio apartment in April, Jordan made it a point to introduce himself to me and spent a considerable amount of time with him in the lobby ever since.

Don’t get me wrong, I think Jordan means well, but I always feel uneasy after we talk. It wasn’t as much the kind of feeling you get because you think that person is hiding something or might be a serial killer with body parts in his freezer, but more along the lines of a general creepiness that a lonely kid with a questionable sexual or asexual orientation exudes.

But I don’t think he’s hiding anything. I really think that guy has no yellow light at all. When a thought pops into his head, he just says it no matter how inappropriate. It might be because he is starved for companionship, often returning home before midnight on weekends and remaining in the lobby while other residents returned. Sometimes he did not even go out at all, but simply wandered out of the elevator at 3 a.m. in his pajamas.

If you want my honest opinion, I suspect that even when he did go out on certain nights, he simply went across the street and sat in the Starbucks for an hour or two just to trick me. One of these nights, I am going to follow him. Just a weird cat.

So on Saturday night, Jordan came down just when I had come on duty, stopping at the doorman’s desk to hover like it was his intended destination. I think I was thumbing through a Daily News and asked if he was okay. Jordan obviously considers me to be his friend, and figuring his friend would be interested in a topic that he was fascinated with, began talking about an upcoming celestial event. Jordan began to explain how Mars would be as close to the earth, and therefore as big in the sky, as it would be for the next several thousand years.

I was uninterested, but did ask Jordan how his job at the New York Times was going. It was his third job in four months.

“Can you get me a free subscription,” I asked.

“Well, we are not exactly entitled to be giving out free papers, but I bet I could get you a discounted rate,” Jordan answered. “It’ll be a whole lot more informative than what you’re reading now.”

I closed the newspaper and looked at the cover, reminding myself which paper he was reading, and why it even mattered so much.

“Our paper has much better writing,” Jordan said.

I remembered hearing about a story where a lot of newspaper employees were recently fired for not disclosing something or other

“Were you involved in any of those scandals, why all those people were fired?” I asked suspiciously.

“Not exactly, but I do work for a department that helped shed some light on the subject,” Jordan answered with a grating smugness that was lost on me. “It was one reporter that you are talking about. He was guilty of plagarism, and since I work in research, we were the ones that initially called him out on his ruse.”

As far as I am concerned, they were all equally to blame and at risk. That is how the press works in his country.

During the course of our conversation, several more people wandered in, including a local deli delivery man who I know quite well… and the middle aged black man having an affair with Wanda Shantelle in 7F, just down the hall from that whore, Amanda. I cannot prove this, of course, but the man, “Lester,” who wore a wedding ring, had become a regular late-night visitor, no doubt for some late-night carousing with the divorced Shantelle.

I like gossiping. I am inclined to gossip about anything building-related with anyone who would listed, so I shared my suspicions with Jordan. I became amused that Jordan showed no emotion upon learning this. He watched as Lester waited for the elevator.

“You think black men have bigger dicks,” he asked me? “I bet he fucks her good.”

Starting a New Week

With the war going on in my country in the 1990’s, I could not have picked a worse time to come to the U.S. to pursue my education in electrical engineering. I learned English from reading newspapers, magazines and, ultimately, watching movies during my shift.

College had to wait. It is still waiting. I had to pay my bills. You need an income if you don’t have a student visa. I was not yet a legal resident here, I should say. So I went to work as a maintenance man in another building. I am now the maintenance supervisor four days a week. It leaves little time for sleep.

Two jobs in Murray Hill, you never sleep. But it gives me a good, working feel for the neighborhood. Commercial by day, residential by night. life is always moving.

Once I started making money, I became a legal resident alien. The management company that owns both buildings I work in sponsored me for citizenship, but I have yet to follow up on that.

Every building is different, and every doorman has different responsibilities. But one thing is true about all: We all have stories. We know lot about their tenants, but tenants know little about their doormen. Imagine if they found about this Blog, especially the girls that live in this building who come home with different guys night after night.

This one girl, maybe 23 or 24, moved in straight from college last summer. Amazing body, average face. Her name is Amanda Ehrlich. Total bitch. Never says hello, never even looks my way. You know she thinks she's better than me. It's too bad she is very attractive, because she has probably used that as an excuse to walk all over everyone.

I think she comes from a wealthy family in Westchester and does some sort of work in magazine ad sales or some bullshit like that. It's not important, because her daddy probably got her the job. What is important is that she sleeps around. In the past six months, I bet she has brought at least a dozen guys up to her place. Now I don't know what goes on down there, but some leave a few hours later with their hair all messed up and their clothes all untucked. Some I don't see leave before my shift is over at 8 a.m...” I bet they spend money on her, buying her drinks at bars, taking her to nice dinners to impress her, and then she just leaves them in her wake.

Girls in New York are vicious. But if you are into her and if you are looking for a cheap and easy screw, she’s in 14-F. I can talk to her for you. Or just come by. I’ll buzz you up.

Understanding Responsibilities

Some buildings have two doormen. That way one can bring your groceries, laundry/dry cleaning or any delivery into your apartment, while the other minds the door. I think this is absurd. Of course, there are much larger buildings with multiple entries, but I mean your standard one-door apartments need just one doorman.

Do I really need help here? I mean, if you go to a store, buy something, leave it there, it might be more convenient for that to be in your apartment when you get home. But how many times do I need to tell you that you can never fully trust your doorman? We know everything.

Doormen screen visitors. We'll hold the door for you when your hands are full and sign for packages. But as far as running errands? Not a part of the deal.

I'm not your butler.

Doorman, Not Maintenance Man

It is good to have a doorman. Your packages get signed for while you are at work, and your plants get watered while you are out of town. If you have friends coming over but you are late getting home, you can call and have the doorman let them in your place.

But please, please do not ask us to fix things. That is what the maintenance men are for. We make more money than they do. Early this morning, Ben katz, who may or may not be named after two famous New York delicatessens, called down in a panic. He met a girl at a club last night, got her drunk, brought her home and she spent the night. When she got up this morning, the diamond ring she was wearing (not an engagement ring) was knocked down the drain in his bathroom sink.

She was crying, he was yelling and I was laughing. Needless to say, I called Roberto, the maintenance man, who is in the process of taking apart his entire sink as we speak.

Also, if you have a pest problem, call an exterminator. That's not my job. It's not my fault you drop food on the floor, it gets stuck under your couch or in the space between your stove and refrigerator and then you see mice, cockroaches and water bugs. Clean your own place and get your own mouse traps. Can no one do things for themselves? And don't get me started on the girls who don't know what to do when the pilot light goes out under their stoves.

Of course, for all this talk about the difference between doormen and maintenance men, just make sure your building management does a thorough criminal background check on the prospective maintenance men. They're a bunch of criminals.