Glenn R Miller

Opening Chapter of Doorman Wanted

Prologue – Four Months Ago

I turned the corner off Park Avenue and started looking for my home. There it is, I thought, that one there.

On the tree-lined stretch of stately condos and apartment buildings, the structure that had technically been in my possession since 7:37 p.m. two weeks ago Tuesday—the determined hour and minute my father suffered his heart attack—announced itself like Dad invariably did when entering into any setting: loudly, with exuberance, and flashing money. I hadn’t seen the building before, much less entered its premises, but I recognized Dad’s unique style from a half-block away. 

The building burps marble, if not taste. White marble blocks, set at incongruous angles, cover the building’s twelve-story façade; black distressed marble spans the distance from the gold-plated front doors to the curb; delicate, pink marble flower boxes hang beneath the second-floor windows and outside the building’s retail space; and finally, a marble statue of a bull protrudes from the building’s front niche. While fervidly embracing his marble phase during the renovation of the building last year, Dad had informed me in one of our rare cross-country phone conversations that he had removed a headless Greek statue from the recess and replaced it with this commissioned bull. “Bulls signify wealth, Henry. Did you ever know that? Who knew that? But they do!” Adorning the building’s façade with marble blocks did not suffice in announcing my father’s arrival on the Upper East Side. He needed to ride in on a white bull.

Dad’s long-standing financial attorney and closest friend, Judith Guncheon, had reached me early that Wednesday morning, just as I was sitting down with my team at St. Benedict’s Shelter in Los Angeles. Had there been openings at a San Diego agency—or Barrow, Alaska, for that matter—when I was applying for such jobs, I would have gone after them, thereby putting a few more miles and hills between me and New York City.

Sadly, nothing was available.

Judith informed me that Dad had died the night before from a massive coronary. One of his construction foremen had discovered his body behind a desk that morning within a small, onsite trailer—an ignominious departure for the king of displaced and gentrified real estate development in the Triborough region. It should be noted that that is not an official title, simply an honorific bestowed upon Dad by me, in one of my sniffier and more heated exchanges with him. It was yet another in a list of disparaging comments I aimed his way, immediately regretting, yet incapable of uttering anything that approached even a mumbled apology. 

“It’s time to come home, Henry,” she proclaimed. Serving in the dual roles of both family lawyer and personal godmother, Judith was accustomed to issuing such opinions in my direction. Regarding moving back to New York, she had been sharing this perspective with me for the past ten years during our sporadic phone calls, ever since I landed on the West Coast following my college graduation. I assumed she did so on behalf of Dad, whose hope was to groom me for the eventual takeover of the business.

“And when I say, ‘come home,’” she continued, “I mean move here. You’ll be one of New York City’s wealthiest thirty-four-year-olds—”

“Thirty-three.”

“Better yet. That moves you up a couple of slots. Very, very eligible. Oh, and you now own that building your dad insisted on buying last year up near the park. You get the top floor. Nice views. Come pick up your keys.”

At this, I started to dry-retch.

“All right, it sounds like our conversation is wrapping up,” she said. “As is your time in California. Oh, and Henry?”

“Yeah?” I said, wiping my mouth.

“I’m sorry for your loss. And mine. I know you and your dad had your issues, but I loved him like a brother. I wish you had known him like I did. See you soon.”

*

I stood outside the building—my building—L’Hermitage, by name, attempting to delay my entrance and forestall my future. I had come from Judith’s office after signing documents, meeting with on-staff financial managers, ignoring said financial managers’ brilliantly colorful PowerPoint presentations, and sitting down in a darkened “soft” conference room with two people named Kim and Terry. Or was it Tim and Carrie? Unclear. The two introduced themselves as financial therapists, explaining to me that there is a very real connection between money and mental health. They informed me that, as part of Judith’s team, Judith had asked that they sit down with me and that we would have as many of these meetings as I would like.

“Great,” I said. “In that case, I think we’re done.”

They gamely pushed on, letting me know that in the weeks ahead we would go over not just the value of money, but the value of me, the value of myself within society, the value of my time, my energy, my gifts, and my unique skill sets. They stressed that the three of us were, indeed, in a safe space, a judgment-free zone.

“Mm, not entirely,” I said.

“Henry,” one of the Kim/Terry team said.

“Yes?” I responded.

“Henry,” the other said, unwilling to be topped by his teammate. “What is it you want? How can we help you?”

“I haven’t a clue. I don’t know what I want.”

“Well,” one of them said, “I think this has been a constructive first session. Are you available again next Tuesday?” 

*

And so, after ten or so minutes of standing in front of my newly acquired building, stalling, reading a sign posted near the building’s front door that stated “Doorman Wanted,” observing people walk in and out of the building, watching others walk up and down the street, going back to more closely inspect the help-wanted sign— this time with a particular interest in the listed qualifications—giving the look-see to my fingernails, assigning various nicknames to pigeons strolling by—Throttle-Neck, Pretty Boy, Whompa Bompa, Cannonball, Catherine (coloring reminded me of a previous work associate’s bouffant), Future Shock, Future Shuttlecock, Ratface, Rat-a-Tat-Tat, RattyRat, etc.—I worked up my nerve and entered. 

The interior space, unlike the flashy exterior, was tastefully appointed. There was an office immediately to my left with a sign reading Charlotte Marbury, Manager. Deeper into the interior was a large, open… what shall we call it? A living room? A parlor? Certainly not a common area, for there was nothing common about this space at all. One immediately wanted to enter: warm, tan wood paneling enclosed the room, with black walnut framing the doors and windows. There was a large unlit, but seemingly working, fireplace at the opposite end of the room, framed in floor-to-ceiling brick and millwork.

Alcoves contained shelves of hard-bound books; two Italian leather sectionals occupied the middle of the room, separated by a low leather-wrapped block serving as both coffee table and supporting foundation for a scattering of art books dedicated to German expressionism, Scandinavian landscapes, Asian prints, International Pop, and a robust volume entitled Anti-Art. Modern lounge chairs were arranged in couplets throughout the rest of the space, each pairing separated by sculpted wooden side tables. Opposite the parlor and across the central hall were elevators. Two men were in mid-conversation, waiting for an arriving car.

“—my doctor said one glass of red wine each day actually has beneficial health effects, that there are antioxidants—”

“Whaddya talking about, ‘one glass each day’?”

“That’s what my doctor told me. A glass a day. I have mine every evening before

I go to bed.”

“Well, if one is good for you, glasses two through six must be even better.”

“Nah, it’s just one a night. But I have a work-around. The glass I use is sixty-four ounces. I’ll get you one so you can be in compliance, too. We can be on the same healthy diet together—”

The doors closed and the remainder of the dietary-insights discussion was lost to me. On the right of the elevators was a hallway, presumably to a mailroom. And finally, to the right of that hallway, and near the front door I’d just entered was a large, wooden reception counter. Behind it was a woman, about my age, with a large spray of curly, black hair.

“Can I help you?”

“Well, yeah, maybe. I’m here for the… uh… for the… well, uh—”

“For the pickup? For the dropoff? For directions? Use your words. You’re here for the…?”

“I’mhereforthebuilding,” I blurted out, a tad less elegantly than one might normally do when assuming ownership of an Upper East Side luxury condominium.

“Aren’t we the eager beaver,” she asked. “The employment agency said they’d be sending you over later this afternoon. And, by the way, you don’t get the whole building, just the door. You’re the doorman, not the buildingman. Here, fill this out, we need it for our records.”

She held out a clipboard to me with a sheet of paper attached. Over the past four months, I’ve thought back numerous times to that moment. I could have—should have— immediately said, “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. You see, I do get the whole building.” But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. In the flicker of that moment, I felt she was handing me a life ring, a preserver. No, that’s not quite right. More like a means of flight, a means of escape, if only momentary. No, no, that’s not quite right, either. She was handing me an opportunity to hide.

“Thanks,” I said. I started to fill out the form by writing my full name, Henry Franken, but realized this probably wouldn’t do. I scratched it out and took another run at it, writing, “Frank Henry.” Stupid! Too obvious. I crowded in “-lin” after “Frank,” forming “Franklin,” turned the “e” in “Henry” to an “a,” scratched out the “y” in “Henry,” and added “ratty,” my pigeon nicknaming game seemingly still rattling around in my head.

“I promise, the form gets easier once you get past the name part,” the receptionist said. “In case I can’t read all that talon-scratching, what’s your name? Temp didn’t tell me.”

“Who?”

“Tempositions? Your agency? Remember them? They’re the ones who sent you over here. They’re also the ones taking a fifteen percent cut of your pay for the next year.”

“Oh, right, of course. Sorry, I misheard you. My name is Franklin Hanratty,” I said.

“I’m Charlotte,” she said. “A bunch of guys report to you, you report to me, and I report to the new owner, so there you go. You’re pretty close to the top of our elaborate hierarchy. You have a few days to work out your jitters. I need you in here Monday morning at eight.”

I finished filling out the sheet, a little more comfortable and seasoned with the fictitious information I was laying out. I exited L’Hermitage in a slight daze, mystified by what I had just impulsively done. Within his business dealings, Dad had always, shall we say, skirted the law. Is this how he got his start, by falsifying documents? It all felt too easy. Could I undo what I had just done, without seeming entirely crazed? Hardly, at least not in that moment. So how was I now going to assume Dad’s unit within the building— the penthouse? That had been my initial mission, assigned by Judith just a few hours earlier. At the very least, I needed to come clean to Judith. Right after I called Tempositions to cancel L’Hermitage’s need for a doorman.