The Doorman -- Intro to New York

The Doorman - Intro to New York

At last! After an hour wandering the streets of Manhattan and bumping into people on the subway in my confusion, I had arrived at 555 8th Avenue. I heaved a great sigh of relief and started to cross the threshold.

“WOAH!” yelled a commanding voice from out of nowhere.

I halted, alarmed.

There, in front of me, was a pair of sunglasses. Attached to them was a man I assumed to be the doorman. I would later discover that he was either one of the original guards of Auschwitz, or possibly the spawn of Satan, but for the moment he was disguised as a sort of doorman/security guard, and his sunglasses were the first things I noticed... They were the reflective kind that freak me out because instead of looking at a person properly in the eyes, I find myself staring at my own reflection... I realize that I look less confident than I had thought, or older, or sadder, or that my posture really IS as poor as my aunt says. But these particular sunglasses were off-putting mostly because the man they were shading was sitting behind a desk in a dimly lit building on 8th... seemingly the last place one would need sunglasses.

“Stop right there. You can’t just come in here,” The doorman said. “Who you here for?”

Were the sunglasses a shield protecting the doorman from the masses of humanity who apparently wanted to storm 555 8th? Or did they allow him to assume a new persona altogether? “Now I am SUPER Doorman!! By night, easy-going, average African-American male. By day, buttoned-down, khaki-wearing guardian of the castle! ”

I approached confidently. Initially born in the Deep South, I’d learned that charm gets you everywhere. “I’m here for Gotham,” I smiled.

The sunglasses stared at me impassively.

“The writing workshop?” I clarified.

“That’s not till 12,” the sunglasses accused.

“Yeah, I...I was pretty sure I would get lost, so I left Brooklyn at 8.”

The sunglasses appeared to look me up and down. I imagined they were trying to decide if I looked like one of New York’s many homeless trying to find a place to bathe and go to the bathroom. Apparently I passed the inspection because the Doorman grudgingly passed me a sign-in sheet and asked for my ID.

As I handed over my driver’s license, he informed me that I needed to sign in and state the reason for my visit. I hesitated, not knowing how to put, “I’m lost, my life is in a rut, I don’t have a place to live, my boyfriend and I broke up, and my career is stalled” in the inch of space available. I settled on “Creative Writing Workshop.”

When the Doorman handed back my ID, I started toward the elevator, only to be immediately stopped by an irate cry.

“WOAH WOAH WOAH!!!! You can’t just go on up in there! You need to fill in all the blanks! There’s a blank for your name!

There’s a blank for your purpose! There’s a blank for what time it is! There’s a blank for who you here to see! You get on back here and fill in all them blanks!”

“I did!” I cried. “I did it while you were checking my ID!”

He pulled the chart back toward him and studied it for a solid minute. Apparently deeply distrusting of my speed in filling it in, he continued to grill me about my intentions in his building, along with other sundry topics like my height, weight, reason for existence, whereabouts in November of 1987 and favorite color. I was glad I had arrived two hours early.

At long last, the Doorman seemed satisfied. “All right then. You can go on up. Have a nice day."