Location: New York, United States
Program: Feature Writing
Year: 2024
Acknowledgements: Jonathan Weiner
On my first day in New York, my main mission was to check in to my apartment, where I would live for a year.
That morning in late June, when I pushed open the building’s main door, the doorman at the Rococo-style reception desk, unlike the courteous butler you might expect to greet you in the lobby, was playing a video game on his phone.
He quickly noticed me, leaned back in his seat, and said, “What’s up?”
The doorman was an Afro-Caribbean American man dressed in a black suit and a white shirt. With a large and broad frame, he looked very composed. Somehow, you felt that he had a sense of humor.
I introduced myself and mentioned that I was moving in today. He found a thick ledger in the drawer and flipped through it quickly, the edges of each page already curled from prolonged exposure to humidity. “It seems that you are one hour earlier than your appointment,” he said, looking up at me with wide eyes. “If you want to check in earlier, you need to pay fifty bucks.”
I could not believe it. I had just flown from Tokyo, spent six hours on a layover in Hawaii--almost 48 hours without any sleep.
“I’m kidding, brother,” he laughed, and called the superintendent.
About ten minutes later, the super burst through the lobby door and exclaimed, “Are you John? You are too early!” It was just the three of us in the lobby, but his voice could have been heard easily even in a hustling and bustling bazaar. The super was around sixty, with white hair, wearing a blue T-shirt and army pants, looking like a seasoned sergeant major. Holding a sheaf of papers in his left hand and waving his right hand, he introduced me to the apartment building. I followed his finger as he pointed to the right and to the left, and looked around. Being an architect, I was surprised by what I saw.
The building (just 200 feet from the campus of Columbia University) was constructed in 1910, making it 114 years old. In Tokyo, most people don’t want to live in apartments older than 20 years, because they are not as safe in earthquakes. If they are 40 years old, their market value often drops to zero, leaving only the value of the land; buildings that old might be haunted by the ghosts of any previous occupants who happened to have died inside them. Having lived in Japan for many years, I found it difficult to imagine living in such an old building for an entire year.
The building is attached to nearby apartments, resembling a group of tough guys with their arms around each other. Its façade is very New York; you may find it hard to distinguish it from other pre-war apartment buildings in Manhattan: A European-style marble relief on top, brownish brick decoration on the body, and white paint on the podium. When you push open the main door to the lobby, you are greeted by a strong smell of fresh paint. However, the lobby's interior exudes an aristocratic vibe, with elegant curves that lead from columns to a double-height ceiling, all neatly painted in white latex. While it may not be at the level of the grandeur of Rome, it certainly gives off the charm of a smaller but glorious Grand Duchy.
***
Now that I have lived there for a while, I have gotten to know the doorman, whose name is Marlon. During the daytime hours, he is usually busy checking the parcels, and marking a specific signature that only his colleagues understand on each box. The boxes are often stacked neatly on the desk, so high that you can hardly see his head. In the nighttime hours, he always watches movies on his phone which he holds in his huge right hand, laughing from time to time. Although night shifts are tougher—since you cannot sleep—he finds them relaxing. Like many working-class people in New York, he lives with his family in deep Brooklyn, which gives him one and a half hour commute to work. This can worsen during snowy days. His grandparents were originally from Trinidad and Tobago, and by his own account, he is 1/8 Asian, but nobody believes him, until he shows them an old family photo on his phone.
In Manhattan, being a doorman is a competitive position. People usually become doormen by being promoted from plumbers, janitors, or repairmen, which typically requires two to three years. However, Marlon was lucky. The previous doorman resigned in Marlon’s tenth month as a plumber, and the super could not find an alternative person to fill the position.
Marlon is relaxed and friendly and always greets people with a smile, unlike the super. Back on that day when I first arrived, the super was continually yelling: “Remember your lobby key! It is sometimes locked after 10 p.m.!” Every word he spoke felt like a final warning: “DO NOT…” After introducing what felt to me like hundreds of rules for the new room, he asked, “Any questions?” I thought for a moment and stammered, “Is—is—is the doorman here, uh, 24 hours?” He did not answer but became very angry: “DO NOT say ‘doorman’; say ‘doorperson!’ Watch your language!”
“Marlon!” the super exclaimed. “What is your position?” He wanted Marlon to confirm his insistence on the term “doorperson.” However, Marlon was now sitting at the desk wearing huge headphones with loud music that you could hear from a distance. He was clearly lost in his music.
Realizing something was wrong, he hurriedly removed his headphones and smiled, “What’s up, sir?” The super repeated the question, this time louder: “What is your position!”
Marlon quickly stood up, straightened the lapels of his suit, and shrugged, as if he had been asked a simple math question, 1+1=?. With his trademark smile, he replied, “A doorman, sir.”
The super froze for two seconds, widening his eyes, and shaking with anger: “You should be fired!” he shouted.
Marlon only smiled.
Fig. 1. Marlon