ISSUE #10 | Excerpt, "The Door Man"
AS SEEN IN PLANET SCUMM ISSUE #10
WRITTEN BY CHRISTOPHER MOYLAN
Illustration by Sam Rheaume
Unable to sleep, M took a late night walk along the river promenade near his apartment in the Upper West Side. The full moon reflected in the slow Hudson waters like cream spilled over a mirror. Here and there a star shone through the evening haze. A sailboat drifted on the current, sails furled, a row of lights strung festively on the mainmast sheet.
M walked along the river for a while, enjoying the stillness and the warmth of the evening. He was about to turn back when he saw two lovers approaching from the opposite direction, walking arm in arm. They laughed, staggering into one another, drunk on romance. M thought back to his younger days and indulged in a few moments of sweet nostalgia, remembering the dizzy sense of being in love and at the center of the world. The young man glanced up and, smiling dreamily, reached into his pocket and pressed a dollar bill into M’s hand.
Horrified, M crumpled the bill in his fist. He was of a mind to toss the money in the man’s face, but the couple was already well past him before he could react. There’s nothing so special about young love, he thought, that one should feel that everyone else is deprived, or poor even, for not being in the same state. He threw the money to the ground and made his way back home.
The doorman was not at his post. The mirrored expanse of the lobby was unusually desolate without his usual wrinkled smile. The doorman was one of those wizened refugees from a terrible regime in Eastern Europe. There used to be a good many of his like in this neighborhood—not so many nowadays. The old man could be counted on to listen attentively to M’s anecdotes and to respond with a mild joke or wise saying. There was something about his accent that made even the blandest remark sound pithy and kind. M couldn’t remember if the doorman was at his post earlier.
The elevator man would have to do. He wasn’t up to the doorman’s standard of benevolence, but he had his ways, little nods and faded smiles, a lift of the grizzled eyebrow at the right time, as if to say “isn’t life strange” or “some kind of weather we’ve been having.” It was a matter of interpretation. He was pleasant, in any event, and M needed some human contact, however minimal.
But the elevator man was not at his post either. The sign on the elevator read “Out of Service” without indicating why. M paced the scuffed linoleum looking for someone to explain the matter. Where had everyone gone? Someone should be on hand to answer questions, he thought. Or help with bags. Or just be there. Service men serve. Service with a smile. He didn’t pay all this money to do it himself.
Despite all his pacing and fretting no one appeared. Whatever had disabled the elevator had swallowed the staff as well. M had no choice but to climb the fourteen flights to his apartment.
Where the stairs were was any-body’s guess. He’d never had occasion to use them previously, and none of the half-dozen steel reinforced doors along the nearby hallway looked promising. The first opened with a loud metallic groan, after which a cascade of torn plastic bags squeezed out, staining the floor with a streak of ripe goo. The next opened to a storeroom full of old mops and brooms. Judging by the dust they hadn’t been disturbed in years. M kicked a bucket into the hall and left the door ajar for someone else to deal with.
Fed up, M contemplated going to a coffee shop somewhere, or maybe spending the night at a hotel. It was depressing to stand in this foul smelling hallway, with a chandelier poised overhead like a desiccated stuffed bird and an unflattering reflection of M’s headless figure reproduced ad infinitum in the chest-high mirrors decorating the hall.
M never liked this pre-war shambles of a building. But the rent was affordable, if barely so, and the neighbors kept to themselves. Simple inertia kept him in place. It was tolerably dismal when he took shelter here in the midst of a nasty divorce. Years later he was still here, and the place was still tolerably dismal.
M had some luck on the third try. The door opened to a dimly lit stairway. A sign above the balustrade pointed down to “Exit.” An arrow pointed up to “First Floor.” M stepped inside and tested the first step to make sure it would hold him. The place had the dingy look of something unearthed from a volcanic eruption.
A gloved hand slipped along the railing to his right. An elderly man in the gray uniform of service staff nodded solemnly and pointed upstairs. Dust motes swirled around him in the feeble light coming through a frosted glass window above. The stairwell was littered with cigarette butts and paper coffee cups. The air had the dry, mildly sulfurous odor of long buried leaves. Yet the doorman, as it seemed he was, retained an attitude of starched dignity despite the surroundings. He made a sweeping gesture with a white gloved hand, and bowed stiffly in the direction of the stairs. M nodded his thanks.
The fellow accompanied M step for step, gloved hand extended, his expression solemn and immeasurably fatigued. It was as if they were walking in a funeral procession. M offered every indication of impatience at this pantomime, sighing and rolling his eyes in annoyance. That was a lot for him—he really didn’t like to make a fuss. He had long felt contempt for some of the staff in this building, people so blandly servile he never knew what they felt about anything. He sometimes wondered what would happen if he hurt one of them—stepped on a foot, for example, or said something crudely insulting to their face. Would the poor old dog blink and wait for the second blow? Would he apologize for getting in the way of M’s hand?
M felt guilty about having such thoughts. We’re all human, he thought, and the staff was just trying to make a living. Everyone was just trying to make a living. He wasn’t sure what that added up to.
“You needn’t come with me,” said M. “It’s twelve more flights. You’re not going to make it. Here—” He took out his wallet and produced ID to demonstrate that he lived in the building. The old man took this in with his rheumy eyes and said nothing. It was if the fellow had never seen a ten-dollar bill before.
The pair resumed the climb, not stopping until they reached a door to the seventh floor. There, another elderly man in uniform waited, his hand on the door handle.
“Is management forcing you to do this while the elevator is being repaired? A ‘make work’ kind of thing?” M asked.
No reply. The two ancients moved in tandem with a peculiar stiffness and coordination, one opening the door, the other, his work done, turning to descend the stairs.
“Is this a performance? Why don’t you talk to me. Is this for a show? Some kind of avant garde theater piece? Hey! Don’t ignore me!”
The old man waited, arm extended, his hand trembling with the effort. He was pitifully frail.
“This is over,” said M. “Over, do you understand? I’m going inside my apartment and you are going to leave. Leave! Go!”
M stepped inside and shoved the door with his hip. His heart pounding, he watched through the keyhole as the old man dropped his arm, turned and walked slowly downstairs. M sagged against the door, grateful for once to be in his own cramped flat with his dirty clothes on the floor and a pile of his student’s papers to grade. The place was a mess, but it was his mess, his cramped space. He didn’t care what happened next. Fire alarm, more elevator problems, power outage—he was staying put.
It was warm and close in his apartment. He didn’t have an air conditioner, just a fan, and all that climbing had made him dizzy. He staggered down the long hallway of the railroad flat to the bathroom, to splash his face with water. His hands were shaking and his legs were unsteady. Rest was what he needed. A good long sleep. He’d speak to the building super in the morning and get to the bottom of this nonsense. He splashed his face again and rubbed his tired eyes. Looking up into the mirror he saw the reflection of an elderly man in uniform.
***
CONTINUED IN ISSUE #10
CHRISTOPHER MOYLAN is an Associate Professor at NYIT and an activist in the areas of food security and social justice. His work has appeared recently in Parhelion, Fragmented Voices and Flea of the Dog.
