The Doorman
There are roughly 10,000 doormen in New York City across some 3,200 apartment buildings.
Eddie is my favorite. He works the evening shift in my building most days, with an overnight thrown in from time to time.
On a crisp, wintry Friday night last February, I bundle up in my best GAP sweater and join Eddie for a while as he goes about his business. Our Upper West Side pre-war apartment building houses 10 floors, with 75 units. The foyer, with two sets of entry doors for extra security and climate control, opens into an expansive lobby with a crystal chandelier and twin elevators to the left and right. We are situated in the Lincoln Center neighborhood — a stone’s throw away from Central Park. Across the street sits a prestigious private prep school where uniformed kids of all ages matriculate before heading off to even more prestigious universities. There is an interesting mix of tenants in my building — millennials with newborns, empty nesters, 30-something roommates living their best lives, a wide assortment of dog breeds, and me. A 41-year-old, unmarried, childless female living in the big city. The only other Black person I’ve seen in this building is the male nurse who attends to the morbidly obese homebound gentleman next door. The remaining people of color that come and go are the nannies and Eddie’s brothers in arms, the doormen.
Eddie has worked in my building for only a year and a half, but he’s been a doorman since 2013. He was previously employed at a tennis and racquetball club, but his background is in dance, actually. With a slender 5’7” frame, a smooth walk and gentle way of carrying himself, it makes sense. In my mind’s eye, I can picture him gliding across a dance floor.
“I danced for years,” he tells me. “Ballet, jazz, flamenco. Now I have a dance company in Queens and I’m a choreographer.”
“Did you ever travel?” I ask.
He nods. “I traveled a lot within the United States and to some Latin America countries. And I performed with the National Ballet of Spain…” The last part he says with a hearty laugh that feels teemed with nostalgia, but he leaves the thought unfinished and steps away to greet a neighbor coming in for the night.
Eddie Mesa hails from Colombia, where his family emigrated from in 1973 amid political and civic unrest, as Colombia was earning a reputation as a key player in the international narcotics game. He is the eldest of five children. His parents, now divorced, were eager to give the family a fresh start. “We all came together,” he shares. “Back then, it was incredible. With the immigration situation, nowadays it’s so difficult. But I remember when we came to America. When we arrived at Kennedy Airport, my mother was given a manila envelope. With all our names in it, with green cards. Immediately, they handed us green cards at the airport.”
The night of our visit is a busy one. Eddie lets in several deliveries — pizza, groceries, Chinese food. It’s also the hour for last minute bathroom trips for the resident dogs of the building, their owners in tow, who are back in the foyer just as quickly as they leave. I see parents trailing behind the children who’ve just returned from some sports or other extracurricular activity. I’m curious when I see a strange man in a black trench coat — a regular visitor, it seems, but who, after Eddie says his host is ready for him to go straight up, loses his nerve and doubles back, “Are you sure? Do you want to buzz to let her know I’m coming up?” Eddie politely and patiently replies, “She knows. She said to send you up.” It drives my curiosity. My mind drifts to glamorous, Hollywood-ish stories about who this visitor is, who my neighbor might be, and what clandestine activity could be taking place.
Eddie and the other doormen are keepers of so many secrets. I hide my jealousy for not being privy to such excitement and then immediately chide myself for being so oblivious to the role Eddie plays in our lives.
Every day, I dart in and out of my apartment building with a cordial hello to the doorman on duty. A doorman building was non-negotiable for me when I moved to New York City. When I visited a friend in the city years ago, she left me the extra key to her apartment on the top of a door frame (that anyone could have taken, mind you). I made a decision that should I ever live here, I would have a friendly face to greet my guests and to deliver a spare key if I wasn’t home.
But a doorman’s work is so much more. We are grateful to the doorman as he hands us our packages or holds the door for us. Yet, it’s the unseen that makes a doorman shine.
Though he is indeed a friendly face, Eddie doesn’t particularly like the job. It’s secure, gives him benefits and adds to his pension, but it’s not a cake walk. The bench I sit on is not for him. He must remain standing — there is no chair or desk. The residents can be worrisome — even babysitters feel bold enough to reach into the foyer cabinet to withdraw a spare key (like they own the place!).
“Every building is different. It’s about respect and listening and understanding. There are things here that I really don’t like. But bottom line, considering the times we live in — I have medical insurance, I’m building up my pension, and I have a paycheck. It’s the basics. But do I like it? Honestly, no.
“I feel that the whole world is going by. And I’m standing in one place.”
My heart breaks.
After our time together, I turn to leave, and he asks “Why did you come to visit with me tonight? Why not Jason or Pedro?”
I don’t hesitate. “You’re my favorite. I wanted to get to know you better.”
I step into the elevator, press six, and wish him well before the doors close and he’s left alone for the night.
