Doorman phobia and other confessions, kind of

Finished all the business things I had to do this week, and did in record slowness, and can spend tomorrow getting ready for my trip. Shall leave her at four AM Friday night/Saturday morning. Can’t decide whether to stay up or not.

You can’t imagine how happy it makes me to be able to do normal girl things tomorrow because it’s St Patrick’s Day, and when I live on 63rd off Fifth truly amazing years, St Patrick’s day was the absolute worst day of the year. Lived a block from the Grandstand, and the police would let every old lady in lime green polyester with a green carnation through, but me….They wouldn’t even believe my ID which I carried ever St Patrick’s day, an American passport. Think I fit the IRA terrorist profile, or more likely girlfriend of.

People would be gathered on my building’s stoop drinking copious amounts of beer. Sometimes they would be in the hallway, and I lived on the first floor. People would ring my bell and ask to use the bathroom, One year a woman rang and said she had somewhere between ten and twenty girls with her, would I be so kind….

No I wouldn’t be. People always used the hallway which was gross, but I have never been the embrace a stranger and let her into pee type. It’s just not something I would or could do. I am a New Yorker and have some trust issues. Could have really used a doorman then as I also had stalker, multi, issues. The doormen at the buildings on Fifth did look out for me.

When I moved to Riverdale for five years that I spent enduring my 60’s apartment that reminded me of a not upscale motel suite, I had doormen. I was also working at SSI or the nursing home and going to school, so I was a normal 9-5 person.

But here I have been working from home for the past four years. If it weren’t for the doormen, I think I might never leave my apartment in winter. I have read enough police procedural, and have seen enough Law & Orders to know that your doormen will be the most important people in my life if I’m ever murdered, raped or suspected of anything.

My doormen know all my habits. They know every person in the building’s daily routine, were we shop, when we leave for work, generally come home, what condition we come home in, who we come home with, how we are dressed, if we’re made up or not, how often we have food delivered and where from, and who our friends and relatives are.

Fernando, the doorman also knows every inch of my apartment as twice a year he comes into take out or put in the air conditioners, and wash the windows.

Doormen have true power. Most people do want to be on their good side. Frankly I tip them more than the super because they need it so much more–and I don’t want them telling the police horrible things about me if I’m killed. It’s like wearing clean underwear, and keeping files in some semblance of order. It’s something I do as an insurance policy.

Really not sure that I would go out in winter but I don’t want the doormen telling the police that I’m a recluse. I don’t think having company over twice a week, or having people come in counts.

“People” is a kind of New York joke. One of the best and funniest New York Times City Section articles was on “people.” Folks who live in other places have friends. We have people. They usually come to fix, clean or make new things, but we keep them longer so that we can talk to them. I draw the line at delivery men and anybody from the Cable company, but everybody elses fair game.

I wouldn’t have missed being here, for anything, when the then carpenter now famous cabinet maker, built my combination desk, book shelves, and entertainment center for anything. Actually my girlfriends would come over when he was coming, because the back of his body was a wonder of nature and nurture. He was also sort of brilliant and didn’t try but did succeed in making me feel inferior as I listened to the wrong NPR station and didn’t read the classics.

Almost went out and bought some, but as my coffee table book then was the something anniversary of Valley of the Dolls, I thought it might be a bit obvious. Thought it would impress my sister also, but she loved the way Valley of the Dolls looked.

The table was black lacquer and I had really grown to hate it, and needed as much pink as possible. I am not and never will be embarrassed to be a pink person. Almost all shades of pink, sea foam blue, sea foam green and turquoise cheer me up.

The carpenter was my only real “person,” but I could relate to the article. Sometimes I think the basic reason I have friends over so often is too fool the doormen into thinking I”m not a friendless recluse.

Think I do way too many things to make people think I’m somebody I might not be.