What the doorman knows

When Other and I were looking for an apartment a few years ago, we knew we wanted a live-in super. But when we found a just-right apartment, it happened to come with not only a super but also a doorman. 

 It took me a while to cotton to the idea of having a doorman. It violated my sense of privacy. I wasn’t used to having anyone know my comings and goings. And—this may sound churlish—sometimes I don’t feel like saying hello to anyone. There was a little identity crisis going on too: I’ve always had a little bit of contempt for rich people, and now my living circumstances seemed to make me one of them. 

 But perhaps the biggest dilemma was how to interact with the doorman. He provided services—rushing to open the door, push the elevator button, grab a bag from my arms—that looked like caring but that he was paid to perform. It was confusing. It felt a little bit like love, but it was just a guy doing his job. And I couldn't reciprocate by, say, grabbing his bag.

The confusion has only deepened despite daily interactions. We mainly discuss the weather: he admonishes me to put on my boots, orders me to go back for my umbrella, warns me of meteorological changes ahead (he’s incredibly prescient). But we talk about a lot of other things as well now. Until a few months ago when our cat Iggy died, he advised us on what kind of catfood to buy and whom to buy it from, which veterinarian to use and, finally, when to put Iggy down. He knows the best way to get to Newark airport. He gives me marital advice: Don’t leave Other alone too much. And he counsels me on parenting of adult children too.

 In fact, over the two years we’ve lived here, the doorman has gradually become our life coach. I realized his sway was complete when he recently persuaded both Other and me to buy a particularly homely brand of athletic shoes. Those shoes changed Other’s life. Though they have been merely meh for me, I wear them anyway, partly because I suspect he’s right about them and I’m wrong—even though they rub my hammertoe the wrong way. He’s never been wrong yet.

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