We were so blessed to be allowed an apartment on the corner of a main street that was very near school. Its a great little place that is quiet (not so near the subway but its okay). To me, the best thing about our apartment are the men in blue-trimmed uniforms who greet us with a little wave, a smile, or the day's weather report, at different times of each day.
There's Nick - the daytime and regular fiesty cigarette-smokin' Greek (not Italian.."I Can't believe she called me an ITALIAN!") whose father worked on the Burma railroad when he was getting a private school education. Nick always gives us the news - AND then The News. He's shared with us his conspiracy theory on rich Jews, immigrants and the Congress.
And Orlando - the elderly half-deaf hispanic man with the white beard. We always greet each other with "Hola!" because I suspect he hears little else. He comes in for the evening shift and always turns on the heating fan for his feet under the table.
Then there's Bill - my favourite door man because he looks just like a kindly grandfather and says "hi sweetie" whenever I come in. We hear about a son but never about his wife. Bill stays alone in a rented room around the Bronx and comes in on the weekends and odd hours. He always tells us to bundle up and have a great day.
Somehow there's something really comforting about their constant presence at our lobby after a cold, mad day out on the NY streets. They hand us our parcels that come in the mail from the little room that they unlock when we show up. Last year, I was surprised that the husband remembered our doormen when it came to buying gifts during the holiday. Now I understand why.
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