Greetings to all my fellow Mercy College goers!
The best part about being on “The Impact” for a second semester is writing a few lines referencing that in every column. Got to reach that 700 minimum word count somehow, am I right?
Wasted words aside, last semester I based my columns on my “adventures,” (more like misadventures) as a New York City doorman. I titled it ConciURGE: Tales of an NYC doorman.
It was the best I could pun-wise in the hospitality industry.
This semester I broke off from that theme and have since dived into several topics, ranging from video games to sports. But I have missed talking about the shenanigans that seem to occur daily at my job.
So consider this one last “shift” with this NYC doorman.
It was your typical Tuesday afternoon shift. The street closed down yet again because of a crane blocking the way. Apparently, the crane was used to remove pianos from some like zillionaire’s penthouses! Plural! Remember people; money talks, bullshit walks.
The blue recycling trash bags had yet to be collected. Nothing new there. Do you know what else is nothing new? My tenants asking me why the trash has not been picked up.
“Oh, let me call fucking Sanitation and see why they have not picked up at our exact location,” I can only say in my mind but never dare utter aloud.
“I’m sorry, I would not know. You can call 311 to file a complaint,” I really said. Fake ass smile and all that.
Look here. It’s the postman. Surely he has blessed us with his presence to mess up at least 75% of where the mail is actually supposed to go. He tries to make small talk. I ignore him. Clicking away at my keyboard. Possibly writing this.
Most tenants get their mail in the morning, but if they normally did, it would not be in this column. Three different tenants all came home from work in about 60 seconds. But, of course, they all went to check their mail.
For the cherry on top, they were the tenants to the first three floors of the building. They quickly began exchanging mail they had claimed from their mailboxes amongst themselves like they were trading Pokémon cards.
“We had more of each other’s mail than our own,” one tenant said in a passive aggressive manner.
“What can be done to prevent this?” said another tenant in nearly the same tone. All three tenants staring at me as if I had “answer” labeled on my forehead.
After a brief pause, I gave the only answer that seemed fitting.
“Have the postal service hire more competent workers I suppose.”
A laugh as fake as that smile I gave earlier erupted from all three gentlemen before going their separate ways.
Does anyone remember Greg? Well, he and I have grown rather fond of each other since my last URGE related column. And here is how that somehow came to be.
Greg comes home. His face as stone-cold serious as ever. I run the elevator for him and ask about his day. He replies with “same shit,” but quickly pulls out a joint.
“This will make it better though,” a rare grin plastered on his face.
I try to dismiss the broccoli wand and tell him to have a good night, but just as the elevator door shuts, he sticks out his foot. Like a baby being born in reverse.
I hear the door reopen to “Oh can you fucking stop! I smell it in your car when you come into work. We are smoking this when you are off the clock!”
The door fully opens to myself and the building’s oldest tenant coming home from visiting her grandchildren. She had forgotten her key to get into her unit so I would have to open the door for her. Meaning we were all sharing an elevator after Greg’s lovely statement.
It was a silent, awkward ride until we reached her floor. After I unlocked her door, she went for the doorknob, before turning she turned to us and said “Don’t worry I’m about to smoke some of that shit right now too,” followed by a wink and the closing of her door.
Our jaws nearly hit the elevator floor.