Better Than Starbucks!

Revolving Doors

            by Sharon Frame Gay

 

I spend my time now in the space between heartbeats, where silence sings of memories. How could you leave me here, alone, when you were the only one who believed in me? I suppose I chased you away, somehow, like I have others, my willful ways and dark moods exhausting you to the point of breaking.

 

Each morning I walk down empty streets, before the rest of the city wakens, to take my place in front of the revolving doors that signal the entrance to the huge tower that houses the wealthy and the beautiful. I walk inside, down the short flight of stairs, to my locker, and don the red jacket with epaulets and the hat snapped over my graying hair, signifying my role as Doorman. My feet ache just thinking of the day ahead, the hours spent on gum lined sidewalks, hailing yellow taxis, tipping my hat, taking possession of parcels and important letters, nodding and smiling at the endless procession of people as they push, to and fro, through the doors on their way to somewhere special, I always reckon, though it could be as mundane and sorrowful as my own life.

 

Invisible. That is how I feel. Few make eye contact. They brush past me, or bark out orders, and I nod in submission, fingers grazing theirs as they hand me a soaked umbrella or thrust an address in my hand. “Here, Maury, call me a taxi to take me to this address”, or “would you hold this bag for a moment, while I adjust my coat?”  And then they bustle past, a vapor trail, their scents as distinguishable to me as if I were a bloodhound. There’s the ancient guy, Chester, who has lived here since God was a baby. He smells of rich cherry pipe tobacco and old clothes. Or the beautiful Monica who does not walk, but floats out the door, leaving behind an aroma so tantalizing that I often go home and beat myself up for the yearning I feel. Wet wool coats, leather shoe polish, garlic, hairspray. Sometimes I don't look up into their faces right away, to see if I can identify them just by their odor, and I often do.

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I have been working here longer than I ever dreamed possible. As a young man, when we were still a love song, I took this position as a second job, evenings and weekends, to help support you and little Michael, our tiny studio apartment bulging at the seams and dreams of moving to a larger space ignited me to work ever harder, so that I could say to you, “You see? I AM somebody. I can take care of you and the baby, make you smile, and you will be so proud that you married Maury Goldstein, who will someday be a great attorney, and you will lead a life of comfort.”

 

I still, after all these years, cannot believe that despite all my hard work, all our endeavors and dreams and prayers I failed the bar exam so many times that one day you silenced me with a finger to my lips and said “Maury, forget it. It isn't meant to be”, and I knew you were right. There was no law office to call home. No bright career on the horizon, so in desperation I took yet another job as a doorman for yet another building and jostled and juggled my hours until I was nothing more than a ghost, coming in the door at dawn, watching Michael while he slept, and laying down on the couch for a nap while you got ready for work at Woolworth's.

 

You were on your feet all day, too, working the lunch counter, swabbing the tables, setting down endless plates of eggs and bacon, cups of coffee, bottles of ketchup in front of distant faces. “It's temporary, Maury” you always said. “Things will get better and we will move to the suburbs and have a tiny little house with a white fence and a dog named Juba, and then it will be okay.” You used to pat my face then, do you remember? Your hands smelled of rosewater and glycerin, your eyes sorrowful and hopeful, both at the same time, and I hated myself then, because I knew that I could never give you what you needed. But selfish as I am, I dare not set you free, to find another love, a better love, a love that wouldn’t cheat you of your youth or rob you of your future. So you continued, weary and tired, in those old black shoes that should have been tossed years ago.