my love life and my doormen

I’ve often mentioned my doormen in this blog (see the middle of this post and the penultimate paragraph in this one), and I’ve occasionally wondered what, if anything, my doormen think of my love life.

My apartment is on the street level, and my door opens directly — without turns or angles or extra doors — onto the lobby where all the residents enter & leave the building.

The doormen got used to seeing Performer and knew him by name; they got used to Plan C, who discussed golf occasionally with one of the doormen.

I remember distinctly a number of Saturday mornings in the spring when Plan C and I walked out of my door together, possibly to the surprise of whoever was on duty in the morning: it was clear that I ‘had had a man spending the night,’ and Plan C’s conservative clothing, his checks & stripes and expensive shoes with tassels, could not distract from the sexual rationale of the visit.

In August and September, I wondered if they noticed Plan C’s absence, and indeed the absence of male visitors (except for Mark, a guy friend from jdate in April 07 who watched the first debate with me).

But I never really devoted much time to wondering what the doormen thought of me, whether they were titillated by the thought of my male overnight visitors, or judgmental, or just mildly interested; or whether they talked about it among themselves.

I hadn’t thought of my romantic life as observed.

* * *

Until Tuesday morning.

* * *
That day I walked out my front door to test the temperature, as I often do. A ladder stood almost directly in front of my door, one man on it working on something in the ceiling, and Juan holding the ladder and talking to the guy on top of it. I said good morning to Juan and looked up at the work in progress. Then I stood back and tried to figure out what was happening.

The senior doorman, Eddie, was on duty, and he explained everything to me.

“It’s a video camera,” he asserted with pride, pointing to the little object being affixed to the wall. “We’ve had them everywhere in the building except the lobby. This is where we should have had them first.”

“Oh!” I said, taking in the information.

“It’ll be very good,” he continued. “So if you take a man home with you and you’re found dead the next morning, we’ve got him on film.”

* * *

Even though I’m writing this down only fifteen minutes after the conversation took place, I can’t remember how I reacted to that.

But I do remember that Eddie seemed really to get pleasure out of that little scenario, and he uttered it a second time.

The conversation continued in something like this way:

MIMI: Oh yes, that’ll be wonderful. I’m sure I’d be grateful to you!

EDDIE: Yes. We’ll have everything on film.

MIMI: Everything that happens in the lobby….

EDDIE: So if you take a man in your apartment and then we find you dead, we’ve got him.

MIMI (finally realizing I had to blunt that image): Or if my children visit and rob somebody in the lobby, you can have them arrested.

EDDIE (turned to me looking amused but didn’t say anything).

At that point I went out with my mug of coffee in my hand to sample the air. I love standing under the awning looking at the people in both directions on the street, testing the temperature, the wind, the humidity, looking at the other buildings and the trees and the buses and cars.

I love living in Manhattan.

Long may it thrive.

* * *

But what the hell do my doormen think of my romantic life?!?!?

It’s a good thing I don’t overhear their conversations about me or know what they’re thinking.

* * *

I can guess what they’re thinking.

Clearly, they think of me as leading a Looking for Mr. Goodbar sort of life.

They’ve seen me with so many men (not all 40, but a lot of them) that, to them, there appears to be a randomness about it. They don’t know about the hours I spend screening and googling my dates.

Actually, they know nothing about where I get these men, which is just as well, I guess.

I do think about the doormen’s opinions at times — when, for instance, Performer left at something like 3 in the morning after our first date, or when Plan C arrived so many times pulling his suitcase behind him, or when — whatever. So many of them! SDF (Swing-Dancer’s Father) was here, and Mark was the first one, and what others have there been? Not really any others here in the apartment, I think. Of course I come and go a lot in the evenings, but for all the doormen know I could be going to — umm — a prayer meeting. Or a sedate dinner party. Or a classmate’s mother’s birthday party.

Yeah.

But I guess especially the arrival of Performer on the scene 2.5 months after I moved into this apartment, and then his disappearance six months later, and then only 2 months later the appearance of Plan C, and then his disappearance — though no one much here since then — I suppose those changes, few as they were, gave the impression of turnover.

And that set the doormen’s minds thinking. Probably thinking, that is, of me as a ‘promiscuous’ person, or at least a woman with a busy social life. Or active sexual life.

* * *

Hmmm.

* * *

Well, whatever. I’m always polite and smiley to the doormen and the men who work in the building, and I thank them a lot, and I tip them well, and if I give them a little something to think about, well, that’s just the way it’s going to be.

* * *

And lucky me, if I’m murdered in my apartment, they’ll have the guy in nothing flat.

* * *

photo credit: doorman in my mother’s building

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