Two nights ago, I scrambled in from wherever with a grocery bag full of frozen dinners. I might have had a bag from the liquor store and two weeks worth of mail under my arm. I can't remember. But I do remember very well that Angelo, my doorman, stopped me.
Now, when Angelo stops me, it is not a "hey, yo, what's up" kind of stop. It is a put your shit down and talk to me full stop.
So I put it all down on the desk and looked full-on into the blue eyes of the lovely sixty something year old Italian first generation off the boat Angelo. He reached across the counter and took my hand, as he always does.
"Baby," he said.
"Yeah," I said.
"You know it has to stop," he said.
I said nothing.
"All this," he said, gesturing at seemingly nothing and everything, "It destroys you."
What do you say to that? I said nothing.
"Baby," he said. "You are not what you were. You used to smile and be happy. Now you are sad. Always."
"Well," I said.
"It must stop now," he said.
"Ok," I said.
"Yes?" he said.
"Ok," I said.
"You come to Brooklyn. I make you pasta. You will see how the world should be," he said.
"Ok," I said.
It is unlikely that I will go to Brooklyn and eat pasta with Angelo, but it would not be too far a stretch to say that the man basically owns me.
If you move to a building with a doorman, your doorman will know more about you than your own mother inside of six months. They don't need to be told you have a new boyfriend or a new job. They don't need a memo to learn that your dad is dying or you are going on vacation or that your last break up is haunting you. They know everything while they know nothing.
How do they know? They know because they watch you walk in and out of the building every day. The look on your face, the clothing you wear, the take out you order, the packages you pick up? These things tell all. The doorman knows because he knows.
And so while I could do without the strange sparkle in Angelo's eyes, I can do just as well with it. And it's ok that he calls me baby. He does, after all, own me.
Around here there are two times of day that I especially love. Sparkle hours A and B. Sparkle hour A happens at around 9am, when the sun hits the river just so and the whole thing sparkles. Today it is dark and stormy so it doesn't sparkle so much but has a certain charm, nonetheless. I would upload pictures of these events for you if blogger would cooperate, but it won't. I have been trying to upload the pictures for three hours. It is not working. It is not likely that my continuing to try will have any effect. So I am giving up.
OH LOOK! I got the pictures to load!
Have an excellent, sparkley Wednesday.