Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Sparkle hour *updated*

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.

19 comments:

Julie said...

I think I love Angelo just from your description.

Give him a wink from me.

Finn said...

I want an Angelo.

nightfly said...

Bless him for offering. I'm sure he means nothing but kindness - and of course all the rest of us want you to be happy too, Nina. But I admit the weirdness for you to have to cross the country having pasta at various houses, much less just Angelo's.

LAS said...

Hmm, my door people don't even recognize me. Sometimes when I walk up to the door - they look at me like, do you actually belong in here? But that's because I drive everywhere and the door to the garage is on the side so I probably go in and out the front door once every 3 weeks or so. But there is a camera in the elevator lobby, so presumably, certain of the door people should know me. Herman does anyway. Maybe they know more than I think they do. Maybe.

Annie said...

I'd let him call me baby too :-)

utenzi said...

Pretty pictures, Nina. From what you say about how well your doorman reads you, I'd suggest you not play poker!

UrbanHippieMama said...

ohhh, that made me melt. go to brooklyn... have pasta!!

jen said...

I second the motion: Go to Brooklyn and have pasta!

Maybe take a Xanax first.

But it's bound to be an interesting experience.

P said...

My doorman used to look at my butt. When I had a doorman. It was really, really creepy.

I think you should eat pasta with Angelo, not just because pasta solves everything, but because it will make for a really good blog post.

Sizzle said...

Angelo sounds fantastic. I kind of hope you do go eat pasta at his place. He seems to know things. I need an Angelo!

Say It said...

How sparkly and lovely. I have a husband and two kids who ignore the crap out of me. Barely notice when I go from blonde to brunette and back again. Add a couple pets that are more self involved than the kids and I might meet your angelo for you! :P

cajunvegan said...

It sounds like Angelo is his own little sparkle. This post made me think of the Nina Simone song, "My Baby Just Cares for Me."

Dagny said...

I would LOVE an Angelo! And how interesting it must be to be a doorman. People watching at it's finest.

And thanks for those pics. I was almost there looking at them. The bit of sun, the clouds. I can smell the air. :)

Jennifer Griffin-Wiesner said...

Sparkly is good. More sparkle. :-)

country roads said...

Those are beautiful pics.

How sweet Angelo sounds. Funny how strangers are often the most help.

country roads said...

oh, and pasta doesn't solve everything? Shit, that explains a lot, then.

Lisa b said...

I think I love Angelo too.
Great post.

Love the photos too. NYC is one of my favourite places in the world. I love great cities.

ingrid said...

This is a beautiful post. I'm glad he notices. Wishing you happy.

Sandy said...

Those pictures are drop dead gorgeous!
Having a doorman is kind of like having a cat?
:D