Monday, April 22, 2013

Shut the Fuck Up and Take the Money

A bellman, "Dave", who has been working in the industry for almost forty years, told me a great story the other day. Upon receiving a fifty dollar bill for watching someone's car for an hour, I went to the guest to see if they made a mistake. He insisted that it wasn't, and that he wanted to express his gratitude for my being wonderful when he was in a jam. (It was similar to what happened in this story. Contrary to what I write on here, I can be very compassionate at times.) Dave caught me in my honest act, and immediately dragged me into the locker room by my arm. In addition to being one of the oldest guys on the staff, he's also the union delegate, so I thought I was in trouble.

Dave - "I don't ever wanna fucking see you do that again."

Doorman - "What did I do?"

Dave - "When a guest gives you money, you shut the fuck up and take the money."

Doorman - "But I thought he made a mistake! He gave me fifty bucks and I only watched his car for an hour."

He pressed his thumb and index finger against his eyes and shook his head. I was wildly confused. He took a breath, then shared this memory:

Dave - "Let me tell you a story - About thirty years ago, the bell rings and there's this business guy standing there. He's Korean or Chinese or whatever-the-fuck. He's got one carry-on. So I say 'haya doin' and grab his carry-on for him. He don't say nothin'. We take the elevator up and no one says a word.

"We get to his room, and I check the bathroom for towels and all the normal 'stalling for a tip' bullshit. So when I'm done, I say 'alright, sir, anything else I can do?' He shakes his head and goes into his wallet. The guy pulls out a one hundred dollar bill and hands it to me. I'm thinking it's a mistake, like he doesn't recognize our currency or somethin', so I say 'no, no, no!' That's a mistake, sir! That's too much!

"He keeps insisting without saying anything, and at one point he tries to put it in my pocket! Now remember, this is thirty years ago! A hundred dollars was a lot of fucking money! So after fighting him for a minute or two, he gets frustrated and puts the bill in his wallet, then takes out a single.

"Then, in perfect English, no accent or nothin', says, 'you fucking asshole, I wanted to make your day. Now take the dollar and get the fuck out of here."

Doorman - "Whoa."

Dave - "Yeah, so when a guest gives you money, you shut the fuck up and take the money."


Thursday, April 18, 2013

Thank You, From the Doorman (And What Else You Can Do)

I've reached the end of my crowd funding campaign with a grand total of $1,440. Though I didn't reach my ultimate goal, I'm eternally grateful for all of the submission that came in. I saw donations from family, friends, family friends, old colleagues, and finally - my readers. That last one amazes me the most. I just typed out and deleted about ten mushy sentences about how I never expected to be here and blah blah blah blah. None of it really fits in with the body of work that I've posted here over the past year, so I'll just put it simply - thank you, from the bottom of my cold, jaded, doorman heart. I will make you proud.

If you weren't able to donate but still want to help out, you can! Next Thursday the 25th, I will be holding an open-bar fundraiser at Pier 76 on Staten Island, NY. 

Yes, Staten Island. Don't panic. It's just a short ferry ride away, conveniently located right across the street from the terminal. I would recommend making the trip just for the pizza alone. Seriously, best pizza in NYC. 

I'll be there from 7-10pm, where there will be a $40 open bar that includes booze (no shots) and unlimited pizza (I'm serious about the fucking pizza, it's amazing). There will be a 50/50 drawing and a donation box at the door. Come by and have a beer with me. Bring friends. All are welcome. If you don't want to do the open bar, that's fine! Just pop in and say hi. And have a slice of pizza. 

MMMMM, pizza!!! 

We begin shooting April 29th and wrap on May 5th. All the roles have been cast. Crew has been hired. It's happening. By the beginning of June, I'll have my pilot in the can, ready to screen and submit for festivals. If nothing else, I'll have made a fucking movie. I have all 33 of you generous donators of to thank for that.

And, as promised, here are those who chose the "Blog Special Thanks" perk: 

Ian Roberts

Nathan Domino

Wendy Turner 

Thank you so much!!! 



PS - Pier 76, located at 76 Bay St (across from the SI Ferry) has amazing pizza. 

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Doorman Meets A-Rod

People always ask if I see a lot of celebrities. I do. Over the past year, I've seen the likes of Lewis Black, Jorge Garcia, Martin Landau, Fred Willard, and Chris Rock, to name a few. The most starstruck I've ever been was when I watched Dan Aykroyd, completely miserable, stroll past me. That was huge for me, because some of my earliest memories include my brother and I watching Ghostbusters while wearing our respective Venkman and Stanz jumpsuits and proton packs. I've never had the guts to say anything to a celebrity, especially someone like Aykroyd, who I grew up watching. I don't need one of my childhood heroes letting me down, so I don't bother rolling the dice and approaching them.

One would think that I have to have at least one celebrity story. The only one I had up until this week was after I saw Jim Norton, one of my favorite comics, at Caroline's Comedy Club in 2009. My wonderful ex-girlfriend thought she was impressing me by "surprising" me and getting her tits signed by Mr. Norton after the show. Being that this is a guy who makes a living by talking about his sexual dysfunctions and odd fetishes on the radio, it wasn't fun to watch him swipe a sharpie across my girlfriend's breasts. She showed off her autograph to all of my friends, and the last "N" in "Norton" had just cleared her aureola. I brought this girl home to my mother. She eventually cheated on me and we broke up, but that's another story.

So the other night, it was just another evening on the door. I had made $21 more than my quota for the evening, so I was a happy doorman. It was the one of the first nice days of the year in a grossly elongated winter, so every female in manhattan was showing skin. That's one of the fine perks of working outside.

One of my co-workers, "Maria", who when she comes back from a run in the dead of summer is a solid 9, ended her shift in her going-out clothes. She wore a skin-tight blue dress, with a denim-jacket that stopped halfway down her torso. Her jet-black hair helped magnify her crystal-blue eyes, which are so intoxicating that I mostly have to focus on a different part of her face when talking to her. She's an aspiring model, so we sometimes commiserate about trying to break into our respective industries. In addition to being one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, she's also completely humble and approachable.

She was telling about some gig that she got, and I told her that I was in pre-production for a pilot "this pilot I'm shooting". Being that it was a day where the guests and outside world didn't completely suck the soul out of my body, I was in good spirits and making jokes, and she gets my sense-of-humor. Being a schmuck in a doorman uniform and making a hot girl laugh is good for the ego. I was on a roll.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rather large, tanned man walking toward me. Maria's back was turned to him. I take my attention off of her for a brief second, and there he was:

Alex Rodriguez.

I get easily star-struck, and even though I'm a life-long Met fan, I got that blast at the pit of my stomach that you get when you unexpectedly see someone famous. I've always detested him, because, well, what the fuck is there to like about the guy?

I couldn't help but stare. Like him or not, he's still one of the most polarizing athletes on the planet. Though he wasn't looking forward or at me. He was staring at Maria's ass.

As soon as I noticed where he was looking, he made eye contact with me. I froze. Fuck. I hate getting caught staring at celebrities.

He made another obvious glance at Maria and frowned his eyebrows. He looked back at me, then nodded and winked, as if to say "good for you, Doorman." This multi-million dollar athlete thinks that this is my chick. When you spend your entire day getting disrespected, having even the most unlikable of athletes throw a boost of confidence your way is kind of nice.

My first impulse was to actually say "No, A-Rod! This isn't my girl! She's just a friend!" as he zipped past me. I thankfully didn't. I just turned back to Maria, who had asked a question and was waiting for me to respond.

Maria - "You okay, Doorman?"

Doorman - "What?"

Maria - "What's your pilot about?"

Behind me, I heard a thick New York accent scream "OHHHH SHIT!!! YO, I'M A BIG FAN!!!" To which a familiar voice playfully responded "Then why are you wearing a Boston hat?" This got Maria's attention.

Marina - "Is that A-Rod?"

I turned to see him taking a picture with the fan. A large crowd was beginning to convene around him, and to his credit, he was totally cool and graceful. I really wish I had seen him being a dick to the fans to justify how I've always felt about the guy. But I can't. Despite all of the PED rumors, and the aloof manner in which the media has portrayed him for all these years, he was really great to a group of fans for the brief moment that I watched him.

Doorman - "Oh yeah, I guess so."

Maria - "Fuck him. I'm a Met fan."

God, I love this woman.

Only 38 hours left to donate to the #Doorman pilot!!! Make it happen!!!

Sunday, April 14, 2013

An Ugly Civilian Quickie

I was busy as fuck and busting my ass yesterday for minimal pay, because the rates are somewhere around $170 per night on a Saturday during springtime. In a foul mood, I wasn't up for getting my balls broken by some cunty passerby:

A guest asked me for a taxi while I was getting a ticket stub for a valet. There was also a group bus driver waiting to unload his passengers and honking the horn as if he were trying to move someone laying on a speed bump and masturbating in the street.

This stupid bitch with an iPhone stops me dead in my tracks. Apparently technology has failed her, so she needed to take it out on the 5'10 punching bag with the overcoat and hat. She was in her twenties, and was one of those people where you couldn't tell if they were black or hispanic or Indian. Her iPhone wore a case that had sparkly pink rhinestones. She spoke with a thick Long Island or Staten Island accent.

Bitch - "Where's Bergoff Goodman?"

No "excuse me", not even a look up from her fucking phone. I hate people like this. If you're going to ask a doorman, or anyone for that matter, for directions, have some fucking manners.

I've never heard of that place before, and I thought it was some financial firm or some shit like that.

Doorman - "I'm sorry, what are you looking for?"

The fucking bus honks again. I turn and give the driver the "If you honk that horn one more time, I'm going to make you eat the steering wheel" look.

She rolls her eyes.

Bitch - "Ugh, Bergoff Goodman?"

Ok, Mindy Kaling, I don't know what the fuck that is. Time to move on. Still, being the nice schmuck that I am, I was courteous.

Doorman - "I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't know."

She looks at me like I paused her to fart on my hand and bring it up to my nose for a sniff.

Bitch - "Ummm... Are you fucking kidding me? That's, like, a huge Prada department store!"

I'm actually proud that the first words out of my mouth weren't "I hope you die alone, you fat twat." Instead, I opted to make her feel stupid for asking a stupid question.

Doorman - "Lady, do I look like I shop there?"

I've never seen steam rise to someone's face like it did on her. It wasn't anger towards me because I made her feel like an idiot, it was more "why isn't this public servant serving me? I don't understand!"

Bitch - "You're a fucking jerk!"

This conversation is over. I put on my "I'm gonna make you want to punch me in the face" smile and gave her a big ol' "Y'all come back now" wave.

Doorman - "Have a nice day!!!"

Bitch - "UGH!!!"

She stomped off like a spoiled four year-old. Triumphant in my victory, I turned to see an angry guest waiting for a taxi, an angry guest waiting to have their car unloaded and parked, and a REALLY angry bus driver looking to unload his passengers.

It's all in a days work for the Doorman.

*** Want to see stories like this on the screen?!? You can! Only four days left to donate to the #Doorman TV pilot campaign! Follow the link below to help make it happen!!!

Friday, April 5, 2013

Doorman Punches a Guy at Chipotle

I'm not a violent person. Nor am I a tough guy. Sure, I've grown a brass set of balls out here, but it doesn't always translate to the outside world. When I'm in my uniform, I feel like I'm somewhat protected by it, like the hat and overcoat are my silent bouncer standing 6'5 with his arms crossed in the corner. People think twice before taking a swing at someone in a uniform, no matter how goofy and demoralizing said uniform can be. I've had many situations where I've said things to a civilian or taxi driver or street scammer that, had I just been some weak-chinned passerby in street clothes, would have gotten me punched in the mouth.

Having said that, I'm usually pretty confident about getting into these little altercations without it becoming physical. Though once I step away from my post and out into public, things change. As I've mentioned in some blog way back when, I haven't been in a fistfight since high school. Even that wasn't much of a fight on my end - I grabbed some kid by the collar of his shirt and his twelve guido friends pinned me down and punched me in the face for about thirty seconds (that's how Staten Island teenagers fight).

I never seek trouble or go out looking for a fight. I'm almost thirty, and the thought of having to remember how to use my fists to defend myself gives me heartburn. Though sometimes an incident happens so quickly that you forget about all of that and simply react:

It was a bad day. You've read about at least fifty of my bad days. I don't need to go into too much detail there. The last straw on that particular day was a guy at work that I can't stand using his seniority to bump me for a day off that I really needed. About twenty minutes after that, we got into a heated argument over money. The amount? Three dollars. He skimmed three dollars from a cash-out that all of the bell staff were supposed to divide evenly, and I called him out. I was disgusted for two reasons: 1- The principal that he thinks I'm too dumb to know how much I have coming to me. 2 - I'm actually getting upset and fighting over three fucking dollars.

So when my break came around at 9:15pm, I was like a rabid animal being released into the wild. The last thing I said to my buddy who relieved my post was "I'd give anything to catch him in the locker room and knock his fucking block off!" He shouldn't have let me go anywhere.

Feeling down in the dumps, I decided that it was time to stuff my face. I thought of one thing that would make me feel better:


I love Chipotle. Seriously, there's no reason NOT to love Chipotle. If Chipotle were a vagina, it would belong to the most beautiful woman on earth, and she would be saving herself for immaculate conception.

My anger was beginning to slowly fizzle out of me. The image of an eager Mexican woman dumping globs of guacamole and sour cream onto a chicken burrito bowl was dancing in my head, and my average walking speed had turned to about a four and a half on the treadmill. When I got there, of course, there was a line to the fucking door.

This little act of impatience would prove costly - a couple had hesitated to debate whether to lock down seats or wait in the line. I didn't have time for this shit, so I moved ahead of them. I could feel their tension behind me, like they were pissed of about being cut but didn't want to start something, so they put their jackets on some seats and got in line behind me. In front of me, a taller man in his late-thirties thumbed though his blackberry.

The line moved pretty swiftly until just before I got to where they take your order. Then, as if they were sent from the demons of tourist hell, were some fucking cunty Europeans, who clearly had never had the Chipotle experience.

"Ehhhh.... what is this?"


"Ehhhh.... what is this?"

"Also beans."

"Ehhhh.... what is this?"


"Ehhhh.... what is this?"


"Ehhhh.... what is this?"


"Ehhhh.... what is this?"

"A different colored rice."

This went on for at least three minutes, which in fast-food-line-waiting-time translates to a seven hour bus ride sitting between two obese people. The man in front of me and the hoards of hungry consumers behind me were getting really fucking impatient. It set a bad vibe through the whole joint.

The fuckhead tourist eventually gets two tacos with chicken and a pinch of mild salsa. Nothing else. In a tizzy, the man in front of me speed-orders exactly what I'm getting - chicken bowl with everything except for the hot salsa. Perfect. I instruct the portly server to make exactly what she just made him to expedite the process, handed the cashier my debit card and make a bee-line for the drink stand to get my napkins and fork to go.

The guy in front of me had opted to stay, and just filled his drink and placed it on the tray. I took a glance at his food, and was excited that after a quick sprint back to the hotel, I would be greedily shoveling this into my piehole like I had just been recused from a three-year hostage situation in a third-world country.

In my overeagerness, I reached over the guy's cup that he had just filled. It was one of those situations where I could have waited a second, but I thought I had enough room to reach where it wouldn't be rude. I misread how much space I actually had, and in turn the buttons on my sleeve got caught on the lid of his soda.

I didn't notice it right away, but when I did, it was too late. The lid flew off, and soda spilled all over his food and onto the counter.


I immediately felt like a horses-ass. My first impulse to grab a napkin and put it on his food, which I hesitated to do. I looked at his face for a brief second, and he was fucking pissed. No napkin wiping would reverse the damage, so I immediately offered to do the right thing:

Doorman - "Sir, I'm so sorry. Let me-"

And before I could offer to buy him a new one, no questions asked, he cut me off.

Guy - "Just get the fuck away from me."

After six hours of being dismissed by people like I'm some sort of peon servant, this made my blood boil. On any other day, I would have just said "Alright, was gonna buy you a new one" and walked away. This time I didn't. I stood there for a split-second, and waited for the next thing to happen.

He took a napkin and placed it on the lake of Sprite that sat on the counter and hadn't flowed to the edge yet. With that, he splashed some soda onto my jacket. For that ever-so-brief moment, my brain and body went into a complete disconnect. Before I could even process that he had splashed his drink onto me, my right fist had already gone into motion.

I threw clean shot, just between his hip and rib cage.

He was in good shape. His stomach was hard as a rock. If he had done the same to me, it would have felt like he was trying to put his fist through a ziplock bag full of mayonnaise. Still, I blasted him hard enough to where he dropped the napkin and hunched over. My mind and body quickly synched back up and, I have no fucking idea why, the voice of Dave Chappelle entered my head:

Oh, fuck!!! Nigga, you just hit a guy!!!

I had no idea what to do. The last time I threw the first punch in a fight, I was twelve and the kid was bigger than me. This resulted in him pulling my jacket over my head and pummeling me till a teacher broke it up.


He looked at me, stunned. I took a step back.




God damnit! How the hell do people do this shit??? He's gonna hit you!!! 

At this point, everyone is Chipotle was focused on us. I knew it, and the guy knew it. He had fire in his eyes. He wanted to hit me. It was only a matter of seconds before people started pressing record on their smartphones. While praying that he didn't have any interest in a rumble with some doorman in the middle of a Chipotle, I kept yelling:


Still with my fists up like I'm an extra in Gangs of New York, I saw the moment of hitting me back pass in him.

Guy - "Just get the fuck away from me, fat ass!"

"Fat ass?" OK, that stung a bit.

Doorman - "Fuck you!"

And I walked out. As I turned the corner of the glass window, he went to sit down at the booth and we made eye contact. Then, like some homo-erotic rough-sex fantasy, he smiled at me like he wanted to fuck me. I wasn't sure if it were just a mind-fuck, because I blow kisses as screaming taxi drivers to antagonize them all the time, but it made me wildly uncomfortable. I opted to give him the finger.

On the walk back, a thousand thoughts raced through my head. My adrenaline was pumping so fast that I felt like I could have ran to Long Island and back before my lunch break was over. All I could think of were those times where I would listen to my Old Man and brothers talk about bar fights over dinner like triumphant war stories while I twirled my spaghetti and waited for them to move on so I could finally start talking again. Now, I understood it. The feeling of remorse for assaulting someone was being significantly trumped by the fact that I stuck up for myself and used my fist to prove a point, like a fucking man would.

I got back to work all riled up, telling all the guys that happened. They thought it was hysterical, because all of my stories usually end with me being humiliated and coming out the loser.

I went into the break room and ate every last savory crumb of my burrito bowl, because I wanted to prove to myself that I wouldn't let his "fat ass" comment get to me, even though the incident had completely ruined my appetite. (If that isn't dysfunctional eating, I don't know what is.)

For the rest of the night, all I could think of was going home to write about it. Though as the night went on, I calmed down, processed it, and eventually decided to hold off.

This was a few weeks ago. I've had enough time to digest what had happened, and I'd like to bring up a few bullet points:

- I'm not in the right for hitting him. No one should resort to punching someone else. I understand that. It was stupid of me to do, and being that I hit him while in my uniform, I could have gotten in a lot of trouble.

- If I hadn't cut that couple when I walked in, none of this would have happened. Karma is a saucy little minx.

- I think that if I were wearing a suit (or any other clothing), he wouldn't have spoken to me like that. Like I was beneath him. I think that's the core of why I reacted the way I did. I could have forgiven the verbal comment, but the soda is a completely different story. He treated me like I was piece of shit, unworthy of making an honest mistake in his presence, but came out of the incident having soggy food and being punched by a doorman.

- He probably talks to people like that all the time. Next time, he'll be a little more careful.

- I have absolutely no regrets about hitting him. With all of the shit that I deal with every day, which I've shared only a fraction of on this blog, someone was bound to get the brunt of my frustration. I'm just glad it was some smug yuppie that doesn't know how to talk to people. And I'm even more glad that I didn't go to jail.

Or actually have to fight.

Like this story?!? Would you want to see it on the screen?!? You can! Click on the link and donate to make the "Doorman" pilot happen!!!