Tuesday, September 17, 2013

The Cuntiest Thing You Can Say to a Doorman

Since announcing the end of the blog last week, I've been scouring through old notes and drafts, trying to find anything that I've yet to touch base upon that is worth writing about. I've gotten a bunch of emails from readers asking why I'm ending the blog while I'm still working, and this simplest answer is this: If I have to press to find things to write about, then it means I've run out of things to write about. The last thing I want to do is overstay my welcome (see: Dexter, True Blood), and I'm happy to be wrapping things up on my own terms (see: Breaking Bad). I'm eternally gratefully for what this blog has brought to the table, which is a voice for the blue collar schmuck who has more to say than you care to think.

Having said that, here is the cuntiest thing you can say to a Doorman:

It's funny, I've never written about this in the blog, but it made it into the pilot. There are many things that boil my blood in terms of people just being dicks - snapping fingers, not saying excuse me/please/thank you, looking at phones while I'm trying to give them directions, etc. Though there is one thing that most people find cute and playful that I have zero patience for. Zero. Seriously, I can't speak for every doorman in the world, but I'm sure that this statement, and it's variations (I'll cover those, too) will send a knot into their stomach and a jolt through their bodies:

Say I'm running around like a madman, trying to help people bring their bags in, valet a car, give directions to lost morons with upside down maps, hail a taxi, wipe sweat from my brow, take shit from my boss, help a bus driver parallel park, all simultaneously, and some fuckhead will take the initiative to open the door for himself and the people he's with.

His eyes beam with joy, like he's a caveman who just discovered fire as he motions for his people to file in ahead of him. He pretends to tip his hat as his people laugh and celebrate this cocksucker's new talent. Then, as I'm trying to make 100 people happy at once, he drops this line on me:

"I just did your job, mate!"

If I'm ever going to lose my job for assaulting a guest, this will be the thing that does it.

The funny thing is that almost everyone who says this thinks that they're being playful and cute. I assure you, there is nothing funny about it. Nothing.

Seriously, if you don't see the problem in that, I'll take one more sentence to explain it to you: I'm out here, breaking my ass in the heat, cold, rain, snow, sleet, hurricane, whatever, trying to guide these moronic cunts through their fat-faced, TGI Friday eating vacations, schlepping their bags for nothing, having to listen to the same redundant stories about how terrified they were in their taxis coming here and how they can't believe how lively Times Square is, and now I have some fucking boob lay out how fucking meaningless my job is just to get a cheap laugh from his mediocre family.

We work very hard. We work long hours in inclement weather, always on our feet. We take shit from people, do endless amounts of manual labor for very little gratitude, and serve as a whipping post for management, guests, and civilians. Though most people don't see that. Most people see the monkey holding the door open, and that's fine. Just keep your fucking mouth shut about it. We know that the core of our job is a very simple one. Every time I hold the door open for some kid, or some suit, or some hooker, or some foreigner, or just some ungrateful cunt - without a thank you, or even so much as a brief moment of eye-contact - a little fire burns at the pit of my stomach.

Guest arrives. Open the door. Guest exits. Open the door.

We get it. It's easy. Now try doing everything else we have to do without killing someone. Seriously. Get through the first day without pulling a muscle or getting hit by a taxi or punching someone in the throat and you can have my job.

Other variations that make me want to take these people, staple a steak to their genitals, and lock them in a room with a wolverine on bath salts:

"OH! That's okay!!! I'll get it myself!!! HAHAHAHA!!!" 

"That's a pretty easy gig you've got, mate!"

"Um, I just had to open my own door!"

"Aren't you going to get that for me?"

Don't get me wrong, I will get the door for anyone when I'm not busy. Actually, that's a lie. If you've stiffed me on the way in, I'll take great joy in watching you fumble with the door yourself. Every time. So if you're ever in a hotel, and a doorman is going out of his way to not open the door for you, you've likely done him wrong. I know it means nothing to them, but fuck, is it satisfying for us. It's the little things, my fine readers, the little things.

And now for a quickie:

Last night, after bringing in some guests inside, I returned to my post to get some water. It was the first cold evening of the year and, like clockwork, I immediately came down with a seasonal cold.

My water was placed on the doorman phone, and as I popped open the cap to cure my dry, itchy throat that's been keeping my up the past two nights, some fat fuck came down the steps. Her Green Bay Packers sweatshirt just barely made it to the top of her jeans, which looked like she was trying to escape a flea market with a watermelon stuffed down the front of her pants.

Because my hands were occupied quenching my thirst, I pressed the handicap button to open the both doors for her. Simple transaction. My job is to open the door, and while I was busy, I managed to multi-task. Should have been the end of the interaction.

Right? Wrong.

Fatso - " Looks like you're working really hard tonight!"

She snickered as I tried to gulp down my water. My face immediately scrunched up and turned red, and I throw my arms up in a "what the fuck?" manner. I didn't notice that her family, equally obese and donning Wisconsin football gear, was standing outside the glass doors waiting for her. They clearly saw my reaction. The patriarch of the Blob Clan immediately asked what she said to me to cause such a reaction.


The Blob Clan laughed at me like a chorus of cheese-hat wearing morons at a Frank Caliendo show. If one of them dropped dead of a heart attack at that moment, I wouldn't have been surprised.

She saw that I took the easy way out in opening the door for her, and she mocked me. This is what my bachelor's degree has brought me. The Blob Clan made their way to Times Square.

Maybe on another night, I would have yelled something profane. Maybe I would have given them the finger. Maybe I would have completely crushed their souls with my words, throwing out cheap fat jokes and ruining their vacation. Would that have been satisfying? Probably not. I'm getting used to seeing the ugly in people and looking the other way.

After almost two years, I've adjusted to being a doorman. I understand my place as someone who serves as a reflection for who people really are. You can learn a lot about a person by how they act on vacation. They're in a place they're likely never going to be again, dealing with people they're likely never going to see again. Most people are wonderful, genuine, and grateful for my help and insight.

Then you have the ones who seize the opportunity to be at their ugliest, and I've come to realize that there's no helping people like that.

No comments:

Post a Comment