Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Bob, My First Horrible Boss

I've been working since I'm 12 years old. My first job was a paper route located on a quiet block near my parent's house. Delivering the Staten Island Advance was a 7-days-a-week gig. I remember after I turned 14, when I started experimenting with alcohol and cigarettes, my Dad would wake me up to deliver the Sunday morning newspaper. They were the thick, heavy, ad-filled fuckers that would make your hands look like a coal miner's afterwards. I'd piss and moan about having to get up so early on a weekend, even though it was 45 minutes out of my day and I would crawl right back into bed for a Sunday Funday full of napping, eating Cheese Doodles, and jacking off with my orange-stained fingertips.

It never occurred to me that this was as easy as it was going to get. When I turned 15, the fifty or sixty bucks per week I earned was quickly being eaten up by my growing addiction to Parliament Lights and off-brand 40oz beers. We'd pay homeless people to buy them from the run-down deli's surrounding the baseball field where we got into the majority of our trouble.

It was then when I inquired with my parents about getting a summer job, one where I could make some more cash and pass off the paper-route to my little brother. I'd been losing customers, mostly due to my tendency to throw gassers that put craters in screen doors and aluminum siding, in addition to delivering the papers at the early-bird hour of 6pm.

My mother had a bread route at the time, where she delivered this brand of cookies and cakes called "Joey's". Their slogan was something like, "A little of love in every bite." Some kids I hung out with in the neighborhood, who went to a local Catholic School where my mom delivered, found out and were like, "Yo! Your mom delivers the 'Joey loves everybody' cookies?!? Could you hook us up with some?"

I couldn't, so they continued to bully me. Looks like I missed my window.

Anyway, she delivered to this guy who drove a food truck on Staten Island. He was a big, fat fuck named "Bob". I put "Bob" in quotations, not because it's my pseudonym for him, but because he embodied the fat fuck named "Bob." Bob was his real name, he was a fat fuck, and he earned his keep to be called Bob, a fat fuck. He looked like the Epcot ball, wearing a pit-stained, white t-shirt with a tiny head on top. He gave me a job.

I got paid $100 bucks a week to come to his garage for two hours a day and clean all of the dried-up gunk in his pots and pans, then restock all of his beverages. It was disgusting, hard work. Sure, I was getting a pay-bump and weekends off, but it came at the expense of smelling like sauerkraut and eggs for the entire summer.

Bob would be there, profusely calling me "dopey" and "shithead" and "retard" while telling me he'd like to fuck my girlfriend. She was a grade behind me.

Any time I'd make a mistake - like forgetting to fill the coffee pots or scrub thoroughly behind some crevice I didn't know existed - he'd shower me with insults ranging from my level of intelligence to why I hadn't fucked my girlfriend yet. It was a constant onslaught of verbal abuse, day in, day out.

At the end of my first week, Bob courteously agreed to drive me home. While we passed though the neighborhood next to mine, he dropped some words of wisdom:

Bob - "This neighborhood is changing, you know?"

Doorman - "Oh yeah?"

Bob - "Yeah. There's a bunch of punjabs and niggers moving in."

Those are some of the things he'd say when being nice to me.

About halfway through the summer, my Mom sold the route to a nice man named Dave. His wife had recently gave birth to their first daughter, and this was a second job to make ends meet. One day Dave was running late with a delivery and Bob wanted to leave for the weekend. Bob confided in me:

Bob - "If he's not here in five minutes, he's gonna find his wife and baby in the East River... Hey, retard! Didn't I tell you to fill the fucking coffee pots before doing anything else!"

It's funny, being a kid and getting your first taste of what the real world must be like. Because you don't know shit. I just thought this is what it would be like when I went into the work force after high school (my ambitions at that age were minimal). I'd pictured going to some garage, and there be a bunch of dudes in there insulting and swearing at each other, leaving the New York Post on top of the toilet for the next guy. Your boss is the big asshole who makes everyone's life a living hell. It's kind of like what I do now, though there's a mutual respect amongst the guys, no matter how badly we abuse each other. And, no matter how big a stickler our boss may be, there's still a manner in which he has to treat us.

Bob had no business being alone with someone my age. My parents had no idea. They just knew him as fat, jolly Bob who bought their cookies and apple turnovers. They didn't know the awful things he would say, and I never told them anything. But why would I? I was making more money than anyone in the neighborhood, and there was never a time where being broke stood in the way of me doing something. It just came at the expense of having to take a whole lot of shit from a horrid man.

Eventually, Bob fired me for neglecting to fill the coffee pot for the following day. He owed me three days pay and said he didn't have the cash on him. He said to come back tomorrow. I did, and took the bus 5 miles from my house to get it. Same thing. "Come back tomorrow, dopey." I'd come back tomorrow, and he'd give me the same smug smirk and put-on forgetfulness. "Whoops, forgot to put it aside for you before the bank!"

Finally, I came home from the 4th day in a row of Bob's runaround, and told my father. My dad, in a vintage move, calmly stood up from the couch, grabbed his Carhartt work jacket off the dining room chair, and said two words:

"Let's go."

Doorman - "No, Dad! Forget it! It's okay."

Dad - "He owes you money?"

Doorman - "Yeah, but, it's fine! I don't need it!"

The stakes are low when your only expenses are cigarettes, beer, and deli sandwiches.

Dad - "Let's go!"

We drove their green 1993 Saturn, which would eventually become my first car, to Bob's garage. I sat in silence the whole time, pissed off that my father was making me go and stand up for myself. At the time, I avoided confrontation so much that the anticipation of a potential brawl between my old man and this fat piece of shit made me sick to my stomach.

Dad - "When you do a job for someone, you make damn sure you get paid for it."

We pull up to the garage.

Dad - "Come on."

Doorman - "No, I'll wait here."

Dad - "Let's go, god damnit!"

I reluctantly get out. He gallops ahead of me, on a mission. We get to the truck, where a new kid has already taken over my job, likely getting his first round of Bob's tirades.

Bob emerges from one of the freezers. Dad marches over to him.

Dad - "Haya doin'? You owe my son money?"

Bob shoots me a look as I cower behind the truck. All I anticipate is him grabbing my father and them start to fight, and it's all my fault. It's my fault because I couldn't do this job right, and it's my fault that I actually went home and ratted out Bob to my Dad.

But Bob didn't grab my father. Instead, he shook like a leaf. You see, it wasn't some fat-faced, vulnerable kid who was going to take his shit because he didn't know any better. No, he was face-to-face with a grown-ass man, a grown-ass man whose son he'd just crossed. Bob was terrified.

Bob - "I went to the bank today. I don't have it."

Dad - "So you're gonna have it tomorrow, set aside for him before you go to the bank?"

Without hesitation:

Bob - "Yes."

Dad - "Don't make me come back here."

He turned and walked away. I stood frozen. Seeing Bob completely fold in the eyes of my Dad, who was half his size, was mind-blowing.

Dad - "Let's go."

I followed him out.

We didn't say much in the car ride back. He just reiterated how I need to stand up for myself. How I can't let people jerk me around that way.

Easy for him to say, I thought. I'd always known my father to be the guy who would stand up to the goliath, and I figured that gene had skipped me. I never stood up for myself, under any circumstances. I always felt like he was disappointed in me for always getting my ass kicked in school, rarely fighting back ("never" is more accurate). I'd never felt so different from him than that day. I could never, in a million years, picture myself taking that kind of charge, instinctively getting right in the face of someone who'd wronged one of his loved ones.

What the hell am I going to do when I have kids and something like this happens? Call my dad to come fix it? 

The next day, I went back to the garage. Bob had an envelope on the table waiting for me. Before I took it and left, he said this:

Bob - "That was really nice of your father to come do."

Doorman - "Umm... okay."

Bob - "You tell him, that what he did, I'm going to have taken care of!"

He's threatening to have my father killed. Oh fuck. This is my fault!!!

Doorman - "Do you really want me to tell him that?"

Bob - "I don't give a fuck what you tell him!"

Doorman - "Ok, thank you."

I jumped back on the s62 bus, terrified that I potentially started a war that would lead to the demise of my old man.

When I got home, Dad was on the couch, watching SportsCenter.

Doorman - "Dad..."

I explained Bob's threat. He listened intently, with his mouth wide-open, which has been a life-long indicator that he's blissfully amused. After I finished, he took a pause, his face became red, and he began howling with laughter like I'd never heard him before.

Doorman - "Why are you laughing? He sounded like he was going to have someone hurt you!"

Between gasps of air, he managed to get this out:

Dad - "Chris... nothing's going to happen."

I creaked my head to the side, silently pleading him to elaborate. And he did. He leaned in for a whisper, because my mom and sister were in the next room and he refused to curse in their presence:

Dad - "He's a pussy."

That was the last we spoke of Bob. I never saw him again, and he never put the hit out on my father.

To be perfectly honest here, I had no intention of putting this story on paper when I sat down to write tonight. It started as a free-write about turning 30, and this somehow came to the surface when I started talking about my first paper route. I haven't thought about it in years. There's a lot to take from it, mostly that adulthood has helped me evolve into a man who will march into a garage to retrieve a debt owed to someone I care about.

Though there's something else that's easy to overlook - I mentioned that my parents had only known him as the jolly fat guy who bought their cakes. I remembered them talking about him before I started working there, and it was always overwhelmingly positive. He had a litter of kittens that he sheltered in the shed behind the garage. He was married with three children. He worked hard and ran a wonderful, successful business. He offered to have their son come in a work for him a couple of hours a day, as if he were doing them a favor. He was "Bob". They trusted him, yet had no idea what a lowlife he really was.

Point is, I should have told my parents what was going on. But I didn't. It obviously could have been much, much worse. Obviously.

In the end, I got to witness Bob shrink to what he really was in the ire of my father, which was immensely gratifying. If I had spoken up in the beginning, that wouldn't have happened. And I may have not taken such an impacting life lesson from it.

Though others may not be so lucky to have things go their way. I just feel bad for his family.

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Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Doorman Webisode Synopsis

Greetings Readers and Friends!

We're about 2/3 through our crowd-funding campaign and still have a ways to go. To make Season one of Doorman a reality, we need your help. If you can't contribute to the campaign, I still love you, but please pass it along to some people who have a few extra dollars to throw around. Remember, any donation of $25 or more gets you a ticket to an exclusive screening of the entire first season, along with an invitation to the after-party.

Here's a brief description of the purposed episodes (one still TBD):

Brick: Doorman gets an unusually large tip.

Hustler: Doorman has a run-in with a Times Square CD hustler.

Doorman as Doorman: Doorman books an acting gig.

Ramona (Parts 1 & 2): Doorman meets a mysterious woman with a motorcycle.

I assure you, all of these episodes are as funny and painfully true to what happened in real life as it was in the pilot. Click on the link below and help us make it happen!!!

Monday, July 21, 2014

The Blind Couple From Japan

Taxi pulls up. I see the fare on the meter read "$57.68", which means the guest came from JFK airport. In the backseat are a young Asian couple.

The trunk pops open. The cabbie refrains from doing the patented "honk and gesture for me to do his job", so I gladly open the hood myself, retrieve the small, red suitcase inside, and await my guests. 

After a few minutes, they're still in there. I'm getting restless.

How long does it fucking take to pay for your cab? 

The cabbie gets out: 

Cabbie - "Sir, please. Can you help them?" 

Doorman - "What's the problem?" 

Cabbie - "They are... impaired." 

I open the door, and after a closer look, see the last thing I'd expect to - they're both blind. 

The woman has a credit card in one hand and several singles in the other. 

Doorman - "Hi." 

Cabbie - "This is the doorman!" 

She turns to my left ear. 

Woman - "Oh, hello! Excuse me, can you please help me?" 

Doorman - "Of course!" 

She holds up her credit card towards me. 

Woman - "I want to put $57.68 on my credit card." 

I don't know why my initial instinct was to give the cabbie an assist:

Doorman - "Ok, and how much would you like to tip?" 

She holds up the singles. 

Woman - "These are my tips!" 

Well, I'll be. 

I swipe the card and run it, then she hands the cash tip to the driver. 

Woman - "Excuse me, can you please help us inside?"

Doorman - "Of course." 

We all step out. They were both tiny, a couple of salt and pepper shakers. I grab the suitcase with one hand, then she takes my arm like we're walking into prom. Her boyfriend holds the back of her belt. It was like and L-shaped Congo line. 

I had once seen a blind person be guided into the building for the first time, so without her asking, I gave her exactly what she needed:

Doorman - "Ok, we have a door that pulls open, though there's usually a doorman here. Usually." 

Woman - "Ok, pull door."

I open the door and lead them to the steps. 

Doorman - "Now we have four steps." 

She places her cane foward and finds the bottom one, then counts "one, two, three, four" all the way up. 

Doorman - "Now we're going to go around to the right to the reception desk."

Woman - "To the right..."

Doorman - "Where are you from?"

Woman - "Japan." 

I lead them to reception, where I introduce the front desk girl who will be checking them in. She thanked me profusely as she took out her wallet.

For a second I thought I was getting a tip, but it was only to get out her passport. The bellman who took them upstairs, however, got two bucks for his services. 

About an hour later, they left with a private tour guide. 

It took a little while for this to sink in, but how fucking impressive is that? 

They were able to fly out to a foreign country, arrive at the airport, get to the taxi stand, then make it to their hotel. Granted, they may have been lucky to have encountered a few honest, good Samaritans along the way. But to take a leap of faith in humanity like that? Relying on strangers from a foreign land to get you to your destination safe and sound? It's just something I don't see, and I see A LOT of shit. 

It also makes me think- I turn 30 in a few days and I've never traveled. What the fuck is my excuse?

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Thursday, July 10, 2014

Doorman Makes a Shitty Joke, Backfires Horribly

I'm a funny guy. No, that's not the shitty joke. Even though that's what some of my close friends will tell you. I've been making people laugh since I could speak, and truth be told, it's really the one thing I've been consistently good at throughout my life. I've dabbled in many different avenues of comedy over the years, namely improv, stand-up, and sketch. Though it was in the memoir-writing and self-mockery where I really found my niche. My roommate once said it best, "you're 100x funnier when you're not trying to be funny." And it's true. I've let go of forcing jokes upon people, and as a result I've naturally evolved into a walking, double-chinned punchline.

Though sometimes, I can't resist a good yuck-yuck. And the universe can't resist making me pay for it. Here's an example:

I was working inside as a bellman yesterday. It was no different than any other day of fun-filled bag schlepping - the bell rings, I hop to it, guest looks at me like they'd rather eat cereal with a heroin spoon than have me escort them to the room, I convince them that I need to make sure the keys work and everything is okay with said room, they reluctantly allow me to put my disgusting hands on their luggage, I offer a map and a city guide, they couldn't give a fuck, I take them up to the room, flip on the lights, check the towels, offer to adjust the temperature of the air-conditioning, anything to stall for a tip, guest reluctantly gives me a dollar or two, I smile and profusely thank them like they've just pulled my mother out of a burning building, leave the room, the smile immediately vanishes from my face, I take out my phone and open Facebook, walk down the hall while hate-reading worthless, redundant statuses, press the elevator button, get in the elevator with guests, get annoyed that I have to put my phone away and stop hate-reading the worthless, redundant statuses, get into the lobby, do it all over again. 

That just about sums up my work day whilst inside as a bellman. 

In the midst of all that nonsense, I took a front from a middle-aged American woman. I'll call her "Fran". The conversation went like this: 

Front Desk Girl - "This is our bellman. He's going to show you up to the room to make sure everything's okay."

Doorman - "Hi! Can I offer you a map of New York and a city guide?"

Fran - "No, thank you."

She has a suitcase and duffle bag, both of which are in her hands. I take the suitcase. 

Doorman - "I'll carry this!"

Fran - "Oh! Okay." 

She laughs that laugh saved for people who aren't used to this type of service. It's as if they're saying, "Oh, how fancy!" with a series of yappy giggles. 

I extend my hand to have her feed me the duffle bag.

Doorman - "I'll carry that!" 

She slides the bag off her shoulder and drops it into my hand. 

Doorman - "Ok, ready?"

Fran - "I just have to get my husband." 

And here's an ever popular "waka-waka" joke in my repertoire:

Doorman - "Welp, I'm not going to carry him!"

Cue an outburst of live-studio audience laughter followed by a screen-freeze of me smiling into the camera. A rousing applause and the credit "Executive Producer: Chris Russell" fills the screen.

Most people humor me and let out a little chuckle. Fran did not. In fact, her expression immediately changed to one you see when someone smells an expired diary product from the fridge. 

Fran - "You don't have to."

Come again?

Fran - "He's right over there."

She points to the corner, where her husband is sitting... in a fucking wheelchair. 

And it wasn't just an, "oh, I had a skiing accident" type of situation. It was an oxygen tank, "shit is permanent" situation. 

My first thought: 

Ok, so if I just run out the side entrance and jump in front of a taxi, they'll take me to the hospital and no one will ever remember this. 

Doorman - "Oh... I didn't. I was just..."

She says nothing as she walks behind her man and clutches the back of the chair. 

Fran - "Where are we going?"

Doorman - "Umm... 1201. Right this way."

I lead the way into the elevator. I skip my usually shtick of Where you from? I love that city! First time in New York? Nice! Any plans? Oh, Statue of Liberty and 'the 9/11?' How original! 

Nope, I just stare straight at the wall and avoid saying anything else that will make this woman want to strangle me with the cord of her husband's oxygen tank. 

We get to the room. She wheels her husband inside. I put the bags down, turn on the lights, wish them a great stay, and get the fuck out of there without even bothering to squeeze a tip. 

Later on, they came through the lobby. I waved and said hello for good measure, only to have her snap her head the other way immediately. 

It was an honest mistake, I swear. All I tried to do was make a cutesy little joke, and it ended up becoming an outrageous misunderstanding. 

Such is my life.

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Monday, July 7, 2014

Doorman & The Ladies - The Girl From Iceland

I have a rule when it comes to fornicating with clientele - I don't do it. It's an obviously forbidden and fireable offense if I'm caught fraternizing with the guests, so I keep my mule in my pants at all times. Under no circumstances is it appropriate to engage in any sexual behavior with the women who inhabit my place of work. Anyone who does partake in this deviant act is a sick individual who doesn't deserve to have his job.

It's really easy to say things like that when women don't throw themselves at you.

I've heard stores about bellmen going up to rooms to find naked women who are eager to get a quickie in before their husbands get back, and I've seen some of my more-handsome colleagues have pieces of paper with room numbers passed along to them with a wink and seductive smile. I, sadly, have never had that happen to me. Except this one time:

Rewind the clocks back to February 6, 2012, the Monday after my beloved New York Football Giants won their second Super Bowl in four years. It was also while I was right in the midst of my psycho craigslist roommate shit show, so, yeah, I had a lot going on.

I had just completed the wildly unnecessary six weeks of training for a job I mastered in the first hour - store the bags, retrieve the bags, open the door, smile, hail taxi, be nice.

It was my first overnight riding solo as a bellman. My plan was to get out of there at 8am and shoot down to the Financial District to catch Eli Manning and co. parade down the Canyon of Heroes.

Throughout the week, I'd become friendly with a group of six female bartenders from Iceland. Now, I'm not sure this were a flattering representation of a country I'd otherwise had no familiarity with, but every single one of these women were stunningly beautiful. They were there for a long weekend, and I'd been giving them advice on bars and neighborhoods to go in the city for a good time. Whenever I'd help them, there would always be one, the shortest of the bunch, who shyly hid behind everyone as I gave them directions to cool spots on the Lower East Side and Meatpacking District.

She was the one who caught my eye the most - her jet-blonde hair would always be partially covering her crystal-blue eyes. Every time my gaze would gravitate toward her, she'd part her hair from her face and coquettishly look up from the floor with a playful smirk. Me, being the monumental doofus that I am, would put on my pressed-lipped smile and immediately abort any seductive eye-contact.

After a few days of this and booking them a limousine to take them around the city on their last night, they all came back shit-hammered at 4:00am.

Our overnight houseman, Aju (remember Aju?), was right in the middle of his nightly routine of vacuuming every square-inch of the lobby three times over. He'd start at around 2am, then wrap up at 5, like clockwork, every single night. (It's funny because he puts so much effort into his vacuuming, and the first thing his relief does when he comes in is vacuum the same-exact spots.) At that point, I'd never heard him speak. I didn't think he spoke English. The first time I saw him from across the lobby, I waved and introduced myself. He stared at me for a few seconds, nodded quickly, then vanished into the staircase.

It didn't bother me much. When you work a graveyard shift, the last thing you want to do is make small-talk with people. All I really wanted to do to pass the night was read my kindle and flirt with Icelandic chicks.

So as Aju vacuumed behind the bell desk with the long-hose cleaner for the third time in as many hours, the girls stumbled inside. They thanked me for being so nice and going out of my way and blah blah blah I'm a sweetheart. Then they all took out money from their purses and handed me a bunch of crumbled-up fives and tens. On a graveyard shift in the dead of winter, that's a gift from God. It ended up being about forty bucks total, more than double what I would have made the entire evening.

They all staggered upstairs, with the exception of one. The shy one in the back appeared to have gotten her liquid courage. As Aju's vacuum blared (NEEEEE UMMMMM NEEEEEE UMMMMM NEEEEEEE UMMMMM) behind me, she put her hand on mine. Her name was Üna.

Üna - "You are very nice."

It was the first time in my life a beautiful woman had made an obvious "fuck me" gesture in a public place. I almost stopped breathing for a second. It's a shame that stupid Aju's incessant vacuuming was causing her to raise her voice, because I would have loved to have heard her seductive whispers.

Doorman - "Uh, thank you! You are nice, too!"

Üna - "You remind me of my boyfriend."

Oh... whoa. Okay.

Doorman - "Oh? Is he here?"

Üna - "No."

Her glassy eyes burned through me like a laser. I felt my hand getting clammy on hers, so I instinctively pulled it away. Apparently she took it as a power move, as my being coy and hard-to-get. This made her press more.

Üna - "You are nice and funny."

Doorman - "Thank you! So are you!"

Üna - "No, I am not."

Aju bumps into my foot with his fucking vacuum hose.

Üna - "You are very handsome."

I feel all the blood rush to my face. And my penis.

Doorman - "Thank you..."

Üna - "Do you want to come up to my room for a beer?"

Is this really happening to me? It's like the beginning of a porno. Here I am, six week into a brand-new job that was allowing me to carry out a lifelong dream of living in Manhattan, and I have this unbelievably beautiful, drunk girl from a country I had no previous knowledge about save for the second Mighty Ducks movie, inviting me upstairs to do God-knows-what. Is this real life?!?

I can't go up there. I can't. God forbid she wakes up and regrets cheating on her boyfriend, then somehow turns it around on me? What if she tells management that I forced myself on her? 

Doorman - "I'm sorry. But I can't."

Not letting up a bit, she puts on a pouty face.

Üna - "Come on... just one beer."

She takes my pen off the desk and writes her room number on a subway map.

Doorman - "I really want to. I really, really do. But I can't."

She slides her room number over and walks away. After a couple of steps, she turns back, smiles and nods her head.

Doorman - "Wait!"

She stops.

Doorman - "Maybe you can give me your email. And we could talk when you get back to Iceland."

I just mortifyingly bit my knuckle after I typed that, because it was exactly what I said.

She laughs, then keeps walking to the elevator. She gets in, turns to me, and we hold eye contact as the doors shut.

I stand there for a moment, turn to the map with "545" sloppily written on it, and give it some serious fucking consideration:

What if I pretend the phone rang, then tell the manager that I have to bring ice to a room? What if I tell him that I'm going on my lunch break, and he can reach me on the radio? It's 4:00am, people leaving for the airport won't start coming down for AT LEAST an hour. And it's February, nobody's in the fucking hotel anyway!!!

As all of these thoughts raced through my horny, sleep-deprived mind, Aju turned off his god damn vacuum. I was so used to it being on that the silence was startling. I swing around to him.

He picks up the vacuum hose and rests it on the ground as if he were a farmer holding a pitchfork. Again - at the time, I'd never heard him say a word. I didn't think he spoke English. But Aju pondered for a beat, pushed his sliding glasses up the bridge of his nose, and gave his two cents in his thick, Bangladeshi accent:

Aju - "Don't do it, man."

He then bent over, turned the vacuum back on, and resumed his work.

And I didn't. It took everything I had in me to not go up there. But I made it through the night, went to the Giants ticker-tape parade, and never saw Üna again.

Now, every guy I tell this story to freaks out on me:

"Are you fucking kidding me, bro?!? I would have went up there and tore that up, duuuuuuude!!!'

Sure you would have. You have to understand that, at the time, I had just started a new job and was forced to abruptly move out of my apartment and sleep in my friend's office because of a psychotic roommate. The last thing I needed was to get in trouble at work for sexual misconduct.

I obsessed about it for weeks - even did some facebook stalking and found her. For a while, I was tempted to take a trip out there and pop into the bar they all worked in. I mean, they all told me that I had to come out to Iceland one day. But, like any fleeting encounter with a stranger from another city, the novelty eventually wore off.

That was almost two and a half years ago. I thought that was going to be an everyday occurrence - drunk girl comes back from the club, grabs the first available decent-looking bellhop to cap the evening - but it hasn't happened since. Not once.

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Saturday, July 5, 2014

Doorman Gets Hit On, Blows It

Upon making a withdrawal at TD bank, I was greeted by a friendly, gorgeous bank teller:

Doorman- "I'd like to make a withdrawal, please."

Girl - "Your name is Christopher Michael Russell the third?"

Doorman- "Yup!"

Girl - "Wow, that's quite the regal name you have!"

Doorman - "Thanks! Never heard that before."

Girl - "Are you going to name your son Christopher the 4th?"

Doorman - "I'm not married, so I have a while to think about that."

She smiles.

Girl - "You're not married? That's surprising!"

Doorman - "Not yet!"

She's hitting on you, dummy.

Girl -"So when you get married, will your son be the 4th?"

Doorman - "Well, it'll probably be up to my wife."

Girl - "Good answer!"

She smiles again, this time more inviting. She wants me to ask for her number. I panic.

Doorman - "So, uh, er... it's too bad my bank account doesn't reflect my regal name."

Oh God. 

She laughs. There still may be hope.

Girl - "Would you like the balance, Christopher?"

Say something suave. 

Doorman - "Nope, don't remind me."


She hands me my receipt.

Girl - "Here you go!"

Doorman - "Thank you."

I stand there stupidly for what seems an eternity. I try to make a sentence with my mouth, but the words are jumbled in my brain. She looks up from the computer and smiles.

Girl - "Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Russell the third?"

Would you maybe want to get a drink with me sometime? WOULD YOU MAYBE WANT TO GET A DRINK WITH ME SOMETIME? 

Doorman - "Um, uh... you know what? I'll take that balance!"

You suck.

Her smile fades to befuddled disbelief.

Girl - "Of your checking account?"

Doorman - "Yes, please."

Girl - "Oh-kay... I'll need your debit card again."

Doorman - "You know what? Never mind!"

I turn and bolt out, outrunning my dignity by a mile. Better luck next time.

Want to see more terribly awkward stories like that on screen? Click the link below to donate to #Doorman - The Web Series!!!

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Doorman Needs Your Money

Hi, all-

We're planning on shooting six more episodes of Doorman next month, and I need your help! Please check out the indiegogo campaign below. Thank you!