.23) The Doormen

Maroon-red blazers, they make the doormen wear in the lobby of this building where I live,19 floors up. I pass before the tribunal of their faces whenever I go out or come back home, make conversation to overcome embarrassment before these black men hired to baby-sit the 164 units-of-us living in this tower. 'My doorman's waiting up' — the thought flies through my head, as if he's some dorm-mom, as I come home at night. Of course, when I'm buzzed in, it's a bored face dutifully mouthing 'Good evening, sir'. I struggle to get past him without feeling guilt for his low wages or his boring job. 'How do you get through the night? ' I ask one elderly, black-bereted sentinel on the midnight shift. 'I reads and I nods, ' he tells me. I try to imagine looking forward to a maroon-red jacket and buzzing open a door for wealthy folks until the day I die. These men have become arbiters of my conscience. Every time I pass them I try to justify my life, silently contemplating on the elevator: Am I living my caring? How else could I deserve this life of privilege, 19 floors above the doormen? (1998)