Sing A Simple Song

A career in security or law enforcement. Me. Can you believe that? Well I’ve seen the commercials on TV. I really do want to put crooks behind bars. But I’m sure there are tests and I don’t test well. I remember a few years ago, I was doing what I seem to do a lot of these days. I was looking for a job. The economy was better then. More Prospects. But now, oh it’s slim pickin’s.

It used to be I’d be walking to the job that I didn’t like or was temping for, and I’d see someone sweeping a sidewalk and I’d think, ‘Wow. That’s such a great job. I want that job.’ So one time, when I was looking, I was hanging out with my friend Miriam and her friend Andre. Dre was a good looking cat but man his brother was drop dead gorgeous. Lustily I digress.

So Dre was working as a doorman. A great union, great benefits. Sounded like the type of job you do until you’re 70 or so. Then you go home and die. Promising. Despite the fatal end, everything would seem to be in place. He told me that they were looking for people of my complexion, i.e. freckled. It sounded like a great gig.

When I told some friends about this possible job, they cautioned me, no rather told me not to take the job. I’m simply not the subservient type. I laughed them off.

There were three interviews and a psychological test. The second interview at 60th ST and 9th Avenue in the city was the oddest. The interviewer was seated in front of a painting that seemed to match his tie and created a trippy like atmosphere right behind his head. But I remained grounded and passed the interview.

He sent me to a testing company for security companies. They kept emphasizing in the interviews that being a doorman is more than holding doors and helping with baggage. It’s security. When the barbarians are at the gate, and they’re trying to get into apartment 3L, it’s up to you to stop them.

Seems fair enough. I’m sure they’d do the same for me.

The test that I was given was about one hundred questions and those questions were the same 9 or 10 questions reworded over and over again. I aced the test in about 15 minutes. Other guys in the room were really sweating over it. “If you saw someone take a pen from home from the workplace would you tell a supervisor’ ‘Yes, I would. Stealing is wrong, PERIOD.’

I got the job. I was in training. I’d be wearing a suit and tie (still a novelty for me then) and white gloves. I was working with the unionized doormen, who I found out, might go on strike in a few weeks. It was a dreadful job. The doormen kept thinking I was a scab, (and maybe I was being groomed for one) and the tenants kept asking me if I was a replacement doorman. It was a building on the FDR drive built in the 1960’s white brick modernist style. Now it was dingy white brick. And it was rather dark inside. Dark windows, low lights. Elevators full of blood. Like the Overlook Hotel on the Upper East Side.

‘Hello Johnny. Play with us.’
It was not the job I envisioned. I was not held in high esteem. I’d stand there and push the revolving door while someone would stand there and take baby steps and never touch the door, at all. I guess that’s why they paid exorbitant rent or maintenance fees so they wouldn’t have to leave the building and possibly breakout in a sweat.

Then there were the Sundays I worked, when Mr. & Mrs Nutsack would come back from a wholesale club with an SUV filled with food. Loose food all over the place since they didn’t use and bags and saved even more!

I’d have to help them scoop whatever it was onto the cart and try to wheel it in while keeping everything intact. I think this was part of the ‘Beat The Clock’ game show in the 1970’s.

I had enough. I’d normally hold the door for people if I was in public situations, but while working this job I wouldn’t. My friends were right. I’m not the subservient type. But I’m not the opposite either. I’m right there in the middle.

Feel free to comment fuckers.

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