One of the doormen at my office building died over the weekend. I came in half a day late on Monday (no worries--it was approved) to see a sign in the lobby saying that he died unexpectedly on Saturday and that his funeral would be the following day.
As I looked at the little 2X2 ID pic someone had tacked on top of the sign, I almost lost it. He was just always so nice to me. And not in the "you're a hot piece of ass and I love tits" kind of way. I love bright colors and whenever I would show up during the winter sporting my yellow coat and striped rainboots, he had a smile and a compliment waiting when I came in.
Until I saw the sign in the lobby saying he was dead, I'd never even known his name.
I heard that he had an asthma attack that proved fatal. He was 33 and his mother was listed as his next of kin. I saw him everyday for the past year almost and I never knew his name. This makes me very upset inside because I always think of myself in glowing phrases that proclaim: "GOOD PERSON," "LOVES TO SMILE," and "TREATS OTHERS AS SHE WANTS TO BE TREATED."
Yet I never really looked at our doorman, our doorman whose name was Steven Rodriguez, as a person who had a life and a dream outside of this danky midtown west office building that affords panoramic views of the Port Authority. All I saw is that he was a doorman. It was his job to make sure there was an open elevator waiting for me when I came in out of the rain. And now he's dead and his mother is never going to see him again. Life is so fucked sometimes.
In other news (and so I don't start bawling at my desk): Transformers is just okay. The robots are awesome but come on--why don't any of the Autobots fly too?
0 comments:
Post a Comment