The Doorman
by Amanda Punt
“Good morning, Davi,” the curly pigtails bobbed by the desk, her small voice unable to pronounce the “D” at the end of his name.
“And good morning, Izzy,” he smiled back as she and her mom walked out the front door of the complex. Her mom, Machaela, gave him a genuine smile as she struggled to push the diaper bag, her purse, and stroller through the door.
David started to rise to help her but she pushed through and was gone before he could get across the lobby. He chastised himself for not being more helpful but had been distracted by the way her leggings hugged her slim form, the pilates was definitely working for her. She seemed to have sashayed a bit when she had walked by the desk so who was he not to appreciate the show she had given him.
“David, my boy,” another man, pushing into his 70’s waved as he stepped out of the elevator.
“Good morning, Mr. Jeffers, how can I help you today?” David gave a rigid smile.
“I’ve got a package being delivered sometime between 1-6 pm, it’s vitally important that it does not get lost in the shuffle like the last one.” Mr. Jeffers emphasized the “vitally” as if David couldn’t fathom the importance of this delivery.
“Absolutely,” David said while looking at Mr. Jeffers’s order history and account. “The last package was sent up to your apartment directly by one of the other associates, I’ll verify with them where they placed it and track it down for you.”
“See to it, it shouldn’t be too hard to find if they did their job correctly,” his tone implied that rarely people performed to his standards. Mr. Jeffers turned on his heel and walked briskly back to the elevator and pressed the up arrow with his thumb. His foot tapped impatiently as the elevator numbers counted down from 24.
David turned his attention back to the computer in front of him, grateful that Mr. Jeffers had not started one of his long-winded political conversations that poorly disguised his feelings about the younger generations and minorities.
He sat for another 45 minutes, flipping between the security footage of the parking garage levels and the websites he was accustomed to browsing. He was not the night doorman who liked to circulate between porn websites. Though, if he worked nights and had fewer interactions with the residents he may have been inclined to the darker parts of the internet.
People came and went. Regular guests greeted him with the geniality of some of the residents. They exchanged pleasantries while signing the guest book before heading to the elevator. Other residents bustled in and out, some giving him a quick acknowledgment and others just rushing past him.
It used to bother David that some people seemed as if he were part of the structure of the apartment complex. After living in the city for 2 years those feelings dissipated. He was a part of the landscape, and rarely deserved the recognition of the elite as they carried on with their busy lives as day traders, real estate investors, or corporate lawyers.
The few people who did notice him on the street or at work were a different breed of people altogether. The teachers, bartenders, and civil rights lawyers almost always made eye contact. They were amongst the first to ask his name when he started at the front desk. They were the ones to step aside for him when they crossed paths at the busy intersections. Words were not always exchanged but he could rely on the recognition of a fellow human being from this variety of people.
“Davi!!” Izzy’s giggle pulled him from his reverie.
“Hello, Izzy, how was the park?” David leaned over the front of the desk so that Izzy didn’t have to pull herself up to peek at him.
“Fun! I saw my friend Jenny and we played tag and lava and then had some snacks and then did the monkey bars but then Jenny fell and she got scraped so we stopped playing and came home.”
“Oh! Was there a lot of blood?”
“Nope, or else I woulda fixed it.”
“Doctor Izzy is one of the few doctors I trust in this city,” David winked down at her.
“Oh yeah, I woulda done stitches and tape to make sure she didn’t bleed all over my favorite swing.”
“And now, Doctor Izzy needs to get cleaned up for lunch and get ready for her afternoon nap.” Machaela chimed in.
“Will you be there when I wake up? Like yesterday?” Izzy’s innocent question froze Machaela and David, eyes barely flicking to each other.
“Now, Izzy, David has to stay here and work then he gets to go home to his family at night, just like daddy comes home to us every night.”
“Yeah, but last time he was there,” Izzy’s eyebrows scrunched as she tried to remember the details from yesterday.
“I was just there to look at something in the kitchen to see if we need to call for a repair,” David answered quickly.
Izzy made a face as if she was going to press the issue further, but Machaela quickly grabbed her hand and turned toward the elevators. David gave himself a minute shake before waving them off, “have a good rest of your day, Mrs. Madden and Ms. Madden.”
Izzy turned and waved while Machaela stared at the elevator, not meeting his gaze.
David released a long breath and quickly typed out a text message.
I’m sorry. We will stop immediately, I don’t want to cause any issues.
To his surprise, his phone buzzed less than a minute later.
I expect you at lunch.
David smiled down at the phone before a jolt of anticipation gave him the energy to get through the two hours until lunch.
Amanda Punt is an emerging fiction author. She received a BA in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing from the University of Colorado at Boulder in 2017. From there she explored life in Los Angeles until coming back home to pursue a career in teaching in 2019. Though she loved discussing literature (and life) with her high school students she took the leap to leave education and focus on her writing. Her first published piece “The Doorman” was published by On the Run Fiction on December 9, 2022. Amanda loves cooking & baking, board games, and the idea of starting an urban garden someday. She currently lives in Aurora, CO with her husband, newborn, and their dogs & cats. You can reach Amanda Punt by email at amanda.punt.writes@gmail.com.