The Doorman's Repose Read online

  THE

  DOORMAN’S

  REPOSE

  WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY

  CHRIS RASCHKA

  THE NEW YORK REVIEW CHILDREN’S COLLECTION

  NEW YORK

  THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK

  PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS

  435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  www.nyrb.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Chris Raschka

  All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Raschka, Christopher, author.

  Title: The doorman’s repose / by Chris Raschka.

  Description: New York : New York Review Books, [2017] | Series: New York Review Books children’s collection | Summary: “Some of us look up at those craggy, mysterious apartment buildings found in the posher parts of New York City and wonder what goes on inside. The Doorman’s Repose collects ten stories of the doings of 777 Garden Avenue, one of the craggiest”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016026843 (print) | LCCN 2016046294 (ebook) | ISBN 9781681371009 (hardback) | ISBN 9781681371016 (epub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s stories, American. | CYAC: Apartment houses—Fiction. | New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. | Humorous stories. | Short stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Lifestyles / City & Town Life. | JUVENILE FICTION / Humorous Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Readers / Chapter Books.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.R1814 Dr 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.R1814 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016026843

  ISBN 978-1-68137-101-6

  v1.0

  Cover design by Louise Fili, Ltd.

  Cover illustration by Chris Raschka

  For a complete list of titles, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:

  Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright and More Information

  The Doorman

  Fred and the Pigeons

  The Opera Singer Inspection

  The Forgotten Room

  Mouse Exchange

  Otis

  Anna and Pee Wee

  The Boiler

  Hot Water

  The Doorman’s Repose

  Biographical Notes

  For Lydie

  The Doorman

  ON HIS first day as the new doorman at 777 Garden Avenue, Mr. Bunchley was a little nervous. Mr. Hargreave, the doorman who had just retired, had been at the building— one of those grand apartment houses that make the Upper East Side of Manhattan the kind of spiffy neighborhood it is— longer than even its oldest resident could remember. Mr. Bunchley, accordingly, had a lot to live up to.

  The duties of a doorman are various.

  A good doorman must be able to open doors, of course. Opening doors is an art that Mr. Bunchley had studied and knew well. Not too fast, not too slow, not too wide, not too narrow, not too early, and not too late. Just so. Just so each resident of 777 Garden Avenue could enter like a queen and exit like a general.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sherman,” said Mr. Bunchley, drawing the door open smoothly with his left hand, his right hand held palm up and slightly out, in a single gesture that both presented Mr. Sherman to the world, and showed the world that Mr. Sherman was a resident of this building, whose doorman would protect him, in case the world had any funny ideas.

  “Good morning,” said Mr. Sherman. Having expected the new doorman to know his name, Mr. Sherman stopped, realizing that he didn’t know the doorman’s. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your name is?”

  “Darren Bunchley, sir.”

  “Thank you, Bunchley.”

  In the evening, when our fourth grader, Victoria Wurtz, came home from school, Mr. Bunchley moved briskly but evenly, his torso erect, his head still, from the center of the lobby to the door, reached his left arm across his chest, grasped the ornate handle and pushed, passed through the doorway with exactly four steps, pirouetting slowly one half turn as he did, and finished with his right foot at a forty-five degree angle from his left, which stood six inches from the now open door.

  “Good evening, Miss Victoria.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Bunchley.”

  The above exchanges, occurring as they did on Mr. Bunchley’s first day, make obvious the next must-have for any proper doorman, that is, a brilliant memory for names and faces. This is so essential when welcoming grandparents and grandchildren in (“You must be very proud, Mrs. Zeebruggen”) and when escorting burglars out (“Nice try, wise guy”).

  It nearly goes without saying that a doorman must possess the skill, so mysterious to the out-of-towner, of being able to spot a taxicab four blocks away and by sheer willpower make it stop in front of his building and no other.

  Mr. Bunchley never yelled (good heavens, no), never whistled (unthinkable), never ran into the street (out of the question). He merely lifted his index finger like so, not fully straight but with a conviction that always produced a taxicab in under twenty seconds.

  “Here’s one going downtown, Mr. Pearl.”

  “Thank you, Bunchley.”

  A doorman must be able to carry odd-shaped packages (“A striking piece, Mrs. Matisse”) and willing to hold dogs on a leash when a resident has forgotten something in her apartment (“Sit, Winston”).

  Speaking of a doorman and his duties philosophically for a moment—or a doorwoman and her duties!—he or she must project a kind of authority, which, when summoned in full, will be the supreme authority in the building. After all, it is the doorman who is the first decider of who comes in and who goes out. He will always have the best interests of the building in mind, of course. Residents come and residents go, but the building remains. Where does this authority come from? Is it how his hat is tilted? Is it the circumference of his large overcoat when fully buttoned? Or is it the turn of his wrist when he holds aloft the large black umbrella over the open taxicab door in the rain? Perhaps all of these things. We, who live here, do not know. We only know whether our doorman has it or not.

  Mr. Bunchley had it. We could all see that.

  However, there was one essential duty, or we may say skill or gift, which every good doorman must have and which Mr. Bunchley lacked, and he knew it.

  “What do you think the Yankees’ chances are tonight, Bunchley?” said Mr. Sherman.

  “Chances at what, sir?” said Mr. Bunchley.

  “Mr. Bunchley, I just adore Mickey Mantle,” said Miss Victoria.

  “A classmate of yours?” said Mr. Bunchley.

  “Do you think we should go with a right-hander or a left-hander against the Indians, Bunchley?” said the oldest resident.

  “Surely both hands would be required,” said Mr. Bunchley.

  The oldest resident just grunted.

  In other words, Mr. Bunchley could not talk baseball.

  “Bunchley!” said the building manager. “See me in my office.”

  The building manager, putting down a sheaf of papers detailing the new city sidewalk cement-to-concrete ratio codes, looked sternly across his desk at Mr. Bunchley. He said, “Bunchley, have a seat.”

  Mr. Bunchley sat.

  “You’ve been at 777 a month now.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bunchley.

  “Your door opening is good.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Your taxicab hailing is excellent.”

  “I do my best, sir.”

  “Package carrying, leash holding, name remembering, burglar ejecting—I have no complaints, couldn’t be better.”

  “I’m glad, sir.”r />
  “You have a kind of presence, a certain something that we like.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But there’s one area where you’re striking out,” said the building manager, spreading his arms wide as if to a crowd. The building manager stood.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Striking out! You know. Missing it. Not connecting.” He walked around the desk and sat on the edge of it, facing Mr. Bunchley in his chair.

  “How do you mean, sir?” said Mr. Bunchley.

  “Baseball, Bunchley, baseball!” said the building manager. “Every doorman in every building on Garden Avenue can talk baseball for hours at a time to every resident, mail carrier, and cop on the beat. Except you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Bunchley, I’m going to give you two weeks to learn how to talk baseball. But if after two weeks you still can’t talk baseball, it’ll be three strikes and you’re . . .”

  “I’m what, sir?”

  “OUT!” The building manager’s thumb made that hooking motion over his shoulder that so many of us comprehend. Only Mr. Bunchley continued to be quite dumbfounded.

  That weekend and all through the next week Mr. Bunchley read the sports section diligently, memorizing the box scores. He read baseball histories and biographies. He listened to sports radio over his early breakfast. And yet.

  •

  “Do you think Hector should pitch on only three nights of rest, Bunchley?” said Mr. Sherman, the following Monday.

  “Three nights seems like an awfully long time to sleep between jobs,” said Mr. Bunchley.

  “I think they played Rockmorten too deep last night, Mr. Bunchley,” said Miss Victoria.

  “Were they fishing?” said Mr. Bunchley.

  “I like to see a screwball, Bunchley,” said the oldest resident.

  “I like comedies, too, sir,” said Mr. Bunchley.

  The oldest resident just grunted.

  For the remainder of that week Mr. Bunchley redoubled his efforts. He studied documentary films from the library. He watched highlight clips on various fan sites on the Internet. He traveled to Brooklyn to see the Cyclones play, buying their program, eating their hot dogs, and cheering with his neighbors in the bleachers whenever it seemed appropriate. But even so, he knew he couldn’t manage it on his own account. Perhaps he couldn’t quite see the point.

  •

  On Monday morning, the building manager said, “Bunchley, if you don’t pull up your socks and keep your eye on the ball, come Friday—you’rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre OUT!”

  All that day, Mr. Bunchley’s door opening, taxicab hailing, package carrying, name remembering, and burglar ejecting were only competent, nothing special. They lacked vim. Mr. Bunchley’s shoulders were down. His essential doormanishness was slowly seeping out at the back of his well-polished wingtips.

  Mr. Bunchley sat moodily in the employee’s break room in the basement. With his tea steeping in his own special cup, Mr. Bunchley pulled from inside his coat the twice-folded copy of The Baseball Gazette, smoothing it on the Formica table-top. He paged through slowly, letting his eyes skip across the glossy spreads filled with analyses of seemingly limitless depth, with charts and statistics, with photographs. With a loud snort, which was about as close as Mr. Bunchley ever came to pronouncing an obscenity, he closed the magazine. He removed the tea bag from his cup. He let his eyes travel nostalgically around the room, from the teal-painted wall to the oversize calendar to the row of metal lockers. He stood, picked up The Baseball Gazette, and placed it neatly in the recycling box. Then, from his locker, he removed a small pamphlet entitled “Begonias: Is Their Time at Hand?” He returned with this publication to the table where he added a splash of milk and a dash of sugar to his tea.

  At about the same time, on the nineteenth floor, Theo, one of our middle schoolers, pushed himself away from the essay he was writing concerning “What Would Jane Austen Choose as Her Favorite Social Media [sic] if She were a Teenager Today?” He stood and walked to the window to admire the six pots of carnations he was tending there. Turning away, he left his room, calling to his mother that he was going for a walk, that he needed to clear his head.

  Returning to the building half an hour later, Theo found Mr. Bunchley on the curb looking precisely like a wilted begonia.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Bunchley?” he said. “This is my last week at 777,” said Mr. Bunchley, kicking a gloomy pebble into the gutter.

  “Really? How come?”

  “I can’t talk baseball.”

  “Neither can I,” said Theo. As Theo pulled open the heavy door that Mr. Bunchley had neglected to hold open for him, he paused. He put a hand to his chin.

  Mr. Bunchley, coming to himself, leaped to the door to hold it for Theo.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bunchley. I think I know a way to cheer us both up. I’ll be right back.”

  Theo returned carrying a tall, potted, red-and-white striped carnation.

  “A Painted Lady!” said Mr. Bunchley. “Why, it’s magnificent.”

  “I grew it from seed myself,” said Theo.

  “Let’s put it here on the windowsill,” said Mr. Bunchley.

  For the first time that day Mr. Bunchley smiled. And so did Theo.

  The next morning, when Theo came down to the lobby (the essay in his backpack), Mr. Bunchley had a surprise for him.

  “A Laced Pink!” said Theo. “Let’s put it next to the Painted Lady. Do you have more?”

  “Oh, lots. I have my own little greenhouse.”

  And so it proved. The following day, Mr. Bunchley brought to the lobby a New Flame and a Phoenix, and Theo brought down a Duchess of Dorset and an Enchantress, and all were put on the windowsill.

  The residents were enchanted.

  “What a marvelous flower, Bunchley,” said Mrs. MacDougal, stopping at the windowsill with her shopping.

  “A Rob Roy,” said Mr. Bunchley. “Drinks water like a fish and wants just a touch of bone meal.”

  “Magnificent, Bunchley,” said Mr. Leonard. “What is it?” “A Magnificent,” said Mr. Bunchley. “Very hard to know where to find good seeds. But I know, I know.”

  “What’s this then?” said the oldest resident. “A Staffordshire Hero,” said Mr. Bunchley. “One of Theo’s. It’s still early, I know, but it looks to me like Theo is going to have a very good season.”

  The oldest resident just grunted.

  In the midst of all these new blooms, on Wednesday morning the building manager arrived and it was soon clear to Mr. Bunchley that his future hung in the balance. He stepped up to the building manager, knocked a little dust off his epaulets, placed his left hand into his right, and waited for whatever the building manager would throw at him.

  “Bunchley, what’s a foul ball?”

  Mr. Bunchley answered, “An egg?”

  “Strike one!”

  On Thursday morning, the procedure was repeated.

  “Bunchley, who’s Babe Ruth?”

  Mr. Bunchley answered, “Is this a trick question?”

  “Strike two!”

  On Friday morning, the building manager leaned back and fired from the bottom of his tonsils, “Bunchley, how many balls make a walk?”

  Mr. Bunchley answered, “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re speaking gibberish.”

  “Bunchley, you’rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre OUT!” And the building manager jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  You might think that Mr. Bunchley would have acted like a devastated man. That he might mope, or rattle all the little doors in the mail room, or even throw his braided cap into a potted palm. But no. On his last day on the job, Mr. Bunchley couldn’t help feeling happy, simply because he was surrounded by the flowers he loved.

  Mr. Bunchley smiled as he opened doors, hummed as he hailed taxicabs, and even made little pleasantries as he ejected burglars.

  He was daydreaming happily about the new seed catalog that had arrived the day before when the elevator door opened and an
old lady in a wheelchair rolled out creakily. It was Mrs. Rotterdam-Bottom, the owner of the building, who had not been seen in the lobby for thirty years.

  “Who put all these flowers in my building?” demanded old Mrs. Rotterdam-Bottom.

  “I did, ma’am,” said Mr. Bunchley, “and Theo.”

  Old Mrs. Rotterdam-Bottom wheeled over to the windows to have a closer look.

  “They’re marvelous!” said old Mrs. Rotterdam-Bottom. “Why, I could smell the difference all the way up in my penthouse. Young man, what is your name?”

  “Mr. Bunchley, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Bunchley, I’m giving you a raise.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. But I’m afraid you can’t. You see, I’ve just been fired.”

  “Where’s my building manager?” shouted old Mrs. Rotterdam-Bottom.

  And so Mr. Bunchley was not fired after all. He opened doors, hailed taxicabs, carried packages, welcomed grandparents and grandchildren, and ejected burglars. And he never learned to talk baseball.

  The residents got used to this.

  One morning the next fall, Mr. Bunchley stayed in bed with a cold, but he sent along a new potful of carnations with Mr. Fouline, his temporary replacement.

  When Theo saw these flowers in the lobby, he stopped to ask Mr. Fouline a question.

  “Would you call those Purple Bizarres or Scarlet Flakes?”

  Mr. Fouline said, “I wouldn’t call them anything. I can’t talk flowers.”

  Theo just grunted.

  Fred and the Pigeons

  THEO WAS removing the few drooping petals from an otherwise glowing Noble Redeemer when from somewhere behind his left ear a voice boomed, “Ha!”

  Theo began picking up the petals, which had scattered across the floor when he’d leaped two feet off the ground. He said, “Hi, Fred,” and turned to see a smiling man standing patiently behind him.

  Fred had lived at 777 Garden Avenue since, well, forever, as far as Theo was concerned—and as far as most of the other residents of the building were concerned, too. Looking at him, you might guess that he was thirty-five years old and had lived a very hard life or, alternatively, that he was sixty-five years old and had lived a very easy life. His skin was papery but his muscles were toned. His eyes were clear but had a faraway look. Certainly, he had great bunches of pencil-gray hair sprouting from the top of his head, the back of his neck, his ears, his chin, his nose, and above the top button of the plaid shirts he liked to wear. He peered at you through thick black-frame glasses. It was, however, definitely known that he had been in some kind of war; which war was not known. Whatever war it was, it was no doubt a loud one, as Fred began most conversations with a kind of verbal explosion. Usually it was his unmistakable “Ha!”—the hand grenade of his rhetorical arsenal.