CONTEMPORARY FICTION
Behind the Grand Doors of Paradise: Inside the Doorman’s Mind
Empathy, curiosity and longing in Harlem.
‘Why did Cleolin, with her stunning eyes and captivating smile, wield the power to illuminate and complicate my world?’ This was the question that had infected Carlos’ thoughts that very morning.
He stood here, on the edge of Harlem, where the city’s ceaseless energy collided with the tranquil aura of Columbia University’s campus. He stood sentinel in the lobby of the modest yet elegant Paradise building, a seamless blend of old-world charm and modern sophistication, whispered tales of the past.
Mahogany wood adorned the walls, while vintage chandeliers cast a warm, nostalgic glow over the polished marble floors. Now collecting dust, a grand piano stood as a silent testament to the building’s rich jazz history.
Carlos often wondered if he had disappointed his ancestors, his life tethered to the role of a doorman in this aging, no-longer-a-skyscraper edifice. As a second-generation Filipino-American, he observed the building’s residents pass by, their lives seemingly disconnected from his own.
In his crisp uniform, behind his plastered-on, seemingly genuine smile, Carlos oscillated between love and hate for his job. This dichotomy chained him to the stability of an income while constantly reminding him of the dreams that had eluded him.
The soft New York City light bathed the lobby this morning as the residents started their daily routines. Between 7:00 and 8:30, Carlos conjured up snippets of stories about three of the building’s inhabitants as they ventured out to face their shiny world.
First was Mrs. Fitzgerald, a graceful woman in her forties working as an art curator. Carlos imagined her meticulously arranging paintings and sculptures, injecting life into art he secretly despised.
Next was Mr. Johnson, a no-nonsense lawyer perpetually in a rush. Carlos pictured him as a fearless courtroom warrior, battling for justice in the concrete jungle. The irony didn’t escape him; his life often felt like an unending skirmish against the mundane, an uncelebrated hero guarding Paradise’s gates.
Then there was Sar’aah, a young, aspiring actress whose dreams seemed to permeate the building’s atmosphere as she moved through it. He envisioned her attending auditions and not captivating casting directors with her talent, so she returns home later in the day, disheartened and detached after a string of rejections and no callbacks.
He thought matter-of-factly, ‘She is squandering her parents’ money on this overpriced apartment.’
Amid these musings, one tenant occupied his thoughts more than others — Cleolin from apartment 5F. He thought of her eyes, deep pools of mystery harboring the secrets of a thousand stories; he was sure. Her radiant and infectious smile brightened his day whenever it graced his vision.
Interrupting his daydream, a delivery person arrived at 10:43 with a stack of groceries. Carlos acknowledged the young, very dark-skinned African with a polite nod. Yet, he couldn’t help but ponder the residents’ culinary preferences and the stories concealed within those grocery bags.
‘Does Cleolin cook Adobo? I want to teach her how to make it, to share that savory and flavorful Filipino dish with her,’ he mused. ‘Ah, Cleolin.’
Cleolin — her graceful walk was like a dance through life’s challenges, an effortless dignity he admired. Yet, there were thoughts he dared not admit — the softness of her voice, the warmth of her laughter, the comforting aura of her presence.
It was clear Carlos was infatuated with Cleolin but understood it was an unspoken yearning that could never be acted upon.
He shook his head, trying to banish the thought of her to the recesses of his mind.
The day unfolded with routine precision until 11:53, when another delivery person arrived. This time, lunch from an overpriced salad bar was destined for a tall, malaki, single black woman working from home. She had wild hair, even wilder clothing styles and lived on the 9th floor. Carlos imagined her seated by a window, engrossed in her laptop, the city’s frenzied life outside serving as both distraction and muse.
‘What does she do for a living?’ He wondered.
Then, Cleolin appeared outside the glass doors of Paradise.
Her presence cast a spell over the surroundings as she approached the entrance. Carlos’ mind went blank, his heart racing and his palms grew slightly moist as he greeted her.
“Good morning, Cleolin,” he stammered, his voice betraying a generous touch of nervousness.
Cleolin met his gaze with her mystifying eyes and bestowed her radiant smile upon him.
“Good morning, Carlos,” she replied, her voice gentle as a sensuous embrace.
Their eyes locked momentarily, the world holding its breath. Carlos felt the weight of their unspoken desires, the crackling electricity in the air. He cleared his throat, cheeks tinged with a faint blush, a skittish laugh escaping his lips.
Cleolin’s smile broadened, her gaze softening. It was a silent exchange of emotions too intricate for words. Her steps seemed to slow as they crossed paths, bodies subtly inching closer, drawn by an invisible force — he knew it.
Reality tugged them back, and Cleolin continued, vanishing into the elevator with a parting glance that lingered longer than usual — he was sure; he counted the seconds, after all. Carlos watched her go, his heart still racing, a blend of longing and anticipation etched across his face.
As the elevator doors closed, he let out a quiet sigh. The exchange had been brief yet thick with unspoken emotions, leaving him acutely aware of a connection yet to be explored — no, never to be explored.
Suddenly exhausted, Carlos sat behind the doorman’s counter, withdrawing a humble Pandesal chicken sandwich and a recycled water bottle filled with tap water.
Knock, knock, knock, knock. A tall middle-aged man’s fast-paced rap on the glass door awakened Carlos from his lunchtime reverie.
The electronic release went click as the doorman granted him entry.
‘This is intriguing,’ Carlos mused. The visitor had come to see the black woman from the 9th floor, the same one who had received the salad earlier. Carlos couldn’t help but consider their connection and the nature of the man’s visit — old friends catching up, or something more?
As the afternoon wore on, a little girl from apartment 1C returned home from school at 3:16 p.m. Carlos smiled warmly as she skipped through the lobby, her backpack bouncing joyfully with each step.
He wished for her life to be filled with more opportunities than he had ever had.
When the clock struck 6:00 p.m., Carlos prepared to end his shift. But a nagging thought tugged at the corners of his mind — he never saw the grocery delivery man leave. He dismissed it as a simple oversight and pushed it to the back of his thoughts.
Exiting Paradise, Carlos locked the ornate doors behind him; the nighttime doorman had not arrived yet.
Gazing up toward 5F’s balcony, he cast his imagined stories of Cleolin and himself into the transcendental realm of his hope.
Then he went on his way, releasing another day for them in the heart of Paradise, Harlem.
© Scarlet Ibis James, 2023: All Rights Reserved.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or events is coincidental. All characters and incidents in this narrative are products of the author’s imagination.
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