Revolving Doors by Sharon Frame Gay-Writer.

I spend my time now in the space between heartbeats, where silence sings of memories. How could you leave me here alone, when you were the only one who believed in me? I suppose I chased you away, somehow, like I have others, my willful ways and dark moods exhausting you to the point of breaking.

Each morning I walk through empty streets before the city wakens, to take my place in front of the revolving doors that signal the entrance to the huge tower that houses the wealthy and the beautiful.  I walk down a flight of stairs to my locker and don the red jacket with epaulets and  hat snapped over my graying hair, signifying the role of Doorman. My feet ache just thinking of the day ahead, hours spent on gum lined sidewalks, hailing yellow taxis. I tip my hat, take possession of parcels and letters, nodding and smiling at the endless procession of people. They push through the doors on their way to somewhere special, I reckon, though it could be as mundane and sorrowful as my own life.

Invisible. That is how I feel. Few make eye contact. They brush past me, or bark out orders, and I nod in submission, fingers grazing theirs as they hand me a soaked umbrella or thrust a scrap of paper in my hand.

“Here, Maury, call me a taxi to take me to this address”, or ” would you hold this bag for a moment, while I adjust my coat?” Then they bustle past, a vapor trail, their scents as distinguishable to me as if I were a bloodhound.

There’s the ancient guy, Chester, who has lived here since God was a baby. He smells of rich cherry pipe tobacco and old clothes. Or the beautiful Monica who does not walk, but floats out the door, leaving behind an aroma so tantalizing that I often go home and beat myself up for the yearning I feel. Wet wool coats, leather shoe polish, garlic, hairspray. Sometimes I don’t look up into their faces right away, to see if I can identify them just by their odor, and I often do.

I have been working here longer than I ever dreamed possible. As a young man, when we were still a love song, I took this position as a second job, evenings and weekends, to help support you and little Michael, our tiny studio apartment bulging at the seams. Dreams of moving to a larger space ignited me to work ever harder, so I could say to you, “You see? I AM somebody.  I can take care of you and the baby, make you smile, and you’ll be so proud you married Maury Goldstein, who will someday be a great attorney, and we’ll lead a life of comfort.”

After all these years, I still can’t believe that despite all my hard work, all our endeavors and dreams and prayers, I failed the bar exam so many times that one day you silenced me with a finger to my lips and said “Maury, forget it. It isn’t meant to be.”

I knew you were right.  There was no law office to call home. No bright career on the horizon. In desperation I took yet another job as a doorman for yet another building and jostled and juggled my hours until I was nothing more than a ghost. I walked in the door at dawn, only saw Michael while he slept, and collapsed in bed while you got ready for work at Woolworth’s.

You were on your feet all day, too, working the lunch counter, swabbing the tables, setting down endless plates of eggs and bacon, cups of coffee, and bottles of ketchup in front of distant faces.

“It’s temporary Maury,” you always said. “Things will get better. We’ll move to the suburbs and have a little house with a white fence and a dog named Juba, and then it’ll be okay.”   You used to pat my face then, do you remember? Your hands smelled of rosewater and glycerin, your eyes sorrowful and hopeful, both at the same time. I hated myself then, because I knew I could never give you what you needed.  But selfish as I am, I dare not set you free, to find another love, a better love, a love that wouldn’t cheat you of your youth or rob you of your future.  So you continued, weary and tired, in those old black shoes that should have been tossed years ago.

Like ponies that children ride round and round in a ring, we revolved and plodded along until our paths were deeply furrowed, so deep that we could not lift our legs to crawl out of it. Before long my hair was turning grey, and I was exchanging one red doorman suit after another as my waist expanded while my hairline receded.

We watched Michael grow from a toddler to a gangly young man, his face pale with city pallor, but his dreams bigger than ours ever were. We scrimped every penny so he could get a good education. He pleased us both by studying like a demon and graduating with honors. Then he took off to Australia, of all places, to work and live and raise a family. Michael sent us snapshots of his life, a kaleidoscope of time captured on paper, but seldom did we see him.

It was a surprise every night for me to still find you there when I opened the door. Your feet were up on the sofa, your head on a pillow, watching the soap operas you loved, and just like at my job, you didn’t make eye contact with me after a while. We were just roommates by then, jostling each other at the sink, roving through the fridge together, sleeping in separate rooms.  You moved into Michael’s the day he left for college. Now my empty bed has become a raft on an ocean of lonely thoughts, while I worry that your mattress may be soggy with tears and broken dreams.

So it was no surprise when I came home one day and found you sitting at the kitchen table, papers strewn in front of you, tears lingering on your cheek.

“Maury, I’m leaving you.”

I sat down with a thud and nodded, mute and dumb.  Your face in repose was lined with age, your hair, once a lustrous chestnut, now the color of a house wren.  All I could do was agree with you and set you free.

After you were gone, the air was sucked from the apartment, the light dimmed. I became friends with the bottle for years. Bottles dark with remorse and bitter with guilt. Bottles that emptied and filled like the revolving doors at the building, the tide washing in and out, past my tongue and down into the darkness of my soul, raining on my sins and secrets.

I cannot move forward.  You were the only one who cared. I depleted you, nursing on the teat of your kindness until the milk of love was dried up. I used your good heart for comfort, when I should have given you solace, and rubies, or the sounds of the theater, instead of the useless old man groans that emit from me in grunts and creaking bones.

I spend every Saturday by your grave. I hope you know that. It cost me dearly, but I used all our savings to buy our plots, side by side. I cannot bear the thought of us sleeping apart like we did on this side of the earth.  I long to lay down beside you now, burrow into the dirt, close my eyes and see you again after all this time.

But God has other plans, it seems. So I stand outside this revolving door and bear the rain, wind and pigeons, tipping my hat and smiling, feet as cold as clay.

 

Sharon Frame Gay

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

9 thoughts on “   Revolving Doors by Sharon Frame Gay-Writer.

  1. I think Sharon has drawn out Maury’s self-indulgent self-pity and shown how this character has spiralled himself into world of misery borne out of loneliness. The overarching air of despair seems infectious, and Maury is certainly someone to avoid – I just can’t raise any empathy for him. Perhaps I am just a cold-hearted sod.
    I like how the sorry tone is maintained right up to the bitter end.

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  2. Just why some persons must attend the door and never pass through is one of the results of the “mysterious ways” we attribute to God, in lieu of an actual answer.
    The existence of the denied Class System is found in every culture. It’s an evil thing that makes doormen less worthy of happiness than a stockbroker.
    Fine work, here, relentlessly sad because it rings true.
    Funny things help. Here’s one: Took one of the cats to the vet yesterday for his yearly checkup. I warned rookie assistant that Dudley reacts poorly to rectal themometer. She pooh-poohed the notion until he hit her three times in a tenth of a second, which caused her assume a possibility similar to that taken by Lee Harvey Oswald when shot by Jack Ruby. Gotta take smiles where you find them
    LA

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  3. Even though doormen are far from my life in the Portland ‘burbs, this story speaks universally. Maury illustrates that there is poverty of the spirit and financial poverty. Both can be soul draining. Everyone should develop some interests outside family and job, since both can be temporary. I hope to be hearing from all of you LS peeps soon for one reason or another (I used every gram of my minuscule self control to avoid promotion here).

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  4. Thank you all for your comments on this story! Here’s hoping Maury finds a shred of happiness somewhere along the line! 🙂 Or, as he busts through those revolving doors!

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  5. Very needy and depressed guy, that’s just who he is, he and his partner struggling to raise their kid and make ends meet, and just wearing out over time. The ending, where it says he used all the savings to buy the twin plots, shows what gave him meaning in life. That one connection. Well described character. The bright spot is the son. He got the hell out of there.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Hi Sharon,
    I enjoyed this from the first time I saw it.
    The character is so clear in our minds.
    I think James hit on a cracking point, maybe we can’t feel empathy for him but we understand his loneliness. That then asks the question about specifics defining character or were those characteristics there all along.
    This was interesting and thought provoking!
    Hugh

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