PEOPLE ARE PEOPLE AND THE SKY IS BLUE.
“Can you give me some pointers on dating a black woman. I’m a small white guy and I’ve heard all the jokes from Chapelle about dating black women. I know this sounds racist but I really don’t know what to expect.”
Well buddy, it doesn’t necessarily sound racist, but you definitely sound ignorant as fuck. Dave Chapelle is a fucking comedian. Why are you listening to him about black women? I get that cultural differences can exist, but a woman is a woman. Are Black women some kind of new species of human? Fucking mutants like X-Men or something?
“Well, she’s a woman man. I don’t know her, but if you’ve been on a date the same rules apply. Be nice, respectful, ask her questions, get her talking. You know, stuff you do when you meet someone new.”
“Really, but I’m white. I mean, I’ve watched a lot of shows and black women seem a bit rough.”
Is this the type of thinking that going on in Gringolandia? Black people are like the Borg or something. One mind, one thought. Doesn’t he realize that the black diaspora is as vast as the white? But I'm not surprised considering who it’s coming from. This is the same guy who thinks every black dude has a dick down to the floor, loves basketball and hip hop. Probably one of those guys who believes (but won’t say openly) that black people are the best athletes due to slavery. Master breed those big strong black guys to work hard in the field and that later translates to the court. Yet those same folks are lazy. Whatever.
“Man, stop watching TV. You can’t base your perception on that. You have to actually talk to her. That’s it”
“That’s it”
“Yes”
“But what if some black dudes see me with her. I’m a small white guy. I don’t want to get jumped.”
WTF? I’m sure a white guy getting jumped by some big black dudes for being with a black woman in public is as common as transgender women attacking “normal” women in the bathrooms. As in it ain’t scientific significant. Where does this shit come from? I should have asked him if he knew of any incidents. Historically speaking it’s usually the black man/white woman that got you invited to the necktie party. Though in my own family, I know my great-great-great white grandfather had to run from the Great state of Georgia with my black grandmother due to miscegenation laws. Only think racist white folks hate worst than niggers are nigger-lovers. Maybe he should be warily of the white guy.
“Dude, no one’s gonna jump you. You may get a few odd looks, but I highly doubt you’ll be jumped. It’s not that serious.”
“OK, but all you can tell me is to be myself?”
"Yes, it’s just gonna be you and her on the date.”
“Well what shouldn’t I say?”
“Dude, are you serious? Have you never been on a date? No religion no politics? Also, don’t tell her that you’re the first black woman you’ve ever taken on a date. It sounds fetish-y. She’s alrealy aware that you’re white and she’s black. If she already agreed, I think she ‘s comfortable with it. You should be too.”
“Alright man, I’ll take your word for it”
Later that week, homey comes into the office after a date with homegirl and judging by the lipstick smeared all over his face it must have went well.
“Dude, you were right. I was just myself. We had a great time”
“Told you. A woman is a woman man.”
He gives me a hug and head upstairs. Maybe one day he’ll realize that people are people and the sky is blue. Everyone’s just trying to find a little company and get laid.
PLAN B
“Oh, I was so skinny when I was younger, here take a look at this picture in my phone.”
Karen shows me a picture of her from 10+ years ago. She definitely moved way up in weight class or as my homeboy would say “from elegant to elephant.” (It’s wrong, I know)
“Well, you know, diet plays a key role in that” I say. “Do you take any medications or use birth control? I’ve heard they can mess with your hormones and can cause weight gain.”
“Oh, no I don’t take any medications.”
“What about birth control?”
She turns towards me and with the straightest face says “Oh no, honey, I don’t use birth control. I don’t like taking pills everyday and I don’t want to use IUDs or those capsules things you put in your arm. You know after I do my thing, you know, I just pop some Plan B and I’m good to go baby.”
I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Plan B. The fucking abortion bill. I’m absolutely sure that’s an emergency contraceptive and not some “everything I get my back blown out, I just pop one of these and dipsy-doo dunk-a-roo, everything is awesome” type of deal. I inquire more.
“Doesn’t that wreck your body?” I asked.
“Oh, no nothing happens. I’m fine.”
“Really????” I ask.
“Yeah, really, why are you looking at me like I’m stupid?” she asks
In my head, I’m thinking “Well, that’s not what it’s suppose to be used for. It doesn’t protect you from any sexual diseases. I know you don’t have a man, and clearly you don’t give a fuck who’s busting nuts up in there. Man, I grew up in the Age of AIDS, where you were terrified of having unprotected sex, because you got HIV and died period. Shit, motherfuckers use to run people out of town for that shit. But since no one dies, everyone thinks everything is great. I don’t know too many guys walking around with their current STD test, and highly doubt you requested that info before knocking the boots. ”
Instead I say “Oh, well I’m a male and I assume you would know better being a female and dealing with all that.” You know, what the fuck do I know right? I’m just another man running his mouth.
“Damn, right!!!” Karen says. “You guys are so ignorant about women’s bodies and always trying to make laws about OUR bodies, baby.” clapping her hands at the end of the sentence.
“You right, you right” I say.
“Damn right I am” she says as she exits the building.
I guess.
DOMESTICS
God, I really wish this guy would stop calling the front desk begging me to check on his “girlfriend”. You know, one of the worst aspects of working overnight as a concierge is unwittingly getting involved in resident’s domestic disputes. They can range from the semi-comical such as the husband who’d use the door chainlock to keep his wife out of the apartment anytime she’d wash clothes at night. At least once a month this would happen. “We never use the chainlock” she would always say. Damn woman, isn’t that a fucking clue? Maybe you enjoy sleeping on the couch in the resident’s lounge? Or much more dangerous and serious instances, like the guy attempting to rape his foreign non-English speaking, no VISA having, internet ordered wife. Usually they fall into the realm of a couple is fighting, and the not on the apartment lease member getting the boot. The newly homeless (oftentimes, especially the men, have no apartment of their own) begging and pleading with the concierge to “let them in, so we can talk” . Shit this fucker’s calling again. I already told him she didn’t want any guests.
“Hey man. it’s me again. I’m really sorry but I’m really worried about her. Can I just come by? I have the key.”
“No, sir, you can’t. As I told you before, she doesn’t want any guests and I’ll be forced to call the police if you come by. “
“But I have the key”
Listen motherfucker, you ain’t on the lease, you ain’t on the guest’s list. You probably took them on some “You my bitch, hoe, and I can see you whenever I need to bitch” type shit. Man, that’s what I’d like to say. Instead I say..
“Honestly sir, that would be a bad idea especially if she decides to call the police. Do you really wanna explain to them why you are here with her keys after she told me not to let anyone up? She may say you took them. You not being on the lease wouldn’t help either.”
“Yeah, man. you’re right. You’re right. Well…can you go upstairs and knock on the door. Can you use the spare key to enter her apartment and check on her? I’m really concern?”
IS THIS MOTHERFUCKER CRAZY? Enter her apartment with the spare key? First off, a male concierge entering a woman’s apartment in the middle of the night to “check on her because her boyfriend was concern” sounds fucking outlandish. Add in the race factor, (I’m black, she’s white), it would increase the creepiness exponentially. I can see the headlines now “ Creepy older black male concierge lustfully sneaks into young, smart, stunningly attractive white maiden’s apartment in his bestial quest to quench his fetish for white women.” Naw I’ll pass.
“There are privacy laws that prevent me from doing that. I can go knock and see if she answers, but other than that, you’ll have to contact the police.”
“Please do that man, Thanks”
I hang up and sit there waiting until he calls back. I’m going to have to tell management about this shit though. Doubt they’ll do anything. Management only cares when they can issue a fine. No money, well bitch shoulda choose better is their attitude. Here he is calling back for an update.
“Sorry man no luck. Contact the police if you’re really worried”
“Thanks man, but she’ll hate me if I do that. I get it. I get it. Thanks anyway.”
The next night I see her. They must have spoken because she comes to the desk apologizing.
“I’m so sorry. That’s so embarrassing. I promise you, he’s never coming over here again”
“Ok” as I think to myself “sure lady, sure”
And who’s back the next night. Homeboy. And what does he say to me as she goes to check her mailbox in the package center. “I got that good dick, dude you didn’t know” winking and smiling. Motherfucker.
P**&Y GOT YA HOOKED
One of my less favorite aspects of concierge work is unwittingly being involved in dealing with personal relationships. When you notice that a couple is having issues, you oftentimes end up as an unofficial referee between the two (or more) individuals. Generally speaking, it’s treacherous territory and usually building management wants nothing to do with it.
One evening, a man comes and says he’s here to visit a woman. I call up but she doesn’t answer the phone. Since another person is also listed as a contact, I give him a call. As soon as I tell him that Rafael is here to visit, the situation starts going sideways.
“Who??? Rafael?? Oh no. Please, man, please don’t let that guy up. He’s been fucking my wife. God I thought this was over. I can’t believe that lying bitch. Don’t let that motherfucker up. I’m on my way home NOW!!”
Shit, this is not what I wanted. I tell Rafael what the husband says. He laughs, pulls out his phone and calls upstairs. After telling someone he’s downstairs but the concierge won’t let him up, he hangs up his phone. A call comes through seconds later.
“Hello"
“Hey, this is Daniella, can you please let Rafael up? Thank you.”
“Uh, well I ended up calling your husband because you didn’t answer and he knows Rafael is here. He said NOT to let him up. He also said he’s on his way home.”
“Oh please, Dan knows he can’t do anything. We already had the police over one time and as they told him, since my name is also on the lease, I can have over anybody that I damn well please. You know what, I’m coming down.”
“Uh, Ok”
I hang up the phone and let Rafael know she’s coming down. He nods and smiles. After a minute, she comes down in a nightgown and heads to the desk. She asks for the spare key to her apartment. I give it to her. She smiles, grabs Rafael hand and heads back up upstairs. Man, this lady doesn’t give a fuck. She’s clearly a veteran of this game.
After about ten minutes, her husband shows up. He immediately comes to the desk and asks for the spare key.
“Your wife took it.”
“What? Your fucking gave it to her? Why?”
“She’s on the lease, and by law we have to allow her to have it if she asks.”
He places his head in his hands and sighs pathetically. The sign of defeat I would say.
“Did they go upstairs together?”
I nod yes. I couldn’t actually mouthed the words. This guy’s face looked like a truck had hit him.
“Fuck man, you don’t understand. I work all day and this fucking bitch is fucking this goddamn motherfucker all the fucking time.”
He sighs again and begins to weep into his hands. At this point, all I can do is listen and pray this guy doesn’t go berzerk. He then heads upstairs to his apartment. I call the Shack to let them know we might be calling the police soon.
“Really, man. His wife has some other guy upstairs and the husband just got home. Damnnnnn.”
We send a security officer to discreetly survey the scene and prepare for the worst.
The guard returns to the my desk, laughing and shaking his head.
“Man, I went onto the floor below and took the stairwell up so not to raise suspicion. I can here the guy crying in front of his door. He likes “Fiona, I love you, why are you doing this to me.” I swear I can hear the front door banging in rhythm. They might be fucking at the front door and this dude can hear everything. What a fucking bitch. I’mma go back up and see what’s happening.”
As he says that, we see the guy come off the elevator. He was the sorriest looking man I’d ever seen. He didn’t even look up. A pile of bricks could have hit this guy and he probably wouldn’t have felt it. That’s how much pain you could see on his face. He walks off into the night somewhere. I just hope he doesn’t come back with an AK or something.
For the reminder of the night, I keep watch for the guy, but he never returns. At 6:30, Rafael and the guy’s wife come downstairs. They’re holding heads and ask if I want a coffee. I tell them no. She then asks about her husband.
“Did Dan look like shit walking outta here last night?”
I nod yes.
“Good, motherfucker always at work knowing this pussy needs to be taken care of. Thank God for Rafael.”
She hands me back the spare key.
“If you see him before you leave, let him know the key’s back and he can go upstairs.”
I nod yes. As I place the key back in the box, I overheard Rafael ask her something to which she replies
”He loves me too much. I’ll just tell him I’m sorry, fuck him (she shudders while saying that) and everything will be alright. Dan’s a bitch. He’s addicted to me. He can’t stay away. I’ve been doing this for years”
Damn, Pussy got you hooked.
F*GGOT FOOD
It’s always interesting to discover a bizarre prejudice/ignorant belief that a co-worker is harboring. You know, the type of idea that when you ask how someone came to whatever conclusion that he or she made, the reasons are fascinating because of their sheer lunacy. And the older the person, the more bizarre. A homosexual resident offers me and another concierge some homemade cookies.
“I don’t eat faggot food. Ain’t touching that shit.”
“What??? What’s that and why?”
“Man, that faggot food. Motherfucker food made by motherfucking faggots.”
Upon hearing this, I was compelled to investigate deeper into the mystery of this so called “faggot food.” I mean does this guy really think something is going to happen if he eats food made by someone who’s gay. Let’s find out shall we?
“Really?? I mean, what’s going to happen if someone who’s gay offers you some food?”
“Man, you don’t know what those motherfuckers be putting in the food. Motherfuckers probably drugging the shit like Bill Cosby and waiting for you to fall asleep so they can put something in your ass.”
Fascinating.
“You know, I mean, you could get AIDS from them motherfuckers. What if they cut their hands and start bleeding on the food? Those filthy faggots would still serve that AIDS laced shit to you, no problem.”
Amazing, hadn’t thought of that one.
“Plus you know, you can’t trust an ass pirate. How can you trust some dude that likes dick up his ass, you know? That’s why they use to have those public announcements back in the day to stay away from them. Fucking sausage worshippers staying up all night sucking and fucking each other off and you know those motherfuckers ain’t washing their hands. That’s why AIDS was killing them back in the day.”
This is some excellent stuff right here. Let’s keep prying.
“So, if a guy is gay and offers you food, that’s a no-no. How about a woman?”
“Yeah lesbos are alright. Those bitches just be dykeing and shit. You just got to hit them with the good dick that’s all. You know how bitches be when a man treats them wrong. But a man, hell fucking no! Fucking dick jockey would probably bust nuts on your shit and hand it to you.”
Note to self, Lesbians are okay because they be dykeing. Gotcha.
“Man, you really believe that?”
“Hell yeah, of course man, why you think all those faggot motherfuckers are appearing everywhere nowadays demanding special rights and shit? Motherfuckers trying to infect everyone with their faggotery and take over the world. But those son of bitches ain’t getting me. That’s why I don’t eat that shit. Can’t get me to join the darkside. ‘Exit only’ on my backside.”
I guess????
CAN'T LEAVE
I cannot believe this guy is a doctor. Every night he comes in here so drunk, he needs the wall to hold him up. Has anyone at his job noticed this boozehound? There’s no way he doesn’t reek of alcohol at work. This motherfucker’s been binge watching too many House episodes and thinking he can do it too.
“Yeah, he lives here.” I tell the Guard Shack.
“Okay, cool. We found him in the parking lot just sitting on the curb. Wasn’t sure if he was a resident or someone from one of the bars. Thanks”
We all watch the drunken doctor stumble into the elevator and head upstairs.
“Man, he’s a doctor.”
“Shit. That motherfucker’s never working on me.”
“I hear ya. Hopefully that’s the last we’ll see of him tonight. Sometimes we find these drunks laid out in front of their apartment doors. Laying out of the floor with their ass in the air and the key in the lock. Guess it’s hard to make that finally twist of the key.” Everybody laughs and head back to their posts. Hopefully the rest of the night goes smoothly.
Around 3 a.m. I receive a call at the desk. The woman is hysterical.
“I can’t get out of my apartment. There’s shit everywhere.”
“Ahh, there’s stuff blocking your apartment door"?
“No, there’s shit everywhere and I can’t get out. How the fuck am I suppose to get out? Who does this shit?”
“Okay, I’ll come up and check it out. Which floor is it on?
”The 10th”
Hmm, that’s the same floor that doctor’s lives on. This can’t be good. I call the Guard Shack and have one of them accompany me to the floor. As we arrive to the floor and step of the elevator, the most putrid odor I’ve ever smelled overwhelms me.
We walk toward the apartment of the woman who called to find diarrhea spread all over her door and hallway carpet. I guess that’s the “shit” she was talking about. But the doctor lives on the other side of the elevator bank. We head over to the other side and see vomit spread all over his door and hallway rug. The only spots not touched by the vomit is the two footprints where he stood.
“Dude, this motherfucker went to one end of the hallway and shit on this lady’s door, then went to his door, throw up and went inside. What a nasty motherfucker! He’s a doctor?”
I nod yes and begin to take pictures. We go back downstairs and call the cleaning crew.
“Hey Mario, man ya’ll gotta come in ASAP. Some resident just shitted and vomited all over the rugs on the tenth floor.”
“What?”
“Some resident shitted and vomited everywhere.”
“You fucking kidding me man. Okay, we’ll be there soon.”
At 7:00am, my relief comes in and I explain the whole situation.
“The guy’s a doctor. WOW!!. And Mario still hasn’t shown up yet?”
“Nope, we called him at 3:20 and he said he’d be here soon. But no one’s seen him.”
“You mean that’s shit has been sitting up there, seeping into the carpet for hours?”
“Yup.”
“That’s disgusting. And these are luxury apartment buildings?”
Yes they are senorita, yes they are.
KEEPING IT REAL
Man, you can tell this guy’s going to try to talk to her from a mile away. There’s a Latina woman sitting directly across from me and as soon as the main train doors open, homeboy’s eyes immediate dials in on her. I doubt blame him though, ella es muy hermosa. He’s straightening his cap and licking his lips a la L.L. Cool J. Let’s see if his game is tight.
He sits down right next to her and immediately begins to visually molest her. Still licking his lips, he begins to work his magic.
“Hey mami? How you doing? What’s up for the night?
Clearly a veteran of traveling the T and having strange 40 something year old, still dressing like he’s 16 , hitting on her, she politely but curtly answers his question.
“I’m fine thanks, just going to visit some friends”
“That’s good, that’s good. Well can I be your friend?” Man, this guy’s just going straight for the kill. Fuck, he hasn’t even asked for her name yet.
“No, I’m all set thank you.”
“Ah, come on mami, wouldn’t you like a friend that will take you out to eat, treat you right?”
“I have that, thank you.”
“Well, you never meet a friend like me, I’m like that genie from the Aladdin movie.”
Wow, I’ve never heard a Disney movie reference used to holler at a woman before. After a brief moment of silence, he decides to just skip the pleasantries and get down to business.
“Look mami, I’m gonna be real with you. I just want to suck on your long titties, you know.”
My jaw drops. Did this guy just say that? “Suck on your long titties?” In what universe has that line every worked? Her face had a look of complete disgusted.
“What the fuck? Who the fuck says that kind of shit? Would you talk to your mother like that?”
“But yo, I’m just being real. Bitches always complaining motherfucking ain’t keeping it real and being honest, so what’s up? Don’t you want a man that’s honest about what he wants?
Well, he does have a point but unless this is a porn scene where the ladies ARE PAID to be there. I’m not sure if “I want to suck on your titties” works in public between strangers.
“Now, you called me a bitch and claiming you wanna fuck me? “ she says in utter disbelief.
“Hell, yeah. I’m the realest”
“Fuck you” she says. She exits the train doors open. I’m not sure if that was her stop, but I’m sure she wanted to get away from Mr. Tittie-Sucker over here. As the door slams, he turns to me, semi pleading his case. “Yo man, that’s why I can’t stand bitches yo. You tell them you wanna give them the dick and bitch trips. She just ain’t ready for a real motherfucker like myself. Can’t handle the truth, you know.”
I guess so my friend. I guess so.
HOME DELIVERY AT ITS FINEST
Man, I cannot believe this woman. That's pretty bold and downright dangerous if you ask me. Even if the chances of getting caught are minute, the penalties for it are huge. This woman is fucking crazy.
"Man, you know that's a felony right?? Probably several felonies."
"I know but I've been doing it for a few years and nothing's happened."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I mean coke is expensive and whenever I go to the West Coast for a girls weekend, we always buy blow and snort it up. I'm not going to just leave it with them when I put in on it."
"How?"
"I just buy myself a birthday card or whatever, wrap up the leftover blow and mail it to myself. It's usually takes about 4 days to reach here."
"Using USPS?"
"Who else? They can't check all of that mail."
"Using your own home address?"
"Yeah, I mean, I can't risk getting on a plane with it. USPS delivers it right to my mailbox. It's like a slow-mo Amazon. Best service in town for 50 cents. In fact, I should have some in the mailbox right now. I'll show you how easy and simple it is."
She walks over to the mailroom and retrieves her mail. She comes back to the desk with a hot pink envelope in her hand. She opens up the envelope, pulls out a get well card and drops a small baggie filled with coke on the desk.
"See."
I'm in a state of disbelief. Never would I have thought that anyone would mail cocaine though the mail to themselves. I guess Rick James was right; cocaine is a hell of a drug.
"Home delivery at its finest" she says as she heads upstairs with her baggie of coke and a big smile on her face. Well I'll be damn.
MR. D@#K-ON-HARD
“Hey, please don't let that guy in"
Words I hate hearing the most. There's nothing worst than doing access control at 2:30 in the morning on a Saturday night. Everyone at that point is either drunk, high or some combination of the two. All is annoying for the sober to deal with because logical conversation goes out the window. Grandma was right when she said nothing good happens after midnight.
"OK"
"Yeah, we took an Uber Pool with him and he got out and started following us. We don't know him. Thanks, bye."
Great. As the two ladies head toward the elevator, Mr. Dick-on-Hard enters the building. This wouldn't have happened if fucking maintenance had fixed the fucking doors. They automatically lock at night and you need card access to enter but they've been broken for weeks. Here he comes.
"Yo bro, yo bro, you see those two fine ass chicks walk in here. They invited me up to their apartment for a good time bro."
Man, this guy is drunk. Drunk and horny. Fuck this can only get worse.
"Sorry, man they informed me that you can't come up"
"No bro, no way. We just rode an Uber together and they both told me I could get a double blowjob man. They were grabbing each other titties and shit. Come on bro. Let me through."
Well, tag team blow job action will make a motherfucker test his luck.
"Listen, I just spoke with the resident. She told me no guests. I'm sorry man."
"Why you hating bro? Why you trying to stop my shine bro? Let me through bro. I gotta get my dick sucked bro."
"Sorry man, I can't"
"Yes, you can. Maybe you can get sloppy seconds bro. After me of course."
After dealing with Mr. Dick-on-Hard for ten minutes, I realize homeboy's going nowhere. He's convinced I'm trying to cock-block. Fuck it, I'll just call La Policia to handle this one.
"Listen man, I called the police and they're on their way man. Just LEAVE."
"No police is going to stop me from getting my balls drained bro,"
Once the police show up, I explain the situation and the police escort the guy off site. That was cool of them because they could have arrested him. Now I can get some peace. But wouldn't you know, in less than five minutes, homeboy's back. What the fuck???
"COME ON BRO, LET ME UP. I GOT BITCHES WAITING FOR ME UPSTAIRS"
Fuck, this motherfucker's angry now. Well, I got something for his ass cause I didn't promise him shit. I call the police back to the site. They show up in less than a minute.
"HEY BUDDY" one cop says in the greatest Boston accent of all time "I told you not to come back or we'll arrest you."
"But bro, I need my dick sucked. Bitch and her friend said they'd do it. Stop hating bro"
This motherfucker is on some shit. Talking to the police like that. This guy is tripping.
"LISTEN, Leave on your own, or with cuffs. It's your choice"
"Well arrest me than cause I'm getting my dick sucked tonight." After that statement, the cops arrest him and take him to their car. One cop comes back to take my info.
"What did those women say to get him so worked up?"
"Tag team blowjob. Plus I guess the women were feeling on each other titties on the Uber ride over here.”
"Well that'll do it," says the cop as he walking out of the building. Sure will. It sure will.
ALREADY DEAD
Damn, what a way to start the shift. This is why I hate coming in early. Mark explains to me that Mr. Turner, one of the nicest of our elderly has passes away. It's always strange to see a person, literally twelve hours ago, walking and talking like everything's normal and now their dead. As Mark explains to me what happened and the procedure to discreetly remove the body from the building, both the funeral home personnel and Mr B. (other older resident) approached the desk. I'm still changing into my uniform but I can hear Mark talking to the funeral director. Then I hear Mr. B interrupt the conversation.
"Mark, I want my pool pass."
"Well, Mr. B, I'll be with you momentarily. Someone passed away today and I need to help these gentlemen."
"Are you moving the body?"
"No, but I have to set up the elevators and such for them."
"So, can I get my pass then?"
"Sure, I'll be with you very soon. Just let me set up this guys"
"I can't wait that long" says Mr. B "I wanna good spot by the pool."
"Surely, Mr B., you understand that someone's just passed away. I won't be long."
"Well, he's fucking dead and I'm not" says Mr B. " He's not going anywhere anyway. GIVE ME MY PASS."
I could hear a loud groan come from Mark as he comes into the back and grabs the pool pass for Mr. B. Damn man, Mr. B is cold-blooded but technically he's correct. I guess that's what happens once you reach a certain age and Mr. B is definitely in the overtime portion of the life cycle game. Mark give Mr.B his pass and leads the funeral directors to where they need to go.
"Can you believe that fucking guy. He's dead already and not going anywhere. What kind of asshole is that guy."
"Well, he's an asshole and also right" I said. I love playing devil's advocate no matter how absurd the situation is. Mark shakes his head, grabs his jacket and leaves. C'est la vie.
No Shoes
A young lady approaches the desk and asks to use the phone. She'd come in with one of the party goers but didn't go up to the apartment. After a brief phone conversation, she relays to me that she'd lost her jacket which had her wallet, phone and keys. The guy she came in with was going to give her a ride home. As she's telling me this, I notice out of the corner of my eye that her "ride" was speed-walking pass the desk. Once outside, the guy starts running away. Oh boy, here we go.
"Hey...Your ride just left."
"Really, when???" she says, her eyes starting to water up.
"Just now, your back was turned to him, but he just walked out the door and starting running."
"Nooooooooooooooo!" she screams and starts crying at the desk. Fuck me I think. "How am I suppose to get home?"
"Well, it's almost 5 and the T starts running soon. It will get you to Quincy."
"But I have no money"
Shit, that's not a problem. I want this chick outta here, so I pulling 5 bucks from my wallet. "Here, this is enough to get you on a bus and a train."
"But I have no shoes." I peek over the desk, and look down. All this time, I had never noticed she wasn't wearing any shoes. In fact, homegirl's barefoot. Where the fuck is this woman's shoes?
"Well, how about asking Henri? Do you know him? I'll let you up."
"Can you go and ask him please?" she says. " I have no shoes."
Whatever gets her out of here I'll do. I go upstairs and knock on Henri's door. Damn this party is bumping.
"Yo yo, what's good my brother? You want some coke? Weed? Beers? Bitches?" Henri says in his French accented English. He's always hosting parties and typically offers me the aforementioned items.
"Naw, man. There's some chick named Maria...." He interrupts me. " Fuck that bitch, man, Call the police on her, She's crazy. I have a restraining order on her." Then he just closes the door. Ahh ... What the fuck? I do back downstairs hoping she's gone. Nope. still there
"Henri said to call the police on you and I don't want to do that."
"Noooooooooooooo!" she wails and then drops down on her back in the middle of the lobby crying. After attempting to coax her into a more discreet area of the lobby, I rescue-drag her over to a couch by her arms and pull her up. I'm sure if the anyone were to see this on camera, they'd think I was about to do something not so great to her.
"Call 911, they drugged me."
No problema. sweetheart. I didn't even ask for any details. I just called 911 and told them some woman claimed someone drugged her. EMS services show up in a few minutes. I point to where she's at and tell the EMT tech about what happened.
EMT " Who drugged you, Ma'am?"
"They"
"They who?"
"They...the people that drugged me." she says.
"Naw honey, you drugged yourself" he says. He then tosses (I mean that literally) on the gurney, straps her in and wheels her out.
"Tired of these fucking rich college motherfuckers that can't handle their shit." he mumbles as they leave. Damn, that job must make you cynical after awhile. Whatever, at least she's gone.
IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT
Damn, man these gay guys are fucking aggressive. If this is a tenth of what women have to endure from men, no wonder they're complaining about us all the time. This fucker won't quit. I'm stuck behind this desk too. Trapped like a rat.
"Don't you want some of this man pussy" Elvis says. "It's better than your wife's. I suck a mean dick too."
"Naw man, I'm all set." I say " I'm straight. Sorry man, I can't help you in that department."
"But you can" Elvis proclaims " I just want to choke on your cock."
Damn man, this shit only happens when this guy is drunk. And tonight, homeboy is hammered. God be merciful.
"Dude, I can't help you" I say again. " I'm straight. I don't do dick. I love the ladies. Don't you guys have apps for this shit like Tinder or Grinder? Some kind of website like www. INEEDDICK.com to help you out?"
Elvis laughs. He takes another gulp of whatever spirit he's been indulging in all night.
"What if I put on a wig?"
"No"
"But I want to get fucked. I'm tired of guys thinking because I'm black I have to be the top. I want to get fucked in my ass too." Elvis says. Apparently, this is a problem in the gay community. Sterotypes suck man.
" Naw man, you're barking up the wrong tree." I reply. It's my standard answer for his drunken advances. " My ass reads EXIT ONLY, know what I mean"
Elvis laughs again. " How about 500?"
"No"
"1000??"
"No"
"5000?" Elvis says while pouting because he already knows my answer.
"Sorry amigo, I'm not one of those undercover brothers playing for both teams" I said. We've had this conversation many of time, but clearly his drunken brain can't seem to accept my claim.
"You fucking suck." Elvis says loudly while stomping away. He stops before rounding the corner to call for an elevator. "How about a mercy fuck or something/ Just a suck little BJ??"
"NOOOOOOOOOO"
"Fuck you" he says and heads over to push the call button for the elevator. I can hear the bell indicating which elevator has opened up its doors to take him upstairs. He peeps his head around the corner again. " Because I really want too" then dashes into the elevator before the door closes.
Aaahhhh, Fucking Elvis
A FIEND'S PHONE
“That’s a fiend’s phone," I say. "It doesn't have of those preloaded apps android phones come loaded with. You can't erase those things. It doesn't have the phone icon for dialing out, only receives incoming calls. When have you ever seen a phone like that? Only two kinds of people have that type of phone. Hookers and fiends.”
"I found it by North Station,” says Kim. “There's a contact list and a few text messages. Here’s the camera. Let's see if there are any photos."
She flips through the photo gallery and runs across several pictures that look like candidates for that old Faces of Meth website the police use to have.
"Oh my God! No. This is not right?! Let's check the messages."
Kim begins with a message from someone named Denise. Kim starts reading quietly to herself. Judging from her facial expressions, what she discovering isn't reassuring.
“What’s it say?”
Aloud Kim reads, "I fucked him for Johnnies [Gabapentin] and have photos and video to prove it. Your husband loves me bitch not you so get over it."
"I'm telling you, it's a fiend's phone.”
Kim continues reading messages. The next one is from Ricky. (Every Ricky I've ever met has been an addict. Note to self, don't name your kids or hang out with anyone named Ricky.) "Hey yo, I don't really know you like that and I don't trust you like that either. But I got 30 oxies and some Johnnies if you really want them. I'm over by 7-11 on Mass Ave."
"Mass Ave," I interject, "That’s Methadone Mile. North Station has quite a few clinics over there too. 7 - 11's is the place where all the transients in the city hang out for whatever reason around here. I'm telling you, it's a drug fiend's phone. Toss it."
Kim reads more messages drawn into the lunacy know as drug addiction.
Text from Bruno: "For those Lebrons, I give you 20 bucks and some addies. But I want head too and you gotta swallow. No spitting."
Text from the Irish Guy: " Hey, this is the Irish Guy you meet [sic] yesterday. I got benzos if you need them. Can you get to C-Town?"
"Damn, Kim," I proclaim " How much more evidence do you need to realize you got a fiend's phone? I'm surprised you have dropped dead on a contact high from fentanyl dust."
She drops the phone in horror. Clearly she has seen the numerous news reports about the perils of coming near it.
"How did you know?" Kim asks.
“It’s the way it looks,” I say. "I'm from the Crack Era baby and I know fiend-like behavior. It's the way they move, the way they smell.”
"I'm tossing this. I'll never do anything nice ever again. How the fuck did I end up with this fucking thing. I just should have left it charging in the wall. Now I'm running around with some junkie's phone. I probably get AIDS from this," she says.
Kim grabs a napkin from her purse, picks up the phone and tosses it outside into the middle of the street. A minute later a CVS semi runs it over.
“Even if you found whoever owns it, you’d just enable them,” I say. “A fiend is a fiend is gonna stay a fiend no matter what they're addicted to.”
Our Job
Dear Resident(s),
The concierge is employed to assist you in resolving building related issues, not problems in your personal life. We prefer not to listen to your personal opinion on anything and everything. It is NOT in our job description to be forced to hear you pontificate about your political ideology. There are plenty of people who'd love to hear your ideas and many mediums on which to express such views. The concierge is not one of those people and the main lobby is not one of those places. What, you were sexually assaulted by your BF's fiancee?? That's horrible. You're telling moi, but not the police. Why? Wouldn't they be far more helpful in that situation? No, you cannot "rent" out the concierge for adult services. "Full" service in this biz means 24 hours. We're not escorts. (We don't provide promotional services for them either and I don't know where the "hoes" stay at). We don't know where you can get drugs, and we prefer not to be an unwitting middleman in your transactions. (Don't pass us any envelopes with your paraphernalia half hanging out of it). We're also do not provide emergency babysitting services either. We're strangers. Why would you let me into your home to watch your children? Talking to me for 5 minutes doesn't mean we're your BFF. Plus we're always your buddy until rules are enforced. Then we're El Diablo. Once again, we're employees and here to work. Please don't take it personally. Thank you.
The Eccentric and Me
It all begins with an idea.
"Hypocrites, all of them. Fucking snitches. Always complaining about me. I don't judge anyone, don't bother anyone but they always complain. That's why I like the night."
Great, so I'm the lucky individual who has the pleasure of your frequent visits every night.
Picture some 5' 7" Gaddafi look-a-like , dressed like a casting extra reject from the Bronx Tale with his signature fedora (or skully, baseball cap, top hat, insert random hat which changes each time I see him per night), high water slacks, cheap pleather shoes and Gorilla finger blunts somehow stuffed with the finest MJ this side of the Mississippi.
He reeks of weed, constantly attempts to sell me stuff he steals from the Goodwill bin, rails against immigrants (cheap labor), Muslims (jealously cover "their" women), Jews (they killed Jesus), blacks (thieves), Arabs (envious of American's freedoms), Hispanics (always talking about you in Spanish) basically anyone and everyone.
I like to call these type of folks "EOR" - Equal Opportunity Racist. They demonize all different cultures (including their own) while simultaneously having strange moments of empathy and understanding, a uniquely American phenomenon. He loves cooking, collecting cookbooks and giving me nightly lectures on kitchen cleanliness (which is why he doesn't get out and doesn't have a cooking job).
He says during the day he takes care of his honey (God bless her although I wonder if she's real), smokes weed and cooks. At night, he comes down to complain to me. Why? Because I'm here.
"It’s dangerous out there. There's a lot of homeless people walking around. They'll stab you. Plus you can't see black people that well at night," He says, exiting out the door to smoke one of the numerous blunts he'll indulge in during the night.
Does he even realize I'm Black. Whatever. What am I really expecting from this guy?
CONVO WITH THE DRUNKARD, ACT I
It all begins with an idea.
God, here he comes. Is this guy ever sober? Maybe I can hide in the package room. Naw, he'll just stand at the desk and wait me out like one of those Graboids from the Tremors movies. Might as well dance with the devil. With the bubbles floating up from his mouth, head rolling around on his neck and giant Cheshire cat-like grin on his face, our conversations generally start like this:
"It's rough out there, they tried to kidnap me"
"Who?"
"These guys. They just. They just knock me down, and kidnapped me."
"Really!"
"Yeah, I was at the place, and they just kidnapped me and I jumped out here!"
This is the only guy who constantly is kidnapped yet always magically ends up being dumped off here at his apartment building. I wonder.
"Did you call the police?"
"No. These guys are Mafia . . . from New York. But the girl at work has got it all covered."
"I see."
"We got in trouble because the client was doing their part, but the girls were beautiful. You should be able to tell them that. They know. They like sex. You're black, so you know they like big dicks."
"Oh"
"Yeah, but they like the BBC (Big Black Cock for the unaware). I'm no match"
"Ah. Ok."
"I'll be back brother, I got something for you upstairs, love you brother."
The Drunk proceeds to grab my right hand and kiss it like I am the Pope.
"Ok, see ya."
Thanks God, it's over. Usually he stays up there once he hops on the elevator. Surprised this was such a short encounter. He's usually down here for an hour or two. God was merciful on me today.
NO WORSE DEATH
It all begins with an idea.
How's that old Mark Twain quote go? There are many ways to die, but there's no worst death than being talked to death. Forgive my George W. moment here, but hopefully you get the gist of what I'm trying to convey. Every single night, irregardless of time or weather conditions, homeboy stays after his shift and process to waterboard me with his meaningless conversations. Old commercials from his childhood, 80's films, little kid talking about farts, this is the shit I'm forced to endure. And there's no escaping the hour of torment. I use the bathroom, print paperwork in the office, make coffee, you know anything and everything hoping wishing praying that God would be merciful and homeboy would have left. Nope, he's still here waiting for me like those poor homeless alcoholics you see waiting for the liquor store to open in the morning. Why does he do this? I have no idea. I guess this is what happens when you don't occupy your life with things to do.
A tenant has just walked in, aware homeboy's schedule, seeing the time she asks with befuddled look on her face
"Why are you still here?"
Homeboy replies " I'm here talking to my co-worker."
Talking to is the correct phrase because we are not actually having a conversation. It's him talking and me saying "Yup" "WOW" and "I see". I ain't listening and frankly I work nights for a reason amigo. It's for less conversation not more.
“Well, once it’s time for me to go I’m out.” She says. That’s the usually response from most people once it’s time to head home especially if your shift ends late into the night. He smiles sheepishly at her, his face showing signs of slight embarrassment at her comment. As she heads to the elevator, he turns and starts right back into whatever bullshit he was talking at me about. Not to me, because that would mean I am paying attention. And he continues on and on and on for another 45+ minutes. Allah be merciful.
THE DRUNK MEETS THE ECCENTRIC
It all begins with an idea.
Every building has at least one functioning alcoholic and a resident who's whacked out of their mind. Let's call them The Drunk and The Eccentric. They both often appear at night and their paths sometimes cross in my lobby. Nothing is better than listening to those two having a discussion.
The drunk is talking about cooking. He wants to invite the eccentric over for dinner. The latter interjects eccentric views rape culture.
Drunk: Hey man, you're my neighbor. Wanna come over for dinner. I'm gonna make meatballs.
Eccentric: Really? You cook? Are you clean? Don't be like those Arabs guys. They test how warm the soup is with their finger. Their fucking finger. See how disgusting they are.
D: Yeah man, I brown the meat and add herbs and breadcrumbs.
E: Yeah, those guys, they're disgusting. You can't trust them. I'd never eat there. That's why French women can go to North Africa because they'll get raped. Those Muslims can't handle seeing a woman showing her face (uses scarf to imitate a woman using a niqab).
D: Then I boil the water and make the sauce.
E: Better tell your mother not to go there. They will see her and rape her.
D: It tastes pretty good.
For damn near ten minutes these guys conversed with each other while not actually talking about the same subject. The Drunk intimately described how he creates meatballs while the other is claimed, "This is what happens went women go looking for dick."
These two are literally having two different conversations, talking past each other. The contents of one's words does not matter at all to the other's response.
How does one hear " I mix breadcrumbs, hamburger and herbs" and respond with "Don't trust North Africans. They will rape you if you visit." I would love to see the human thought algorithm that produces such absurdity.
Input: Mariana sauce.
Output: Don't trust North Africans.
What's the psychology behind that? People love to hear the sound of their own voice even if no one is listening.