“I’m in love with you,” my doorman announced. It was 2 a.m. and I’d just gotten home from a night out with friends. We were alone in the lobby.
“You’re what?” I assumed I’d heard him incorrectly.
“In love with you. I have been since the day you moved in.”
When the scandalous words fell from his lips, I quickly retraced our previous encounters. Had I provoked this?
I’d been living there for over a year, and my relationship with Felix, the building’s well-respected, longtime door-slash-maintenance man, had always been friendly. He’d set countless traps and fixed leaks, but in all our moments alone, he’d never before made any passionate proclamations.
I figured the problem was the same thing that’s been plaguing me since I moved to this city: I’m a Midwesterner. I smile at everyone. Here in New York, though, wanton friendliness is beyond atypical. It’s downright dangerous.
And now, as my protector-turned-predator lavished me with love, I realized my cordiality had again been mistaken for flirtation. Like the others before him, Felix—a middle-aged Latino man with graying hair and such a skinny, gaunt frame that from a distance he resembled a kid playing dress-up in his father’s uniform—assumed my smiles meant I adored him.
But this was my doorman. He guarded my home. He was supposed to keep the crazies out. Before I could think how to voice my frustration, Felix pulled me close, tucked my loose strands of hair behind my ear and kissed my forehead. Startled, I jumped back. His eyes filled with tears. As I fled to the elevator, he blew a kiss and whispered, “Goodnight, my angel.”
In the last few years I’ve changed gyms to avoid touchy trainers and changed coffee shop chains to avoid flashing freaks. What was I supposed to do now—move?
My parents begged me to tell my management company. But, what if it backfired and I was booted instead? Felix had been there forever; I was just a tenant. That apartment, despite the occasional creepy critter that Felix was so good at banishing, was ideal—a spacious studio in the heart of the Village.
And, though I realized Felix crossed the line, instinctively I knew he was harmless—even if he did have my spare key—and that his feelings were genuine.
So I chose to avoid him. When he was manning the door, I’d stare at the ground and walk past without waving. If I had plans with guy friends, I’d fill them in on my doorman drama and insist they meet me in my lobby where I’d flirt with them shamelessly. I felt like a hostage in my own home, hesitant to leave for fear I’d have an uncomfortable run-in. I knew it wasn’t fair, after all I was paying to live like this, but I couldn’t think of what else to do.
I’d managed to keep him out of my apartment for months. Though appliances were breaking left and right and my sliding closet door had come off its hinge, I just kept a running list of things that needed to be repaired so I could let the landlord know eventually. But when I noticed a dead-mouse stench emanating from my closet, I had no choice but to enlist Felix’s help.
“I’d dispose of 100 mice if it meant spending time with you,” he said longingly, as he sifted through my dirty laundry and a sea of dust bunnies.
“There are lots of wonderful women out there,” I urged.
“Don’t try to deter me,” he responded. “You’re the one for me.”
The next week, at dinner with a friend, I lamented my ability to find myself receiving unwanted attention. An anonymous suitor had been calling me, proclaiming to be my soul mate. I was freaked out to say the least.
“At least you live in a doorman building,” she said.
Yep, I thought. Thanks to those vigilant watchmen, I’m safe. As if he’d heard the cue, my phone rang and the caller ID read: Doorman. The building keeps our numbers in case of emergencies, to let us know they’re entering our apartments because they smell smoke…or for Felix to inform me he’s dropping off flowers for my birthday.
Sigh.
Last March I moved. Not because of Felix—though I was elated to end our “relationship”—but because I’d decided to move in with my boyfriend. I’m not sure what I was happier about when I first met him a year prior: that I finally found someone great, or that I now had a tall, muscular boyfriend who would come to my building often and scare Felix away. Unfortunately, the first time they met, Felix, who politely shook his hand, seemed unfazed. As time went by though, he began to question our relationship.
“Are you sure you love him?”
“Are you really happy?”
“If he’s not good to you, I’ll take care of him!”
On the night that I moved, Felix asked, “Is it true you’re moving in with your boyfriend?” I nodded. He clutched his chest—for a minute I was nervous he was having a real heart attack—and said, “It’s official. My heart is broken.”
Then he stole one last kiss from me. This time, he was going for the lips. But we Midwesterners aren’t so naive. We learn from our mistakes. I turned my head just in time…for him to plant a wet one on my cheek.
Marissa Kristal is a New York–based writer. Read more from her at marissakristal.com. She is happy to report that the doorman in her new building has never once professed his love to her.
“You’re what?” I assumed I’d heard him incorrectly.
“In love with you. I have been since the day you moved in.”
When the scandalous words fell from his lips, I quickly retraced our previous encounters. Had I provoked this?
I’d been living there for over a year, and my relationship with Felix, the building’s well-respected, longtime door-slash-maintenance man, had always been friendly. He’d set countless traps and fixed leaks, but in all our moments alone, he’d never before made any passionate proclamations.
I figured the problem was the same thing that’s been plaguing me since I moved to this city: I’m a Midwesterner. I smile at everyone. Here in New York, though, wanton friendliness is beyond atypical. It’s downright dangerous.
And now, as my protector-turned-predator lavished me with love, I realized my cordiality had again been mistaken for flirtation. Like the others before him, Felix—a middle-aged Latino man with graying hair and such a skinny, gaunt frame that from a distance he resembled a kid playing dress-up in his father’s uniform—assumed my smiles meant I adored him.
But this was my doorman. He guarded my home. He was supposed to keep the crazies out. Before I could think how to voice my frustration, Felix pulled me close, tucked my loose strands of hair behind my ear and kissed my forehead. Startled, I jumped back. His eyes filled with tears. As I fled to the elevator, he blew a kiss and whispered, “Goodnight, my angel.”
In the last few years I’ve changed gyms to avoid touchy trainers and changed coffee shop chains to avoid flashing freaks. What was I supposed to do now—move?
My parents begged me to tell my management company. But, what if it backfired and I was booted instead? Felix had been there forever; I was just a tenant. That apartment, despite the occasional creepy critter that Felix was so good at banishing, was ideal—a spacious studio in the heart of the Village.
And, though I realized Felix crossed the line, instinctively I knew he was harmless—even if he did have my spare key—and that his feelings were genuine.
So I chose to avoid him. When he was manning the door, I’d stare at the ground and walk past without waving. If I had plans with guy friends, I’d fill them in on my doorman drama and insist they meet me in my lobby where I’d flirt with them shamelessly. I felt like a hostage in my own home, hesitant to leave for fear I’d have an uncomfortable run-in. I knew it wasn’t fair, after all I was paying to live like this, but I couldn’t think of what else to do.
I’d managed to keep him out of my apartment for months. Though appliances were breaking left and right and my sliding closet door had come off its hinge, I just kept a running list of things that needed to be repaired so I could let the landlord know eventually. But when I noticed a dead-mouse stench emanating from my closet, I had no choice but to enlist Felix’s help.
“I’d dispose of 100 mice if it meant spending time with you,” he said longingly, as he sifted through my dirty laundry and a sea of dust bunnies.
“There are lots of wonderful women out there,” I urged.
“Don’t try to deter me,” he responded. “You’re the one for me.”
The next week, at dinner with a friend, I lamented my ability to find myself receiving unwanted attention. An anonymous suitor had been calling me, proclaiming to be my soul mate. I was freaked out to say the least.
“At least you live in a doorman building,” she said.
Yep, I thought. Thanks to those vigilant watchmen, I’m safe. As if he’d heard the cue, my phone rang and the caller ID read: Doorman. The building keeps our numbers in case of emergencies, to let us know they’re entering our apartments because they smell smoke…or for Felix to inform me he’s dropping off flowers for my birthday.
Sigh.
Last March I moved. Not because of Felix—though I was elated to end our “relationship”—but because I’d decided to move in with my boyfriend. I’m not sure what I was happier about when I first met him a year prior: that I finally found someone great, or that I now had a tall, muscular boyfriend who would come to my building often and scare Felix away. Unfortunately, the first time they met, Felix, who politely shook his hand, seemed unfazed. As time went by though, he began to question our relationship.
“Are you sure you love him?”
“Are you really happy?”
“If he’s not good to you, I’ll take care of him!”
On the night that I moved, Felix asked, “Is it true you’re moving in with your boyfriend?” I nodded. He clutched his chest—for a minute I was nervous he was having a real heart attack—and said, “It’s official. My heart is broken.”
Then he stole one last kiss from me. This time, he was going for the lips. But we Midwesterners aren’t so naive. We learn from our mistakes. I turned my head just in time…for him to plant a wet one on my cheek.
Marissa Kristal is a New York–based writer. Read more from her at marissakristal.com. She is happy to report that the doorman in her new building has never once professed his love to her.
