By the looks of him, it'd been a long day.
He was covered in snow and much of his lower torso was soaked-to-the-skin wet by slush and water, no doubt splashed by passing cars.
People snapped their fingers at him. Others screamed. Still others snapped and screamed.
They didn't like the cold. They didn't like the snow. He didn't seem to care. He helped them, one and all.
The lady who had flown in from Atlanta and said, "Just get my damn bags into the hotel."
Another guy, probably her husband or assistant, screamed, "Who do you have to kill to get help around here!"
Ah, New York in a snowstorm: shivering, cold, dirty and crowded — very crowded.
Too many people to walk too few places. Sidewalks beyond choking. Street traffic beyond congested. And one guy, despite it all, not beyond smiling.
He was as helpful as he could be with some who were as incredibly nasty as they could be. He was a hotel doorman and they took it out on him.
As if he could control the snow, or the traffic, or the delayed flights, or the crowds.
Some tipped him. Many did not. He helped them, one and all.
It was almost as if he was invisible: Not worthy of thanking. Not worthy of acknowledging.
I think you can tell a lot about people by how they handle stress. Some scream and bark orders, others take them.
Yet this moment in a snowstorm in a crowded city had me focused for the longest time on this one doorman who could have been a jerk too, but chose not to. Perhaps because he was simply too classy to.
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