He's Not a Rich Man, He's a Doorman

He is not a rich man. He is a doorman.

And this cold New York day he's holding what looks like at least a dozen thick envelopes in his woolen gloved hand.

I kid with him. "Season going well, I see."

"Oh these aren't mine, Neil," he explains. "These are the ones I hand out."

One's for the guy who hoses and cleans the sidewalk overnight. Another is for his garbage man back home in Queens. Still another for the guy who delivers coffee in the morning.

He's even got one for the guy who dutifully shows up this time of year, each night on the street around the corner to play Christmas songs on his trumpet. "Love that man's soul," he tells me.

He doesn't owe any of them anything. And in the case of the sidewalk hosing guy, I ask whether he's the guy who should be tipping him, maybe someone from building management. After all, I tell him, you're not even the chief doorman.

He laughs, and adds, "but I'm the doorman who sees him."

So this man who collects envelopes seems much more interested handing out envelopes. To people he knows, most he does not.

"It ain't much," he tells me. "But they get a kick out of it." And apparently, so does he.

A man whose full-time job is opening doors. And part-time one apparently is opening hearts.

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