Doorman

I see him every day, he is part of my life and our fates are intertwined.  He is the middle-aged black man who wears a hooded sweatshirt rain or shine, summer or winter, and sits on a concrete wall just outside of Peet's.  He is a large man, rather hulking in his presence, and also rather gruff when he speaks.  Which he does.  As I pass him, always avoiding his paper cup, he wishes me a nice day.  He does other things.  Seated by the button for the pedestrian walk/wait signal, at my approach, he presses the thing.  Going inside?  If I nod yes, he rises, lumbers a step or two toward Peet's and opens the door for me.  I always thank him.  I never put anything in his paper cup.

His presence annoys me.  Why?  I have examined my motivations, noted my reactions and always roll away confused.  Something about this man activates guilt.  Which I don't like and react against.  Whatever the emotion, our encounters resonate, and there is no avoiding him and my reaction to him.

Ersatz.  That is my first response.  This man does not claim to be homeless, is relatively spry -- and has his hand out.  Unavoidable.  That is the other thing.  What if I would like to push the pedestrian walk button myself?  In fact, what if I would like to get out of my wheelchair and sit on the short wall in front of Peet's?  And, even more odd, what if I would like to open the door myself?

It's not that this man provides an unwanted service, more of an involuntary one.  And because I never drop so much as a penny in his paper cup, our exchange worsens.  My guilt grows.  For don't I owe him something?  How many times has he opened the door for me?  Would I refuse to tip the doorman at a hotel, acknowledging that I have no choice in the matter of who opens the door?  Why not give this itinerant guy a dollar now and then?

I stubbornly cling to my essential belief.  I have not asked him to be my doorman.  I can push the pedestrian button myself.  And if he wants to come to my aid, I will always thank him.  Which I do.  End of story.  Except that it is not the end.  The story continues.  I feel guilty for not giving him any money.  I also feel guilty for being angry at his presence.

"Have a nice day."  He mumbles this rather hoarsely, and I sense that this is not his normal style.  He seems naturally gruff.  I'm certain that his message is "have as nice a day as you can in view of the fact that I have just opened the door for you, which is no small service to a quadriplegic, and you have not seen fit to give me a red cent."  Have a nice day, white man, affluent suburbanite, and don't even give a thought to those who live on the rough side of town.

And having my white liberal guilt buttons pushed, I speed by the guy even faster, when possible.  If he wants to be a black man sitting in front of Peet's opening doors and pushing pedestrian buttons, if that is what he wants to do with his days, splendid.  No, that's not true.  It is not splendid.  I would like to see him gone.  But why?  What on earth does it matter?  The poor are always with us.  Why not him?  Assuming he is poor, which I am invited to believe, it seems, because he is black and opening doors and hanging out on street corners.  Always unstated, perhaps implied, the paper cup available, nothing clear.  No sign that says homeless.  Or out of work.  Or distressed.

So why do I want him gone, and out of my sight, not blemishing our pristine, haute bourgeoisie suburb?  Because he reminds us of the underclass?  Because much of that underclass is black -- and three black kids shot me in the spinal cord?  Perhaps I resent the fact that he isn't really working.  Perhaps I resent the fact that he isn't really begging, just dooring and buttoning and presenting an empty cup.  The ambiguity annoys me.  It is a space into which I insert myself.  Whatever the man's story, he has decided that this is what he wants to do.  People hardly talk to him.  His service is unsolicited, largely unappreciated, often ignored and, in any case, hardly very valuable.  Especially the pedestrian button pushing.  And yet this is where he wants to be, what he wants to do, suggesting that there really isn't much better for him.  His street shtick seems demeaning, humiliating, beneath anyone to endure.  Why?

I roll up the sidewalk, approaching the intersection, and he rises as though to open the coffee house door.  You going on here?  No, I tell him.  He pushes the pedestrian button.  I roll across the crosswalk, heading for Bank of the West.  Nice to have an ample deposit.  Now, post-Tuscany coffers refilled, I roll back for a double machiatto.  The black guy lumbers to his feet, pulls open the door, and I sail inside.  Have a nice day, he says.  It's subtle.  But there's a struggle going on here.  I can feel it.  But so far, I just don't understand it.