The Art of Ambition- The Art of a Doorman
Description: In the city that never sleeps, the next opportunity is right around the corner… The Art of Ambition is a short, award nominated audio drama series produced by Ragged Foils Productions. Originally a one-off monologue –The Art of a Doorman – for the Ragged Scratch Podcast, writer Mark L. Burrow was inspired by the positive reaction to the piece to expand the character’s world and tell the weaving tale leading up to our doorman’s story, now Episode 1.
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Transcript
Chapter 1: The Doorman
“Being a doorman in this lavish foyer in this east side Manhattan apartment building can be quite lonesome. Particularly at this time of day.
Earlier, residents all flooded through this very foyer an hour ago to attend their powerful jobs, lead meetings in boardrooms, leaving the doorman to do this – Watch me as I walk – walk from this marble foyer and stand behind . . . this desk. (Knocking on the desk) This is my reality. Look at me in my uniform. So smart. Suited in long morning suit and matching top hat. A uniform so distinctive of this apartment complex.
So, I stand behind this desk and talk to myself and turn around and talk to the clock. The clock: my only friend.
The stories a doorman could tell . . . For example, there’s one couple: they leave together each day and part their ways to separate jobs. They leave with a kiss then four hours later he sneaks back through at lunchtime with some office bimbo of his.
And there’s another couple. The doorman has never seen his wife – he just leaves each day dragging a small suitcase behind him. The doorman simply left to question the contents.
Imagination can go wild when one stands behind a desk for several hours each day with no one but the clock to talk to.
So, let’s move from this desk. Walk outside. Follow me, come on! Follow me outside. Through these doors to the green carpet, under this green canopy above us. And now we’re ensconced with the New York noise: the honking horns of the passing cabs and the self-talking, fast-paced New Yorkers.
When a doorman stands outside such a building, it becomes a status symbol. The building becomes a ‘doormaned building’ and in this area of the east side, a doorman commands particular prestige. But this is not quite Park Avenue. We have to try to be so.
Even outside amongst the passers by, the doorman remains lonesome, invisible.
That sense of isolation can make a doorman go mad, lose their mind or they can simply use this time to devise plans.
Moving back inside the doorman can think of plans to his own advantage. For if no one notices the doorman’s existence, no one will notice his non-existence.
The doorman is part of the furniture: like this desk, that clock on the wall above it, the door to the outside, the elevator, the floor, the ceiling, the walls, and that colourful work of art hanging opposite the desk over there.
Remove the clock and guaranteed everyone will notice it missing. It’s the residents’ guide: it tells them each morning how late they are; it tells the guy sneaking back at lunchtime how many minutes he can spend in bed with his office bimbo; it tells me how much time I can spend here.
See that painting? It’s an original Rothko – worth a fortune and all these wealthy residents care about is . . . time. They don’t notice the doorman and they don’t notice a remarkable work of art hanging in the lobby of their own building.
Unlike the clock, they’ll never notice the painting going missing.
So, I’m gonna take it – I already have a buyer.
I know what you are thinking. It can’t be that simple. The doorman will be easily caught by the authorities.
The doorman will be in trouble, alright. Only when anyone, if anyone, ever notices the Rothko going missing.
You see, I know the doorman of this building . . .
No! no. Forgive me. I’m not the doorman, I don’t even work here. I’m just a stranger disguised as a doorman, here for one reason.
You see, I drink in the same bar as the real doorman when he finishes his shift each day. I eavesdrop upon his endless stories. The more he drinks, the more he shares his stories with strangers. I overhear everything.
I hear stories of a married man’s lunchtime affair; I hear stories of a husband removing his wife’s body parts in a suitcase (if you can believe anything this guy says!); and I hear stories of his own moonlighting. This one we can believe.
Each day he tilts his top hat to every resident rushing to work, then when all is quiet he changes out of his uniform and heads off to work a four-hour shift at the local diner. True! I’ve been following his moonlighting pattern for months now. He’s like clockwork.
He makes sure he’s back in good time to return to his doorman work. The cheating husband is relieved as he no longer has to sneak past him. I’m pleased because I can walk over to this painting, shove it in this garbage bag and simply walk through those lonesome doors into the world, invisible.
I’ll meet my buyer at the local diner (yes, the very place where he works!) – make the exchange – my garbage bag containing the Rothko, for his briefcase containing my well-earned money. Then I’ll simply head to the restroom, change out of my doorman uniform – the unassuming clothing underneath will draw no such attention as I glide, briefcase in hand, and walk out into an inconspicuous freedom. A freedom where millions of people don’t recognise my existence.
The moonlighting doorman will briefly remember a dining doorman until his busy job takes over his memory. At least he has a job. No one will employ me: I’ve applied to be a doorman, a waiter, a busboy . . . I get rejected each time. My only avenue of income is through crime. Not that I have ever committed a crime before.
But, is this a crime if no one even notices the painting missing? Knowing those residents, having spent months observing them, I doubt they ever will.
Someone will, one day. By which time I will be long gone and no one will remember me.
For we notice a doorman walking in the street, don’t we? He stands out. He’s out of context away from his door or his desk.
A doorman without his door is like a wall without its clock.
