I take the subway over to Roosevelt Island to do some census work. The island is small. Few cars. High rises everywhere. And gorgeous views of Manhattan. The day is uneventful, except for my encounter with a mean door-woman. She reminds me of the Prison Matron played by Queen Latifah in Chicago, but without the humor and certainly without the voice.
This woman is determined not to help me. And, to see how miserable she can make my day. She tells me that “everyone here is at work” before I even tell her the apartment numbers I’m interested in having her buzz for me. As she is telling me this, I point out a woman, her husband, and a baby in the lobby. Obviously tenants. "They're not at work," I say. She ignores my comment, then punishes me for making it. She refuses to buzz anyone for me. She goes further and tells me there are no buzzers in the building. Not to be deterred, I then suggest she call the tenants. She looks right at me as if I hadn’t spoken a word and tries to stare me down. How lazy can she be? In a day job with no people to greet and no buzzers to buzz. She refuses to give me her name, but wants mine. She’s dreadful. I can’t wait to leave her building and call her boss, whose number I got. How do people like her even get real jobs?
But I decide that my day will not be ruined. I see a little pizza place with tables outside and it looks inviting. I order a salad with a little mozzarella, sun dried tomatoes, black olives, and roasted peppers with balsamic vinegar (no oil). It’s surprisingly good.
Two young kids, about five, are sitting next to me talking and laughing in Russian. I look out at the water while eating my salad, and for a few minutes, I feel like I’ve been transported to a foreign land. All this just one subway stop away.
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