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And I made a few really important relationships here, people I’ll miss a whole lot, and I hope to see them when the bad cloud lifts.

This city has been grim and crippled since March 13th, tough to see it this way when its life belongs on the sidewalks and now those are barren. Maybe it’s easier to leave before it gets back into full bloom.

Last night, I walked Jim to our private place that we found when we first moved here. It’s a bench overlooking the harbor, under a canopy of trees hidden from the walkway that strolls along the river, police-blue lanterns reflecting off the Hudson, the Statue of Liberty right there. The river laps the wood pilings underneath. This place is as private as you can get in Manhattan.

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“Huh?’

While repeating myself, the driver, his baseball cap almost swallowing his small head, began a dry hacking cough that drowned out what I’d said. He stopped long enough to catch his breath, then it started again.

“Huh?”

It was a long day, then a dinner that lasted past nine, so I knew the dogs were impatient for food. I listened to this elderly man gasping for air. I slowly said my address, louder this time as I scooted forward in the seat, my head almost through the gaping security window.

Cars honked behind us as he continued to cough, then he pulled up and made a right, then another right, then another right and we ended up at the same spot where it all started.

“We just made a circle! What are you doing?” My tone urgent, annoyed.

“Huh?”

“Can you just get to West Street?”

He pulled away again. I mapped it out on my phone on my lap and could see that he’d just turned the wrong way on Houston.

“Where are you going? I gotta get out of here! Please let me out!”

“Huh? Okay. I’ll stop.” But he kept going, the cough louder than ever. His tiny frame slumped, the rattling shook the front seat. I repeated my address again, this time I followed with my neighborhood, and it finally dawned on him that I was headed to Battery Place, not Irving Place.

We made it to West Street heading south, past the World Trade, and I stuck my arm through the security window, waving this way then that, to bring this cabbie to the front of my building. I left him a sympathy tip, grabbed my bag, checked that I had my phone and wished him a good night. He made a U-turn, pulled right past me, the window open, and that awful cough echoed down the canyon of my street.

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I was lucky in the place I happened to have chosen when I first shopped for a landing spot on a frenzied one-day apartment search for my relocation from LA.I hadn’t lived in a doorman building since the mid-90s when Billy and I moved to the city for a few years, and even then, we became friends with the guys downstairs. This latest move, back in March of 2015, gave me an even better sense of community because the men at the door and desk were warm, kind, and I was alone, so they were really the only people I saw outside of work.

When the lockdown came, I feared for their safety. They had to greet every delivery man, guest, or random person who came through the doors. They didn’t wear masks for the first week or two, those naïve days in mid-March, but quickly the building adapted to a very sad new reality and I only saw them three times a day when I walked Jim or went to the store.

Early on, when I first moved in, every time I would go shopping, I’d ask whoever was on duty what they wanted. Something to drink? Snack? Name it. I didn’t know if that was protocol, but it was my way of thanking them, and from that, I got to know them a bit better.

Sure, I had my favorites. Every single morning, most times before the sun came up, I’d see Chris when the elevator reached the lobby. Chris was young-dad-handsome, a small gap between his front teeth that gave way to a sparkly smile, dark curly hair with just enough product, glasses, and built for rugby. He worked the graveyard shift so he could spend more time with his kids, the oldest just entering high school.

“Hey Chris, you break up any parties last night?” and he’d smile at my daily greeting and shake his head, because we were in a relatively sedate neighborhood for Manhattan.

Carlos was nothing but sunshine smiles and flawless skin. The youngest on the staff, he started out as a maintenance man for the building and when one of the doormen retired, I was one of many who wrote to the management company to champion him as a replacement. With the build of a football player, he was the building’s teddy bear who I plied with popcorn or yogurt, his favorite snacks. I gave him a nice Samsung TV when I bought a new one.

I also gave Oscar one later on. Oscar was wiry with a slight Puerto Rican accent and he liked Gatorade. I never even bothered to ask what he wanted when I’d head out. He was consistent. He was also best friends with Carlos. There were always two on duty, except on Chris’s shift, one at the door and one behind the desk. When Carlos and Oscar were paired, you could see their camaraderie as they navigated everything thrown at them from sorting packages to fielding food delivery to greeting the guests of the residents.

There was Terrence, an elegant Jamaican with a wife and kids at home in Queens. When I first moved in, I’d jokingly called him “Terry,” but he wasn’t having it. He would barely look up to acknowledge me and I soon adjusted to his proper name. After that, we were golden. He was a healthy man who exceptional posture who favored juices.

Luis was the chief, the one who brought Carlos into the fold, and from day one, he helped me adjust from the whiplash of moving from my crazy old house in LA to my new reality on the 25th floor that had a killer view of the new World Trade Center. Luis liked soft drinks or beef jerky.

All of these men did me special favors, brought things up to my apartment when I wasn’t home, fielded installations or repairs with the maintenance staff, took care of my dogs when they came home from school every day. They were always there for me and they became my family in my new strange city, offering advice or direction. All of these men were my friends and I miss them very much.

And all of these men knew my secrets, the visitors I had over those five-plus years or my wobbly drunkenness after walking home from a neighborhood bar on a Friday night or in Chris’s case, one of my greatest shames when he saw me on a security cam outside the backdoor yelling at poor Jim when she wouldn’t pee during a cold driving rain when I was trying to rush to the gym before dawn.

“Are you okay, Terry?” he asked, his eyes dark with surprise and judgment. I nodded and rushed into the elevator with the dogs. We never spoke of it. I never knew how to explain as there was no explanation to be had other than my violent selfishness.

When the countdown to my relocation back to LA started, I felt an urgency to let them know how much I cared for them as individuals. I long forgot to see them as <i>my</i> doormen. And after three months of the lockdown, it was time for me to leave. I wanted to hug each one, get a silly selfie with them that I’d treasure, but that was no longer possible. So I meekly asked each if I could take their picture. I only got four of them just because of timing. When lockdown happened, they spread out their shifts so only one was on call rather than the pair.

I’m now in another high rise in downtown LA, but the doorman game here is so very different. They are more security, batting away dealers and prostitutes. They may look up to greet me when I pass by, maybe not. But I think back on my Battery Park building and the uniformed friends I made there, and I only wish I could continue to thank them as I will always remember their kindness.

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“You’re my son. You’re my son. You’re my son.” I couldn’t quite hear him at first, but you know that feeling you get when someone is staring right at you? I looked up into a gaze of hate, his mouth moving, his stage whisper getting louder, his lip curling at the word “son.” I took out one earbud, leaned a bit closer, almost kissing distance.

“Huh?”

“You’re my son. I’m your father. I taught you everything you know. You are my son,” and so it went, getting more rapid, never breaking eye contact with me until my eyes darted around hoping to see if someone else was his son. Nope, it was me. There was a woman about three heads away whose look told me she was sorry.

“You are my son.”

And then it dawned on me. He must have a knife! He’ll plunge it into my stomach, but I won’t fall, the crush of people keeping me upright while I bleed out. Sure, that’s it, he’s going to make his move any second.

His mantra continued. I think he forgot to blink. I tried looking everywhere but at him, a foolish pursuit. I couldn’t help it. He was my captor; I was his son. Our relationship bloomed until we finally pulled into the Union Square station. Everyone shuffled about, some left, which gave me the space to move nearer the door, separated from him by at least six bystanders.

I looked up. His eyes watered. His mouth moved. His stare was mine. I looked down and fell back into Howard, the phony phone call long over, and 11pm local news lost a story. As I left at my stop, I craned my neck to make sure he wasn’t following me, and I saw he’d found someone else. His lips moved with that familiar phrase and now he had another son.

And that was my anniversary in NYC.

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She became a daily touchstone for me and I always wondered what call she waited for, who would be on the other end. I imagined it was a relative, maybe an estranged daughter, someone who would inspire this devotion.

I never once saw the phone receiver in her hand. Now she’s gone. I only hope that the phone finally rang for her, that she smiled a beautiful smile, and took her walker home to finally relax.

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My old friend, Marc let me crash at his apartment on 72nd between Central Park West and Columbus while I looked for a place for Billy and me to live. It was March of ’93 and I’d just secured a position as a talent agent at a largish agency. Billy stayed in LA to pack up our stuff for the move across the country into our new place. “It better have a view,” he warned and I certainly delivered on that request.

Anyway, that particular day it was sunny with a nip. I was walking east toward the park and when I looked up, I saw Mary Tyler Moore striding, galloping really, toward me. She wore a long coat, unbuttoned, and I couldn’t help but show my absolute joy in seeing her.

And there it was. That smile. Her greeting. I said, “Thank you.” It sounded like a dumb thing to say, but I’ve always hoped that she knew my response was because her show changed the way I saw the world.

And that she suddenly made it all seem worthwhile.

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