“That’s good, Mr. Sherman.”
“All right, Yoshi. Same time tomorrow.”
Yoshi departs. She glances at the kitchen clock. It’s ten minutes before noon.
(“Three. Agreed?” said Mr. Bunchley.
“Agreed,” said Mr. Wissel.)
One hour later, the alarm goes off in the kitchen and Mr. Sherman sits up like a snapping turtle.
“Wha? Are we under attack?” He looks around a bit and then remembers he’s set the alarm to remind him of the laundry in the basement. “Ah. The laundry’s done. The sheets must be dry.”
Mr. Sherman takes the elevator to the basement.
There he meets Agnes, who hands Mr. Sherman his blue laundry basket, filled with neatly folded, polka-dotted sheets.
Agnes works for a number of our residents. She was raised in Jamaica. “I can’t abide this cold weather, Mr. Bunchley,” she often says to me, even in the spring or fall. “But with the Lord’s help, I will.” That’s Agnes.
“I needed the dryer for Miss Nancy,” says Agnes, “so I folded your sheets, Mr. Sherman, which were done and all, so I did take them out for the reason to put Miss Nancy’s wash in. But I folded yours there.”
“Your name is Agnes, and you work for Nancy. Is that right?”
“That’s right, Mr. Sherman.”
(“You’re telling me folding someone’s clothes for them is a connection?” said Mr. Macadam.
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” said Mr. Bunchley.
“How do we know she didn’t stick a wad a’ gum in them?” “Even had she done so, it’s still a connection.” Mr. Bunchley looked at Mr. Wissel.
“Four,” said Mr. Wissel, making a note on the back of a napkin.)
The time is now one fifteen.
Agnes and Mr. Sherman ride the elevator up together, Mr. Sherman getting off at the eighth floor, and Agnes getting off at the eleventh floor.
“Miss Nancy, your sheets and towels will be done in an hour and in the meantime I will be busying myself seeing to the kitchen,” she says to Miss Nancy.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” says Miss Nancy.
Nancy Clover is a tall woman with large eyes and a face like a sheepdog. This is odd, because she is devoted to her cat. She is a publicist for several aging actors.
“Mr. Sherman was looking pleased as punch. I saw him just now,” says Agnes.
“He must be thinking about the end of the world again. He does take a great deal of comfort in that idea,” says Miss Nancy.
“But the world is keeping on going. Sure enough it is,” says Agnes.
“Yes. That is worrisome for him. Still, let’s look on the bright side. The world will end one day. Boy, I sure would like to get that job. Publicizing the end of the world. That could be huge!”
“Lordy, Miss Nancy!”
“Come on, Carole Lombard, time for walkies,” says Miss Nancy to her cat.
Miss Nancy, apart from being a tall woman with the face and saliva of a Saint Bernard, or did I mean sheepdog, either way, doesn’t matter, is the only member of my building who walks her cat, Carole Lombard. Whether Carole Lombard likes to be walked on a leash is not known for sure, maybe not even by Carole Lombard. Sometimes she runs ahead, pulling Miss Nancy; sometimes she hangs behind, being dragged by Miss Nancy. Either way, there seems to be a lot of tension in that leash, which brings me to my next point. Is this not a perfect, even a literal example of a connection across social circles? It’s even across mammalian circles, primate to carnivore, or human to cat.
(“What?” said Mr. Macadam. “You propose to use a house pet as one of your connections?”
“I do,” said Mr. Bunchley. “Mr. Wissel? Can I have a ruling?”
“Human to cat as an example of a connection across social circles, eh? Well, I believe I must accept it based on the International Standards of Companionship as established, if I remember correctly, in Uppsala, Sweden, in 1979,” said Mr. Wissel.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” said Mr. Macadam.
“Five for Agnes and Miss Nancy. Six for Miss Nancy and the cat,” said Mr. Wissel.)
At two twenty, forty yards down Seventy-seventh Street, Carole Lombard falls into conversation with a piebald pigeon. I can’t be sure of all the details, but from my vantage point the conversation looked quite a lot like this:
Carole Lombard starts: “Hey, you!”
“Who?” says the pigeon.
“You.”
“You mean, me?”
“You.”
“What about it?”
“You.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
(Mr. Bunchley raised his eyebrow at Mr. Wissel.
“Cat to pigeon?” said Mr. Wissel. “Well, I guess if I’m going to accept cats I’m going to have to accept pigeons. But it’s not like the cat and the pigeon as you describe them are close.”
“Exactly!” said Mr. Macadam, slapping the bar. “Carole Lombard and the pigeon is the opposite of a connection. That’s a disconnection! You’ve got to subtract one.”
Mr. Bunchley pursed his lips. “I take your point.”
“Ha!”
“But I don’t concede the point. By our definition, a connection exists where the lack thereof produces a noticeable result. What is the noticeable result if Carole Lombard and the pigeon are not connected? A moribund state in each. A listless cat. A pigeon who lacks sparkle.”
“Bthzthzthzthzthzthzthz!” said Mr. Macadam, producing a Bronx cheer.
“Look at us!” said Mr. Bunchley. “Take us as another example! We are at odds. But . . . we need each other. Without anyone pushing against us, we fall over. Have you, a lifelong New Yorker, ever been to Los Angeles? There is no one to lean on there. No one’s pushing. It’s all friendliness. You fall over.”
Mr. Macadam was silent.
“If I may use another example. The Hell Gate Bridge firmly and proudly upholds each train going to and coming from Boston because some beams push and some beams pull. It’s like this—”
“All right, all right,” said Mr. Macadam.
“Seven,” said Mr. Wissel.)
Shortly after his conversation with Carole Lombard, the pigeon flies to a windowsill on the seventh floor where he knows a few bread crumbs are waiting for him. The pigeon perches a bit. He fluffs his feathers as he thinks about the things he said to Carole and Carole said to him. He coos quietly in a distraught manner.
When Fred opens the window and passes out a few more crumbs, the pigeon just steps to one side and eyes Fred with his head cocked. Fred turns his grizzled face and long nose to the pigeon. The pigeon nods and blinks once very slowly.
(“You’re making this up!” said Mr. Macadam. “Besides, how do we know Fred fed exactly that pigeon?”
Mr. Bunchley looked at Mr. Wissel.
“Eight,” said Mr. Wissel.)
At this point, Fred takes a long nap.
When he wakes, he fixes himself some tea with biscuits. And the upshot is, I’m sorry to say, he doesn’t come out of his room on the seventh floor until seven forty-five in the evening.
(“Aha!” said Mr. Macadam. “You’ve got exactly one hour to make four more connections—and they’d better all be human!” Mr. Macadam beetled his eyebrows at Mr. Bunchley.
Mr. Bunchley calmly resumed his story.)
Fred puts on his best white shirt and buttons it to the top. He slips into his best khaki trousers and tucks the shirttails somewhat carelessly. Then, with only slippers on his feet, he rides Elevator Number Three to the third floor and walks down the hallway there to apartment 3I, where he presses the bell.
Delmore Bishop, our poet, opens the door. He smiles and, without saying a word, leads Fred to the small table in the apartment’s one room where a chessboard stands. Every Tuesday evening, and this was a Tuesday, it is their habit to play chess. Now, I don’t know to an absolute surety whether or not any words are spoken at all between Fred and Delmore Bishop, but I do know that Fred wins thr
ee games out of five.
(“Nine,” said Mr. Wissel.
“Playing chess is a connection I suppose,” said Mr. Macadam.
“Of course, it is,” said Mr. Bunchley. “Oh, I know, the Uppsala Convention.” Mr. Macadam scowled. “Wait a second. How long did they play chess?”
“Approximately two hours,” said Mr. Bunchley. “Then I win!” Mr. Macadam thumped the bar and took a swallow of beer. “Two hours puts the time at nine forty-five, at least. And you’re still missing three connections!”
“I do not quite concede defeat yet, Mr. Macadam, because at sixteen minutes after eight our super, Oskar, arrives at Mr. Bishop’s apartment to fix the squeak in the door. He says ‘Good evening,’ ‘Who’s winning?,’ and ‘Is that the famous La Paz opening I see?’ Also, he fixes the squeak.”
“Ten,” said Mr. Wissel.)
Eleven minutes later, at eight twenty-seven, Miss Victoria appears at Oskar’s office door to ask to borrow a number seven Allen wrench, which she needs to tune her accordion. Lucky for Victoria, Oskar had returned to his office two minutes earlier. Oskar opens the door, and Victoria asks for the wrench. Then Victoria offers Oskar a plate of chocolate chip cookies that she baked that afternoon. Victoria’s visit to Oskar takes eight minutes.
(“Eleven,” said Mr. Wissel.
“By my calculation, you’ve got ten minutes,” said Mr. Macadam.)
Miss Victoria steps into Elevator Number Two in the basement at eight thirty-seven exactly. If all goes smoothly the next stop will take her to Mrs. Sleeplater’s apartment on the eighteenth floor. Miss Victoria has a weekly knitting lesson there, which she squeezes in between her accordion lesson with Mr. Bellows, who comes to her apartment at seven thirty, and her bedtime at ten.
The travel time from the basement to floor eighteen is, if uninterrupted, one minute and fifty seconds, a time that would put Miss Victoria face-to-face with Mrs. Sleeplater at just before eight thirty-nine.
However, elevator trips with no stops are rare. The elevator stops at the lobby, where Mr. Pearl (the high-school principal), Mr. Fanshaw (the TV news producer), and Mrs. Zeebruggen get on.
No one speaks.
(“Aha!” said Mr. Macadam. “No one speaks. No connections!” Rubbing his hands together, he gave Mr. Wissel a threatening look.)
There was some smiling and nodding at one another, but— as you say, Mr. Macadam—there are no real connections.
The elevator door begins to close at eight thirty-eight and then rolls open again at eight thirty-eight and ten seconds when an umbrella is jammed into the narrowing sliver of space made by the closing door.
Mrs. MacDougal steps in.
The elevator begins to ascend. A silence weighs on the riders. The presence of Mrs. MacDougal squashes any chance of conversation as everyone in the building, in general, and in this elevator, in particular, is vaguely afraid of her. Mr. Fanshaw and Mr. Pearl look straight ahead. Mrs. Zeebruggen rummages in her bag noisily with one hand. Miss Victoria looks at the powdered underside of Mrs. MacDougal’s chin.
The elevator slows, clicks a bit, shudders, comes to a stop, and opens its door at floor five. Mr. Pearl wishes everyone good night and steps off.
Mrs. MacDougal jabs at the Door Close button, and after five seconds of delay, the elevator door closes.
They continue up. The small round window in the door, like a porthole, allows in a brief ray of light as they pass each floor.
At floor twelve, Mrs. Zeebruggen and Mr. Fanshaw depart without saying anything.
It is now eight forty-two.
Twenty seconds later, Mrs. MacDougal steps off at floor fifteen. But instead of proceeding down the hall, she turns to face Victoria.
Holding the door open with her left hand, Mrs. MacDougal says, “Is it you whom I hear playing the accordion?” and she booms out the “whom” like a horn.
Miss Victoria’s eyes grow bigger, but she doesn’t say anything.
“It is not a ladylike instrument and I recommend strongly, strongly, that you give up this unbecoming habit. In fact,” she lets go of the door, “I think I’ll bring it up at the next board meeting. I plan to make 777 Garden Avenue an accordion-free building. Good night!”
Victoria, gulping, presses Door Close as hard as she can (without punching).
The time is eight forty-three.
Elevator Number Two covers the last three floors in record time—fifteen seconds.
Mrs. Sleeplater opens the door to Victoria’s ring and welcomes her in as she leads the way to the living room.
She says, placing her glasses on her nose, “Have you got your little masterpiece?”
Victoria pulls a small half sock on four needles out of her knitting bag. She says, “The ankle’s all done.”
“Wonderful,” says Mrs. Sleeplater. “Tonight we will tackle the tricky German heel. After we first have some chamomile tea, that is.”
“Goody,” says Victoria.
And at that moment, the wall clock in Mrs. Sleeplater’s living room chimes brightly three times indicating the three-quarter hour.
•
Mr. Wissel checked the back of his napkin. Mr. Macadam sat breathing deeply. Mr. Bunchley placed a cracker into his mouth and chewed demurely.
Mr. Wissel said, “Are we not counting Victoria to Mrs. MacDougal because Victoria didn’t say anything?”
“That is correct,” said Mr. Bunchley.
“Okay, then,” Mr. Wissel continued. “Then that’s Mrs. J. G. Sleeplater of the eighteenth floor, to Alehandro of the swaying platform on the outside of the eighteenth floor, to Yoshi at the U Like Deli, to Mr. Sherman of apartment 8D, to Agnes from Jamaica, to Miss Nancy on floor eleven, to Carole Lombard
The Doorman’s Repose 169 the cat, to a pigeon, to Fred on the seventh floor, to Delmore Bishop the poet, to Oskar the super, to Miss Victoria the knitting student, back up to Mrs. J. G. Sleepwater on the eighteenth floor. That’s twelve all right. Twelve residents. Twelve connections. Twelve hours.”
Apart from some heavy sipping, there was silence at the bar of the Doorman’s Repose.
At last, Mr. Bunchley said, “I’ll have that cup of tea now, Mr. Macadam.”
CHRIS RASCHKA has made more than sixty books for children, including Yo! Yes?, Five for a Little One, A Ball for Daisy, and, with Vladimir Radunsky, Alphabetabum, which is published by The New York Review Children’s Collection. His work has earned one Caldecott Honor and two Caldecott Medals, as well as the Ezra Jack Keats Award, and his books have been selected five times for The New York Times Best Illustrated Books list. He lives in New York City.
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