The Watch
by Tim Conley
He was a doorman and his friend was a doorman.
There
they were talking and
he was saying yes we do have an unexamined role in
society, I've put a lot
of thought into that. Not like we're invisible, his
friend rejoined, though
the way some of them walk by you'd be forgiven for
thinking otherwise. Here
the schism of debate opened. He disagreed with his
friend in principle if
not in fact, for to his mind the watchword of the
doorman is faith. In what?
In the virtue, if you like, of those for whom we hold
open the door, he
said, and his voice's timbre showed a growing warmth to
the subject. Holding
further he said we have an eye, a critical eye, in our
profession and we use
it. Scratching his beard, his friend admitted that
there was something in
that, of course he did not always open the door, he had
certain
responsibilities to the integrity of the establishment
as did any doorman.
The affirmative reply added that one often offered a
form of salute while
holding the door. His friend cut in to say often, you
mean always, least I
always do, it's that sort of thing, that attention that
makes a great
doorman. He nodded at his friend and asserted it's
faith that underwrites
that attention you see. No I don't see. I'll try to
explain, let's go back
to not opening the door. Yes. Why would you not open
the door all the time
if it's your job as a doorman? His friend blinked and
began to say
confusedly well there are guests of the establishment
and then there, oh ho,
and his face assumed a slight leer, you're driving at
the ethical conduct of
the doorman. Ethos has much to do with it, I suppose,
said he, but you were
going to say there are those who aren't guests and you
don't hold the door
open for them. Unless they're guests' visitors, his
friend put in. He
replied then you have to judge, discriminate, evaluate,
and that takes the
critical eye. You say you've put a lot of thought into
this but so far I
don't see much evidence of anything beyond a rather
uncomplicated exegesis
of black and white regulations. This was said with a
genial tone, for they
had long been friends and doormen. In my opinion, he
answered in an equally
genial tone, all serious acts of criticism stem from
some faith, though
perhaps the nature of that faith is unstated, in
transition or even being
criticized itself. No need to get too heady all at
once, I was just saying,
but go on. We are agreed, we have long been agreed, he
said, that ours is
without putting too fine a point on it a noble
profession. More than most
understand, came the customary reply. This nobility is
part of a
transference from the a priori nobility, arguably
lesser or greater, of
those for whom we hold open the door, in fact that
crossing of the
threshold, synchronized with the offering of a form of
salute, could be
considered the point or moment of that transference. I
take back what I
said, chuckled his friend, you have definitely put
thought into this, and I
like to think I've followed you this far but you'll
have to explain your
thetic emphasis on faith. He said well suppose in the
course of your shift,
and his friend interrupted with watch. The schism
opened further while he
and his friend realized they had a terminological
divide between them, never
before recognized, concerning the duty hours of the
doorman. Eventually he
deferred to his friend's use of the word watch, though
not without
commenting on its strangeness and prompting from his
friend a digression
from the dialogue in the form of an anecdotal defence
of the usage of watch.
I call it a watch, said his friend, more or less on
account of the
voyeuristic qualities encouraged and developed by years
in the profession
and my own appreciation of those qualities' primacy.
Have I told you, his
friend slowly asked him, of the night I left the door?
He looked at his
friend with amazement and said no, you left the door, I
can imagine anyone
else but. I left the door one night, his friend said.
There was a lady who
arrived at the door this night overburdened with
packages, to this day I
wonder what could have been in them to make them as
heavy as they were and
yet as fragile as she assured me they also were when I
offered to help her,
this was some time ago and one of those occasions when
some seasonal virus
had thinned the working personnel to a skeletal affair
and left me with
extra duties, and I did not know this woman but she was
entirely a lady and
had visible among the many objects she was juggling a
set of keys, so I
assisted with the heavy packages and found myself in
the elevator with her
for the elevator operator was among those recently
dispatched by the virus
and I listened to her apologize and though naturally I
told her it was
nothing, part of the job, a pleasure, and made other
such pleasantries it
was becoming distressingly clear to me that she was
somehow enjoying my
discomfort, watching me repeatedly volleying harmless,
charitable responses
under the weight of the heavy packages. What do you
mean she enjoyed it? His
friend shrugged and scratched his beard again, this
time more vigorously,
and said and that's not all, she was looking at me and
then not looking at
me, I mean this lady was not unattractive but there was
something in her
eyelashes and it was very distracting because I
couldn't determine what it
was, not without openly staring at her and it was all I
could do not to, but
it goes back to what you were saying about the critical
eye, there was no
way I could notice it without wanting to, how did you
put it, judge,
discriminate, and evaluate? That sounds right, he said,
but now tell me what
was in her eyelashes? I'll come to it, said his friend,
I'll come to it, but
let me follow the sequence of events. All right, so you
were in the
elevator. Yes, and it was the longest elevator ride of
my life, or maybe
from another point of view the shortest, but at any
rate we arrived at her
floor and she directed me to a suite, and all I could
do was follow her
exposed legs which I could see beneath all the packages
I was carrying, like
I said not exactly unattractive, heard the keys jangle
and drop and could
see more of her come into my little view bending down
to collect them
slowly, and then we were in the suite with its
different lighting and my
arms were trembling under the weight of all those
packages and. And? And
it's strange, never happened before or since but I
suppose I lost
consciousness for there was nothing but the weight and
the call of duty to
return to the door and the fact of her there, seemingly
enjoying this inner
conflict of mine, all of it at once made something
give. And? He met his
friend now at the midpoint of this ad hoc bridge which
had momentarily
appeared across the schism. His friend looked away
briefly and admitted
coming to without a stitch on, the first thing to be
seen his uniform neatly
folded as though freshly laundered, ironed, and buttons
polished, on an
armchair nearby the bed in which he found himself
lying, the next thing to
be seen the reflection of himself in what were
remarkable silver eyelashes.
After a pause he said so there was nothing in them at
all, save the image of
yourself. That's right. And then what did you do? Why,
his friend said with
surprise at the question, I returned to my watch. He
and his friend began
laughing in a way they had not for many years, laughing
and laughing. All
right, he said at last, I take your point and shall
hereafter refer to a
given doorman's tour as his watch, but your account of
the night you left
the door fortifies my dissertation with a serviceable
illustration, seeing
as the person for whom you held open the door that
night was unknown to you
and yet you held open the door for her. Yes. Why? I
already said, his friend
retorted, she had keys and was a lady, so I assumed.
Excuse me, he
interrupted his friend, but you did not assume, you
placed faith. In her?
Opening the door was an act of faith, as it always is
when you hold open the
door for anyone, especially a stranger, faith in their
deserving that act.
Then the critical eye is not paramount? My thinking
hadn't extended to any
certainty on such a point, he confessed, and I am
uneasy at the suggestion,
I hope not simply because of pride, but the faculties
of apprehension may
well be integral to the manifestation of this central
faith. I see what you
mean, his friend nodded, and will have myself to
reconsider the relation of
duty to faith. He winked at his friend and replied but
it is I who must be
thankful to you for illumination, for your telling me
about the night you
left the door throws my dialectical top for another
unexpected spin, that
is, more than the relation between acts of duty and
acts of faith, what is
the difference between an act of faith and an act of
love? His friend looked
a little sad and said it may be, my friend, that there
are things even
beyond the understandings of a doorman.
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