Stephen Dixon - 14 Stories

I say “All right, but only because I need the money,” and Monday night I’m at the apartment building a half-hour before my shift’s to begin to learn what I’m supposed to do.

The head of the tenants’ association shows me around and says the tenants are paying my entire salary. “The landlord’s a cheap S.O.B. He doesn’t live here, that’s why he can act like that. We were getting a burglary a month and mugging every other before we started patrolling the place days and hiring a guard for after midnight. What they did to break in was ring a number of names on the intercom till someone without asking who’s there let them in. When the tenants stopped letting in people this way, the intruders broke the door panes or locks to get in or just waited in the vestibule for someone to rob or followed them in from the street. What happens now is anyone in the vestibule who doesn’t have a lobby door key has to get past the guard. You ring the tenant the visitor wants and the tenant has to personally give you the okay. The tenant doesn’t or isn’t in, the visitor has to leave. If a tenant doesn’t have a key, ask for his ID. We issued everybody one with his picture on it. If a tenant says he forgot his ID and nobody in his apartment is home, or you have trouble with someone that you can’t handle alone, call me in 7 B no matter what time at night and I’ll be down in a minute. If I’m not in, here’s another tenant’s name to ring. One or the other of us will always be home, and if we’re not, you’ll be given the name of a third.”

Except for the bad hours and little periods of boredom, it’s a very easy job. I sit in a comfortable lobby chair facing the vestibule door and read or listen to a radio that man in 7 B loaned me. When I have to go to the bathroom I put a sign he gave me on the lobby door that says “Be back in 30 seconds. Premises also patrolled by attack dogs,” which isn’t true. For lunch the tenants’ association left me a thermos each of coffee and milk and two very thick meat sandwiches on good bread and an apple.

The people who enter the vestibule are mostly tenants with lobby door keys who stop to introduce themselves and ask my name and say how glad they are to see I’m not asleep like the last two guards usually were. One tenant says if I don’t like my sandwiches or prefer tea to coffee the association’s food committee will change them. For the few visitors who come I open the lobby door, ask who they want, ring the tenant on the intercom in the vestibule and the tenant gives the okay. The one time the tenant wasn’t in, the visitor said “Thank you” to me and went away.

A week later around 2 A.M. a man comes into the vestibule and is about to ring one of the intercom bells when I yell “Hold it” and get up, club sticking out of my side jacket pocket, open the door and ask who he wants.

“It’s okay, I can ring it myself.”

“I’m sorry, this is strict building policy. Tell me who you want and I’ll ring the apartment for you.”

“Fabor. Tell her Arkin’s here.”

I ring Fabor in 14K. A woman answers and I say “There’s a Mr. Arkin downstairs, ma’am.”

“I don’t want to see him,” she says. “Don’t let him up. He’s crazy. He’s worse. He knows he’s not supposed to come here. And please don’t call me again that he wants to come up, which he will, because I won’t answer again tonight. Thanks, Thomas.”

“The lady says she doesn’t want to let you in,” I say.

“She wants to, don’t tell me. Now let me past.”

“Excuse me, but she says no. She told me specifically.”

“Call her back and let me speak to her.”

“She also said not to call back and that if I do she won’t answer. You want to talk to her, do it from an outside phone.”

“The nearest pay phone’s three blocks from here. I’m speaking from yours.”

He reaches for the intercom. I say “Please, don’t make trouble. She said no and means no, so I think you better go.”

He rings her bell. “Now I said not to.”

Rings it several times. “Marilyn,” he says into the speaker. “It’s me, Arkin, let me up.”

“Please, you’re making me look stupid with her. She’ll complain to the association that runs things here that I’m not doing my job. I can get fired because of her. Every tenant’s my boss.”

“That’s your problem.” He rings her bell and I push his hand away from the intercom.

“Don’t touch me,” he says. “That’s a warning.”

“Then don’t ring her bell again. That’s my job.”

“The hell with your job.” He rings her bell, keeps ringing it as he says into the speaker “Marilyn? Marilyn, dammit, will you ring me in? You’re there. You can hear me. I have to speak to you, okay? Marilyn!”

I take his arm and try to walk him away from the intercom to the street. He throws my hand off and swings at me twice. I sidestep the first but can’t the second and he clips me on the chin. I fall against the wall, legs wobbly, think I’m about to drop when I see him coming at me with a real vicious face and his fists raised. I get straight on my feet again, feel for my club, see it on the floor, kick it across the room, run to it and pick it up and hold it above my head and say “Don’t make me use it, will you?” He charges over and swings at me just as I swing the club at his arm, but his fist gets in the way and I hit it instead. He shouts in pain, grabs his fist, clenches his teeth, says “Christ…damn!” edges back to the wall he had me flat against before and puts his hit fist over one eye and open hand over the other and starts crying. Then big heavy awful coughy sobs from the throat and tears now also coming out from behind his fist and hand and dropping to the floor.

I ring 7B and tell Mr. Samuels to come right down. “I think I have…just hurry.” Arkin now has his back to me, holding his fist, crying a normal cry again and mumbling things I can’t understand.

Mr. Samuels gets out of the elevator. “What happened to your face?” Then he sees Arkin and says “Oh, that guy. Mrs. whateverher-name on the fourteenth used to come in with him when I was on lobby duty, but I haven’t seen him for months. He attack you?”

“I’ll tell you later.” I put my hand on Arkin’s shoulder. “Hey look, I’m really sorry. I did everything I could not to, but you forced me. I hope it’s not broke, though anything I can do now?” He just cries. “Then I think you better go. Right?” I say to Mr. Samuels. He nods. I take Arkin’s arm. “Maybe you want me to phone a taxi for you.”

“We have no phone here,” Mr. Samuels says.

“Your apartment.”

“Just let him go. It looks bad and one of us goes upstairs to call, the other will be left with him alone.

“Then no phone, Arkin. You better just go yourself or maybe you want me to walk you to the street for a cab.”

“I’ll be okay,” Arkin says. “Excuse me. I was really stupid. And this hand. I can’t believe it,” and he wipes his face and leaves.

“I really do feel lousy about clubbing him,” I tell Mr. Samuels. “But it seemed like he wanted to kill me at the time.”

“If you thought he did, then I guess nothing else you could have done, though lucky it wasn’t his head. Since it’s the tenants who employ you, I’m sure we could also be sued. Wait here a minute.” He goes upstairs, returns with some ice for my chin and a can of beer for me, then goes back upstairs. I stay the rest of my shift. One of the tenants relieves me at eight o’clock and I go home, try and sleep, can’t, and call Mr. Gibner.

“Listen, I don’t know about this security work anymore. When I club someone I feel bad about it, and when I can’t club them when everyone thinks I should, you feel bad about it. I just don’t know what to do.”