The Eyes of Park Avenue

Most days I stroll down Park Ave to or from work. I always wonder what the doormen of New York City know.

My guess is everything.

They're the silent, omniscient, ubiquitous audience to the upper Echelon and commoner alike. They catch me singing to myself at least once a week as I round a corner or talking to myself as I look up from my life into their all-seeing eyes.

The other morning, when the city started to turn cold, I had to improvise with a ski jacket over my suit pants. I'm guessing I looked quite like a social transformer with one half city, one half country. I could feel the doormen looking at me as if to discern which half I belonged to. These stealth observers were confused by how I fit into this new city.

Well, so am I.




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