Part One: In Which We Meet Our Stationary Hero

By Adam Quesnell
Contributing Writer

She walked up smelling like fear…guilt…and rodeo cheeseburgers. She was all woman…an onion ringy, barebecueie, my kind of womany woman. Clearly, she was seeking solace in the arms of the king, but now she’s come to the duke…or some other leader with the same sort of stature as a king. Not that a king and a duke are on the same level. Look, I understand what a duke is and I’ll box the ears off of any fast talking Johnny big mouth that says otherwise. What I’m saying is….I was the alternative for her after the king. Now that I think of it, I can’t really think of any other fast food royalty. To be fair to me, I’m not trying very hard.

“I need help,” she said, and boy did she ever. Breathless, staggering. She was trying to carry several large packages in through the front door. Once my eyes caught up to my snoot, and I realized that this was in fact Mrs. Johnson from #17, I opened the door and let her in. She brushed past me in a hurry…I could see the regret on her face…her husband owns several Arby’s stores. Sister, I think, your secret’s safe with me. Because I’m Millip. The world’s most observant doorman, and I don’t squeal.

I know what you’re thinking, “What kind of name is Millip?” Well, it is the kind of name, that when placed at the end of that question (depending on your tone), may get your ears boxed. However, if you must know, when my parents named me, they said “Phillip” but the duke in charge of creating my birth certificate (I told you I knew what a duke was) input the information, there was a typo…instead of “PH” he typed an “F” and then he corrected that typo with another typo when he instead started my name with a “Z,” he repeated this process several times before settling on the “M”.

Shortly after Mrs. Johnson entered the building a taxi pulled up to the curb. Out stepped a nervous, mole-ish (mole-like? Writing is hard) man who I immediately recognized as Seymour Lemongrass; the reclusive children’s author who kept an apartment in our building. Is that how I’m supposed to use a semi colon? My word processor is giving me the green underline, which suggests I should revise my semi-colon usage. I think I can take a little artistic license.  My older brother is a writer and he always tells me, “Millip, can you get the door for me?” because he lives in the building where I work. He also tells me, “You need to understand the rules of writing before you can break them. Picasso understood the natural human form before he confounded it.” I typically say, “Picasso wasn’t a writer!” Besides, I can fix it in post.

As Mr. Lemongrass approached the vintage glass frontage of my early 1920’s constructed place of employment I could see that the bottoms of his pants were caked with mud and his fingernails were gritty. I asked him, “Long day of working in the community garden uptown Mr. Lemonsnacks? (our agreed upon pseudonym).”

“Yes, yes, Millip, and I told you. Call me Roger.” He winked at me and placed a crisp twenty in my front shirt pocked while I opened the door for him. I was worried for a moment that he might be coming on to me. Not that I wouldn’t embrace myself if I was into that sort of thing. But Millip McMcMcReynolds (there was an even more convoluted typo with the last name on my birth certificate) is in it only for the lady dames.

It is difficult being the world’s most observant doorman. However, it makes sense that the art of observation would be essential to my trade.  I need to be able to make split hour judgments concerning every person who gets within “entering range” of the door. So many doormen will just reach for the handle or “Doorman’s Spike” as it is called in the business (or the “bidness” as the business is called on the street) willy-nilly whenever anyone gets within spitting distance. Not me. Not Millip. I can sense one of my tenants with my eyes closed (which is probably more often than one would think as I have trained myself to sleep standing up like a horse until someone gets close enough to set off my preternatural “Doorman’s Mojo”, in which I spring to action, assess, act, open a door…etc…).

I was pulled out of one of these very same horse sleeps as Wieland Scott and his graceful wife, Wyfe, approached on foot, clearly from one of the many opera houses or show palaces down the street, as they were both adorned in what many would consider anyone’s finest. “Hello, Millip!” Wieland called as he raised his hand for a rousing two-man clap of camaraderie. “How goes the good fight tonight, Mr. McMcMcReynolds?”

“Quiet, but busty,” I said as a gazed into Wyfe Scott’s perfect cleavage as it rose and fell with her breathing, “I mean, breasty…BUSY!”

“Oh Millip,” Wyfe laughed, sliding a fin into my pants pocket, “You’re such a card!”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Scott guffawed as he placed another bill in my other my pants pocket, “It is breasty out tonight indeed. Love?” That last word was directed to his wife. She took his arm. I opened the door and they walked in. There was something beautiful about that moment…something beautiful about their love. A love that can survive even the headstrong advances of a man as powerful as I, the world’s most observant doorman. Some might find my job boring, but I know that I’m one of the many silent heroes in this city. Observing. Observing something else. Waiting to strike where my services are required. Observing some more…possibly one of the things I already observed, depending on that thing’s ground speed, or lack thereof.

Near the tail end of my shift, a man came running out of the alley next to our building. He turned the corner and locked eyes with me. His clothes were covered in blood. I could tell that he saw me as his only hope. Then, headlights and a black van…the door opened and hooded figures snatched up the bloody man. The door slid shut and the van peeled off into the night. I wondered what that could be about…who was that bloody man, and who were those people driving that van. I should have written down the license plate number. Oh, Millip…you card. You’ll get them next time…I thought to myself about the next time I might see someone abducted in front of my building. What would they be wearing? What color would that van be?

OH! I guess the Colonel from KFC is kind of like fast food royalty. Colonels are like the dukes of the south, except they use swords instead of filing paperwork in city hall!

[Editor’s Note: Adam Quesnell is a stand-up comedian and writer working out of Moorhead, MN. Send feedback to .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address), follow him on twitter at twitter.com/adamquesnell or visit ]http://www.adamquesnell.com]

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