“They said I could leave it with the doorman,” I tell the three uniformed gentlemen at the Upper East Side building where I’m dropping off the delivery of one of Katie’s artworks.
“Take him to the delivery room,” the most senior looking one tells the youngest, who nods officiously and sets off, with me trailing behind.
From the lush and warmly lit lobby we wind our way through sparer and more utilitarian halls, each lit more clinically than the last, until we come to a fluorescent light and tile hallway that looks straight out of a sanatorium, where another young man in a tiny room filled with shelves takes my package and waves me even further toward the back.
I pass through a series of automatic doors that look like they belong in some Olde English Tavern, then I’m spit back out on the street far from the lobby, next to a collection of delivery guys on bikes, faces in the dark illuminated as they stare into their phones.
No comments:
Post a Comment