The Night Shift
How Nightly Dog Walks Introduced Me to the Devil.
I read, some days past, what it means to be callous. I am concerned to have noticed this characteristic in the doormen to my apartment building, and specifically the man who performs the night shift.
If I knew his name, this is the point at which I would provide it to my reader. But despite my best effort, I have never managed to receive even the least gesture out of this lonesome figure. That a person deprived of social interaction might also remain indifferent to an opportune greeting extended by a young boy disturbed me. To investigate his behavior is the purpose of this entry.
The layout of my lobby places the elevator sixty feet from the curbside. The reception desk is located between them. Therefore, to walk my dog requires that I pass this man a minimum of two times.
Heading out the door is always the most comfortable. To begin with, my back is toward him. This gives us an excuse not to acknowledge one another. A tug on the leash lets me know that Summer is desperate to relieve herself, which makes this bit of the process go by all the more quickly. And when the air is frigid, I can pull my hood up to break rapport if necessary.
I have never felt bad about any of this. He and I each have a job to do. If we must ignore one another for the time being, then that is acceptable.
Outside, there are fifteen seconds when I am anchored to a single square of concrete while she squats over the metal subway grating. During moments like these, it is best to keep one’s head up: God forbid the share of embarrassment that might pass between man and creature should they happen to catch eyes. This courtesy leads me to look back through the window, and at the man behind the desk. With the steady stream gone silent, my official work is done. But it is what happens next, and has happened, every night, for several years now, that constitutes my real torment.
The walkup between the entrance and the elevator is, for me, a battle of conscience. I know that I must say something. I must wish this man well! — even though I know from experience that I will receive nothing from him. At the critical moment, just before reception, I muster the courage to eke out a “Have a good night!”
Silence.
In the elevator, my fear turns to pity, and I know that I am safe — that I am saved. But lying in bed upstairs, I am reminded that down there sits an impenetrable shade — a riddle. As far as I know he only exists at night, for in the morning he is gone.
In 1320 Dante described Satan as callous, letting off no more than the occasional gust of wind and snow.
