Insecurity Clearance

By Francesca

I just moved into a new apartment. The new place is nicer than my old one in several ways, but the number one difference is my new building has a doorman. Even though my doorman is a normal security guard and not one of those white-gloved Plaza types, having a doorman makes me feel very fancy and grown-up.

More accurately, it makes me feel like I should be fancy and grown-up.

Don’t hold your breath.

My first week here, the doorman gave me a sheet of paper with a big, blank grid on it—this was my security list. He explained that I needed to list every person who had permission to use the doorman’s key to enter my apartment without me, and then return the form to him to keep in the Security Clearance binder.

This was the serious business of serious people. I took the paper with appropriate gravitas and told him I’d have it back to him as soon as possible.

Composing my list started out easily enough. The first person I listed was my mother. In the column designated “Dates/Times Permitted,” I wrote: “always.”

Just don’t tell her, okay?

Then I decided to put down my father next, because that seemed fair. I imagine being a mother to twins is very similar to being a child of divorce—we both know that every gift, perk, and opportunity must be perfectly duplicated or there’s bound to be hair-pulling.

I tapped my pen, struggling to think of anyone else to include. Maybe it was dumb that my only key users lived out of state. A responsible adult would have an “in case of emergency” contact nearby. But what emergency would necessitate someone getting into my apartment without me? The super already had a key in case there was a building issue, like a leak or fire. I guess it’s possible that some misfortune might befall me, and I’d wind up in the emergency room. I’d need someone to bring me a bra.

You know my family history.

So I added my close guy friend who lives down the block as my “in case of emergency” person.

I didn’t tell him he’s on bra duty.

That seemed to cover it. I felt good about my list.

Until I handed it to my doorman the next day.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“Well, yeah,” I said, suddenly self-conscious. Maybe it was babyish for me to list my parents …

“This can’t be it. What about your cleaning lady? Dog walker?”

“I’m the cleaning lady and dog walker.”

He laughed like I had made a joke.

He would have laughed even harder if he saw what a crummy job said cleaning lady was doing in my bedroom. He wouldn’t give her a key either.

“What about a significant other? You want to put a boyfriend on here?”

“No boyfriend.” My mouth was getting dry.

Sheesh, this guy was worse than my relatives. And while my mother wanted me to have a doorman to keep out criminals, I wanted one to keep out crazy ex-boyfriends.

Trust me, within every boyfriend is a crazy ex waiting to be born.

The one and only time I gave a boyfriend a key to my place ended in complete disaster. After we broke up, he’d let himself in to leave me apology notes and hate mail in equal measure. His parting gift was a shoebox with a note that read, “Please take your belongings so I never have to see you again.” The box contained some loose bobby pins, a hair elastic, and a plastic earring without its mate.

Thank goodness we were able to settle out of court.

Still, I didn’t want my doorman to think I can’t get a date, so I fibbed and added, “No boyfriend that I’m ready to give a key to.”

He winked. “Smart girl.”

I nodded like the worldly-wise woman that I am not.

Instead, I’m the woman who makes misleading statements in order to validate her social life to a doorman.

I was still wondering if my phony face of maturity looked too constipated when he snorted. “This is the shortest list we have!”

He must have seen the sheepish look on my face because he followed it up with, “But this is good, tight, secure—like it should be. This is my kind of list.”

That’s right, my list is secure.

Unlike me.