MR. BUNCHLEY sat at a small table at the back of a long, narrow tavern. The Doorman’s Repose was where building attendants of all kinds liked to take their ease after hours. It was the end of a hot summer day. A glass of Chardonnay and a plate of English crackers stood in front of Mr. Bunchley. Trying without success to bend his concentration to the book— about the care of zinnias—that lay open on the table next to the crackers, Mr. Bunchley was distracted by the loud discussion going on at the bar.
“I tell you,” said a man in a gray uniform with pale yellow stripes, “this is a city of a hundred, no, a thousand, no, make it ten thousand separate and completely disconnected circles of people. They’re like tops all spinning. But nobody ever touches nobody else. Everybody lives in their own tiny world with other people just like themselves.”
“You said it,” said the man’s neighbor, whose uniform was blue and featured gold epaulettes.
“Nobody knows nobody else. Everybody in their own little world. You’re here. I’m there. He’s over there. We may live in the same building, but it’s like we’re on different planets!”
“You said it!” And the fringes on the gold epaulettes bounced a little up and down.
Not wanting to stay silent anymore, Mr. Bunchley closed his book and tucked it under his arm. Lifting his glass, plate, and himself from his spot at the table, he moved to the bar.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Bunchley, “you didn’t say it.”
“What do you mean, I didn’t say it?” said the one in gray.
“At least, what you said had no basis in fact,” said Mr. Bunchley. He arranged himself on a stool.
“What do you mean?” said the one in blue.
“Yeah, what do you mean?” said the one in gray.
“I mean simply this. This city is more interconnected than the loops of yarn in your grandmother’s sweater. Pull on one thread, undo one loop, and the whole thing unravels. Each loop loops around the one above, is held by the loops to left and right, and is itself looped around by the one below. The only things fixed are the knots at the first and the last. So it is with our city. I can think of a hundred instances. The story of Mrs. Sleeplater’s glasses comes to mind. It was like this—”
“Here!” said the one in gray. “If you’re going to tell one of your stories, I need a pint.” He motioned to the barman.
“What I mean,” said Mr. Bunchley, pausing for a moment to have a sip of his wine, “is that we are all of us, as a people, interconnected.”
“No, we aren’t.”
“Here’s what I mean,” continued Mr. Bunchley. “You, Mr. Macadam,” he said, addressing the one in gray, “and you, Mr. Wissel,” addressing the one in blue, “and I, as doormen, are notably connected to all walks of life, high and low, weak and strong, rich and poor, young and old. From the Wall Street banker, to the garbage collector. From the lady in the penthouse, to the hobo on the corner bench. We doormen are not unlike the hub of a great wheel. The connecting spokes run from us out to the rim in all directions.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Mr. Macadam, “but that still don’t mean nothing. We’re the hub, like you said, the axle.”
“Yes, Mr. Macadam, but I prefer hub,” said Mr. Bunchley. He put down his glass.
“Hub, then,” said Mr. Macadam. “Let me finish. Sure, we’re at the center. Sure, we know everything and everybody.”
“And keep the whole thing turning,” said Mr. Wissel, smiling at his cleverness. “Couldn’t turn without us.”
“Right,” said Mr. Macadam, “but that still don’t mean everybody else ain’t disconnected. Disconnected. Dis is what I’m saying.”
“Ah, but don’t you see?” said Mr. Bunchley. “The wheel only turns because the rim is itself connected.” Mr. Bunchley bit vigorously into a cracker.
He chewed for a bit and then said, “I propose a wager. A bet. If I can show you that twelve city residents, from twelve separate circles, as you call them, have made a connection with each other, one after the other, in twelve hours, will you buy me a cup of tea?”
“And if you don’t?” said Mr. Macadam.
“I’ll buy you both one of those brown beverages you’re consuming so heartily.”
“Done,” said Mr. Macadam. “But how are you going to do it?”
“Well, first let’s agree on what having a connection means. I propose a definition. A connection is made when at least one party would feel the lack of the other.”
“Huh?” said Mr. Macadam.
“I mean, two or more individuals are connected when they have an effect on each other. It’s simple. Look. You and I and Mr. Wissel are connected.”
“Sure, but we know each other.”
“Yes, of course. And if we didn’t know each other, our lives would be different. Am I right?”
“Why, I guess that’s so,” said Mr. Wissel.
“I would miss you if you left,” said Mr. Bunchley. “My life would be different if I hadn’t met you. If not for our connection, Mr. Macadam, I would never know when the Super Bowl takes place and as a result would wonder where everyone was. Why the lobby was so deserted.”
Mr. Macadam frowned but nodded.
“And if I wasn’t connected to you, Mr. Wissel, I would never have learned of the hatter on Fifth Avenue, who has ever since I entered his establishment served me so well. Without our connection, my hats would be demonstrably shabbier. You see? And I am always most grateful for this, by the way. Thank you, again, Mr. Wissel.”
“You are most welcome,” said Mr. Wissel.
“The definition, for our purposes then, is that a connection exists when its absence would be felt. All right?”
“All right,” said Mr. Macadam.
“Fine. Agreed. Let me begin.”
“Hold it,” said Mr. Macadam. He took a long draft of his beer, replaced the glass on the coaster, then wiped his mouth with a white handkerchief. “Connections, effects, feelings, fine. Whatever. But how do we know? Who’s going to referee this? Who’s going to establish the facts? The real jam, the honest to Pete of the situation. How will we know you aren’t making it all up?”
“I suggest that Mr. Wissel be the referee. He has been a doorman for twenty-two years. He knows a great deal. I just mentioned his knowledge of hatters. I leave it to Mr. Wissel to judge my story. Fair enough?”
Mr. Wissel sat a little straighter and raised his bushy eyebrows at Mr. Macadam.
“Fair enough, then,” said Mr. Macadam, “if it’ll make you happy. But I’ll be listening closely for any baloney.”
“There will be no baloney. There will be twelve people, twelve connections, in twelve hours,” said Mr. Bunchley.
Mr. Bunchley adjusted his plumpish thighs on the barstool. “I believe it was Mr. E. M. Forster who said, ‘Only connect.’ Was it not? And as Mr. Forster would be the first person, I think, to agree that a connection can only be shown through a properly told story—I stress properly told—some of the details of what I have to say, the dialogue and so forth, might be, let’s say, made up by myself. But only, I stress, in service to the truth of the story. Mr. Wissel, you are a well-read man. You have read your Dickens. You have read your New York Times Sunday edition. You know what is true and what is not. Again, I turn to you to referee.”
Mr. Macadam crossed his arms and gave Mr. Wissel a sour look, but said nothing.
•
We will begin the contest at a quarter to nine in the morning (said Mr. Bunchley) for at precisely that time yesterday, Mrs. J. G. Sleeplater concludes that she has lost her glasses and that she will never find them again.
The evening before, in fact, she was sketching out this hypothesis on a provisional basis. She said to me, “Mr. Bunchley, have you perchance seen my glasses? I can’t find them anywhere. I am beginning to think that they are gone for good.”
I responded in the negative—naturally, by the way, any connections between me and the subjects of this story do not count in our tally.
(“Naturally,” said Mr. Macadam.)
Back to yesterday morning. “My glasses, they’re gone!” Mrs. J. G. Sleeplater wails. It is now roughly ten minutes to nine. At this point she is wailing so loudly that she attracts the attention of Alehandro, the man standing on the scaffold eighteen floors up and just outside Mrs. J. G. Sleeplater’s window.
Alehandro is a good-hearted young man from Costa Rica— he once commented on the beauty of my carnations. Espléndido, was, I think, his exact remark. Now, even though he is standing on a platform wobbling hundreds of feet in the air, a situation that in most people would focus the attention strictly on personal survival, Alehandro, seeing another person in difficulties, wants to help.
“Señora, señora,” he says.
“Who’s that?” says Mrs. J. G. Sleeplater, and she goes to the window.
“It is I, Alehandro, repairing your crumbling masonry.”
“Never mind my masonry,” she says, and she slides open the window a little. “How can I help you? Do you need to use the loo? Like a glass of water? Run out of sunscreen?”
“It is I who can help you, señora!” says Alehandro. “Your glasses, they are here behind the green vase on the dresser. I can see them because they are in between the green vase and the window. I can see them from out here. You can’t see them from in there. You see, señora?”
Mrs. J. G. Sleeplater goes to the dresser, shifts the green vase, and shouts, “Eureka! My glasses!”
She places them on her nose and, peering through them, looks closely at the young man who has helped her.
“What did you say your name was?” she says.
“Alehandro, señora,” he says.
“Thank you, Alehandro. These glasses are essential. I’ll need them tonight when I give my weekly knitting lesson to Victoria.”
“Muy bien, señora,” says Alehandro.
(“That’s one connection between two separate circles. Are we agreed, Mr. Wissel?”
“Perfectly agreed, Mr. Bunchley.”)
A short time later, Alehandro unhooks his safety harness from the scaffolding railing and climbs over the parapet, having raised the platform to the roof. He takes the long slow ride down in Elevator Number Two. He’s on his way to get his morning cup of coffee at the corner deli. He always goes to the U Like Deli.
Yoshi, the granddaughter of the owner, makes the café con leche the way Alehandro likes it and already has one ready for him when he gets there.
“Cómo estás?” she says.
“I’ll tell you a thing,” he says. “If I ever build a house, it will be one story high. Not two. Not three. Just one. And even that story will be short.”
“Poor Alehandro,” says Yoshi, and she hands him his drink. “Take a break. Drink coffee. Feel better. And now you’ll have to excuse me because I have to take a delivery to Mr. Sherman.”
(“That’s two,” said Mr. Wissel.
“What time are we at?” said Mr. Macadam.
“Approximately a quarter after eleven,” said Mr. Bunchley.
“That means you got nine and a half hours to do ten more,” said Mr. Macadam with a confident smile.
“Okay,” said Mr. Bunchley.)
Yoshi walks the few steps to 777 Garden Avenue carrying a yellow plastic bag printed with the U Like Deli logo, a large U and a smaller LIKE in bold blue letters. The bag contains three tins of Spam, one can of condensed milk, one big box of Lipton tea, and a banana.
(“I’ll tell you how I know what was in the bag,” said Mr. Bunchley. “Yoshi always tells me when Mr. Sherman has asked for anything unusual. Two extra tins of Spam. Frankly, that’s not good. It indicates to me, his doorman, that he, Mr. Sherman, is once again convinced that there will be some kind of end-of-the-world event soon. Anyway, I mustn’t wander from my story.”)
Mr. Sherman opens his door to Yoshi and says, “Ah, the Spam. Good to have Spam. Put it anywhere.”
Yoshi puts the bag on Mr. Sherman’s kitchen counter and says, “Is there anything special for tomorrow?”
“I think I’ll up the Spam order. Make it four tins of Spam. I don’t like what’s happening in Australia. Bad signs in Sydney. Malfeasance in Melbourne. Perils in Perth. The island continent could go up any minute in a great big blue ball of fire and ashes. But when it does, I’ll be ready. I’ve got enough Spam to last me a year.”
“That’s good, Mr. Sherman.”
“All right, Yoshi. Same time tomorrow.”
Yoshi departs. She glances at the kitchen clock. It’s ten minutes before noon.
(“Three. Agreed?” said Mr. Bunchley.
“Agreed,” said Mr. Wissel.)
One hour later, the alarm goes off in the kitchen and Mr. Sherman sits up like a snapping turtle.
“Wha? Are we under attack?” He looks around a bit and then remembers he’s set the alarm to remind him of the laundry in the basement. “Ah. The laundry’s done. The sheets must be dry.”
Mr. Sherman takes the elevator to the basement.
There he meets Agnes, who hands Mr. Sherman his blue laundry basket, filled with neatly folded, polka-dotted sheets.
Agnes works for a number of our residents. She was raised in Jamaica. “I can’t abide this cold weather, Mr. Bunchley,” she often says to me, even in the spring or fall. “But with the Lord’s help, I will.” That’s Agnes.
“I needed the dryer for Miss Nancy,” says Agnes, “so I folded your sheets, Mr. Sherman, which were done and all, so I did take them out for the reason to put Miss Nancy’s wash in. But I folded yours there.”
“Your name is Agnes, and you work for Nancy. Is that right?”
“That’s right, Mr. Sherman.”
(“You’re telling me folding someone’s clothes for them is a connection?” said Mr. Macadam.
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” said Mr. Bunchley.
“How do we know she didn’t stick a wad a’ gum in them?” “Even had she done so, it’s still a connection.” Mr. Bunchley looked at Mr. Wissel.
“Four,” said Mr. Wissel, making a note on the back of a napkin.)
The time is now one fifteen.
Agnes and Mr. Sherman ride the elevator up together, Mr. Sherman getting off at the eighth floor, and Agnes getting off at the eleventh floor.
“Miss Nancy, your sheets and towels will be done in an hour and in the meantime I will be busying myself seeing to the kitchen,” she says to Miss Nancy.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” says Miss Nancy.
Nancy Clover is a tall woman with large eyes and a face like a sheepdog. This is odd, because she is devoted to her cat. She is a publicist for several aging actors.
“Mr. Sherman was looking pleased as punch. I saw him just now,” says Agnes.
“He must be thinking about the end of the world again. He does take a great deal of comfort in that idea,” says Miss Nancy.
“But the world is keeping on going. Sure enough it is,” says Agnes.
“Yes. That is worrisome for him. Still, let’s look on the bright side. The world will end one day. Boy, I sure would like to get that job. Publicizing the end of the world. That could be huge!”
“Lordy, Miss Nancy!”
“Come on, Carole Lombard, time for walkies,” says Miss Nancy to her cat.
Miss Nancy, apart from being a tall woman with the face and saliva of a Saint Bernard, or did I mean sheepdog, either way, doesn’t matter, is the only member of my building who walks her cat, Carole Lombard. Whether Carole Lombard likes to be walked on a leash is not known for sure, maybe not even by Carole Lombard. Sometimes she runs ahead, pulling Miss Nancy; sometimes she hangs behind, being dragged by Miss Nancy. Either way, there seems to be a lot of tension in that leash, which brings me to my next point. Is this not a perfect, even a literal example of a connection across social circles? It’s even across mammalian circles, primate to carnivore, or human to cat.
(“What?” said Mr. Macadam. “You propose to use a house pet as one of your connections?”
“I do,” said Mr. Bunchley. “Mr. Wissel? Can I have a ruling?”
“Human to cat as an example of a connection across social circles, eh? Well, I believe I must accept it based on the International Standards of Companionship as established, if I remember correctly, in Uppsala, Sweden, in 1979,” said Mr. Wissel.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” said Mr. Macadam.
“Five for Agnes and Miss Nancy. Six for Miss Nancy and the cat,” said Mr. Wissel.)
At two twenty, forty yards down Seventy-seventh Street, Carole Lombard falls into conversation with a piebald pigeon. I can’t be sure of all the details, but from my vantage point the conversation looked quite a lot like this:
Carole Lombard starts: “Hey, you!”
“Who?” says the pigeon.
“You.”
“You mean, me?”
“You.”
“What about it?”
“You.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
(Mr. Bunchley raised his eyebrow at Mr. Wissel.
“Cat to pigeon?” said Mr. Wissel. “Well, I guess if I’m going to accept cats I’m going to have to accept pigeons. But it’s not like the cat and the pigeon as you describe them are close.”
“Exactly!” said Mr. Macadam, slapping the bar. “Carole Lombard and the pigeon is the opposite of a connection. That’s a disconnection! You’ve got to subtract one.”
Mr. Bunchley pursed his lips. “I take your point.”
“Ha!”
“But I don’t concede the point. By our definition, a connection exists where the lack thereof produces a noticeable result. What is the noticeable result if Carole Lombard and the pigeon are not connected? A moribund state in each. A listless cat. A pigeon who lacks sparkle.”
“Bthzthzthzthzthzthzthz!” said Mr. Macadam, producing a Bronx cheer.
“Look at us!” said Mr. Bunchley. “Take us as another example! We are at odds. But . . . we need each other. Without anyone pushing against us, we fall over. Have you, a lifelong New Yorker, ever been to Los Angeles? There is no one to lean on there. No one’s pushing. It’s all friendliness. You fall over.”
Mr. Macadam was silent.
“If I may use another example. The Hell Gate Bridge firmly and proudly upholds each train going to and coming from Boston because some beams push and some beams pull. It’s like this—”
“All right, all right,” said Mr. Macadam.
“Seven,” said Mr. Wissel.)
Shortly after his conversation with Carole Lombard, the pigeon flies to a windowsill on the seventh floor where he knows a few bread crumbs are waiting for him. The pigeon perches a bit. He fluffs his feathers as he thinks about the things he said to Carole and Carole said to him. He coos quietly in a distraught manner.
When Fred opens the window and passes out a few more crumbs, the pigeon just steps to one side and eyes Fred with his head cocked. Fred turns his grizzled face and long nose to the pigeon. The pigeon nods and blinks once very slowly.
(“You’re making this up!” said Mr. Macadam. “Besides, how do we know Fred fed exactly that pigeon?”
Mr. Bunchley looked at Mr. Wissel.
“Eight,” said Mr. Wissel.)
At this point, Fred takes a long nap.
When he wakes, he fixes himself some tea with biscuits. And the upshot is, I’m sorry to say, he doesn’t come out of his room on the seventh floor until seven forty-five in the evening.
(“Aha!” said Mr. Macadam. “You’ve got exactly one hour to make four more connections—and they’d better all be human!” Mr. Macadam beetled his eyebrows at Mr. Bunchley.
Mr. Bunchley calmly resumed his story.)
Fred puts on his best white shirt and buttons it to the top. He slips into his best khaki trousers and tucks the shirttails somewhat carelessly. Then, with only slippers on his feet, he rides Elevator Number Three to the third floor and walks down the hallway there to apartment 3I, where he presses the bell.
Delmore Bishop, our poet, opens the door. He smiles and, without saying a word, leads Fred to the small table in the apartment’s one room where a chessboard stands. Every Tuesday evening, and this was a Tuesday, it is their habit to play chess. Now, I don’t know to an absolute surety whether or not any words are spoken at all between Fred and Delmore Bishop, but I do know that Fred wins three games out of five.
(“Nine,” said Mr. Wissel.
“Playing chess is a connection I suppose,” said Mr. Macadam.
“Of course, it is,” said Mr. Bunchley. “Oh, I know, the Uppsala Convention.” Mr. Macadam scowled. “Wait a second. How long did they play chess?”
“Approximately two hours,” said Mr. Bunchley. “Then I win!” Mr. Macadam thumped the bar and took a swallow of beer. “Two hours puts the time at nine forty-five, at least. And you’re still missing three connections!”
“I do not quite concede defeat yet, Mr. Macadam, because at sixteen minutes after eight our super, Oskar, arrives at Mr. Bishop’s apartment to fix the squeak in the door. He says ‘Good evening,’ ‘Who’s winning?,’ and ‘Is that the famous La Paz opening I see?’ Also, he fixes the squeak.”
“Ten,” said Mr. Wissel.)
Eleven minutes later, at eight twenty-seven, Miss Victoria appears at Oskar’s office door to ask to borrow a number seven Allen wrench, which she needs to tune her accordion. Lucky for Victoria, Oskar had returned to his office two minutes earlier. Oskar opens the door, and Victoria asks for the wrench. Then Victoria offers Oskar a plate of chocolate chip cookies that she baked that afternoon. Victoria’s visit to Oskar takes eight minutes.
(“Eleven,” said Mr. Wissel.
“By my calculation, you’ve got ten minutes,” said Mr. Macadam.)
Miss Victoria steps into Elevator Number Two in the basement at eight thirty-seven exactly. If all goes smoothly the next stop will take her to Mrs. Sleeplater’s apartment on the eighteenth floor. Miss Victoria has a weekly knitting lesson there, which she squeezes in between her accordion lesson with Mr. Bellows, who comes to her apartment at seven thirty, and her bedtime at ten.
The travel time from the basement to floor eighteen is, if uninterrupted, one minute and fifty seconds, a time that would put Miss Victoria face-to-face with Mrs. Sleeplater at just before eight thirty-nine.
However, elevator trips with no stops are rare. The elevator stops at the lobby, where Mr. Pearl (the high-school principal), Mr. Fanshaw (the TV news producer), and Mrs. Zeebruggen get on.
No one speaks.
(“Aha!” said Mr. Macadam. “No one speaks. No connections!” Rubbing his hands together, he gave Mr. Wissel a threatening look.)
There was some smiling and nodding at one another, but— as you say, Mr. Macadam—there are no real connections.
The elevator door begins to close at eight thirty-eight and then rolls open again at eight thirty-eight and ten seconds when an umbrella is jammed into the narrowing sliver of space made by the closing door.
Mrs. MacDougal steps in.
The elevator begins to ascend. A silence weighs on the riders. The presence of Mrs. MacDougal squashes any chance of conversation as everyone in the building, in general, and in this elevator, in particular, is vaguely afraid of her. Mr. Fanshaw and Mr. Pearl look straight ahead. Mrs. Zeebruggen rummages in her bag noisily with one hand. Miss Victoria looks at the powdered underside of Mrs. MacDougal’s chin.
The elevator slows, clicks a bit, shudders, comes to a stop, and opens its door at floor five. Mr. Pearl wishes everyone good night and steps off.
Mrs. MacDougal jabs at the Door Close button, and after five seconds of delay, the elevator door closes.
They continue up. The small round window in the door, like a porthole, allows in a brief ray of light as they pass each floor.
At floor twelve, Mrs. Zeebruggen and Mr. Fanshaw depart without saying anything.
It is now eight forty-two.
Twenty seconds later, Mrs. MacDougal steps off at floor fifteen. But instead of proceeding down the hall, she turns to face Victoria.
Holding the door open with her left hand, Mrs. MacDougal says, “Is it you whom I hear playing the accordion?” and she booms out the “whom” like a horn.
Miss Victoria’s eyes grow bigger, but she doesn’t say anything.
“It is not a ladylike instrument and I recommend strongly, strongly, that you give up this unbecoming habit. In fact,” she lets go of the door, “I think I’ll bring it up at the next board meeting. I plan to make 777 Garden Avenue an accordion-free building. Good night!”
Victoria, gulping, presses Door Close as hard as she can (without punching).
The time is eight forty-three.
Elevator Number Two covers the last three floors in record time—fifteen seconds.
Mrs. Sleeplater opens the door to Victoria’s ring and welcomes her in as she leads the way to the living room.
She says, placing her glasses on her nose, “Have you got your little masterpiece?”
Victoria pulls a small half sock on four needles out of her knitting bag. She says, “The ankle’s all done.”
“Wonderful,” says Mrs. Sleeplater. “Tonight we will tackle the tricky German heel. After we first have some chamomile tea, that is.”
“Goody,” says Victoria.
And at that moment, the wall clock in Mrs. Sleeplater’s living room chimes brightly three times indicating the three-quarter hour.
•
Mr. Wissel checked the back of his napkin. Mr. Macadam sat breathing deeply. Mr. Bunchley placed a cracker into his mouth and chewed demurely.
Mr. Wissel said, “Are we not counting Victoria to Mrs. MacDougal because Victoria didn’t say anything?”
“That is correct,” said Mr. Bunchley.
“Okay, then,” Mr. Wissel continued. “Then that’s Mrs. J. G. Sleeplater of the eighteenth floor, to Alehandro of the swaying platform on the outside of the eighteenth floor, to Yoshi at the U Like Deli, to Mr. Sherman of apartment 8D, to Agnes from Jamaica, to Miss Nancy on floor eleven, to Carole Lombard
The Doorman’s Repose 169 the cat, to a pigeon, to Fred on the seventh floor, to Delmore Bishop the poet, to Oskar the super, to Miss Victoria the knitting student, back up to Mrs. J. G. Sleepwater on the eighteenth floor. That’s twelve all right. Twelve residents. Twelve connections. Twelve hours.”
Apart from some heavy sipping, there was silence at the bar of the Doorman’s Repose.
At last, Mr. Bunchley said, “I’ll have that cup of tea now, Mr. Macadam.”
