If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I came to live out loud.
--Emile Zola
Vinny Trentacosta died the other day. He was a doorman in my building but if you're reading this and you never met Vinny, I'm pretty sure the image that just popped up in your imagination would be way off.
Vinny broke the mold. Many NYC doormen, at least the stereotypical ones, work hard to blend into the scenery. They stand perfectly straight, speak in a low voice and say very little. They move with a unique efficiency. If they're reaching to open a door, for example, the hand moves quickly away from the hip making a direct line to the door handle and having completed the task, that hand will seem to have miraculously returned to its usual spot with little fanfare. In some of the most elegant and exclusive midtown addresses, doormen can be rather intimidating to visitors. Whenever I enter one of those buildings I immediately feel guilty. as though I'm trespassing and my own speech becomes stiff and monotone.
Luckily, my building is not like that. In my building the doormen don't try to pretend they're not people with unique personalities, perspectives and talents. Even so, for the standards of our building, Vinny Trentacosta was considered "big." Big in stature but more importantly, big in personality.
In fact his personality was so big that several years ago some newer tenants in the building complained and even tried to get him fired. But those of us who loved Vinny expressed our deep feelings about the issue and in the end the board arrived at a compromise. He was moved to the overnight shift.
The thing that made Vinny one of those you-either-love-him-or-hate-him kinda guys was what I loved about him. In the words of Emile Zola, he lived out loud.
Every time I entered the building or stepped off the elevator into the lobby during one of his shifts I could count on hearing my name bouncing off the walls as he called to me even before making eye contact:
"Mister Tec!' -- three bold syllables sung loud and clear and with equal emphasis as though I was the next horse to arrive to take my place before the start of a race at the Kentucky Derby.
The first time he did this I admit I shrunk a little letting my shyness control my reaction but it didn't take long for me to recognize the genuine affection he felt for me and, as far as I could surmise, many of the other tenants in my building. Many times I watched in wonder as he seemed to know just how to coax laughter out of every single child.
Working the overnight shift meant that he sometimes saw me all decked out on my way to some fancy event or somewhat shitfaced as I stumbled home before sunrise after a night of partying in the big apple. If I was leaving the building and looked particularly "dressed" (as my friend Mary Hood would say), he'd say something like "Looking dangerous, Mister Tec. You are so dangerous!" And then just as I crossed the threshold and felt the cool night air hit my face he'd add "Be safe out there!"
And a couple times during CoVid when I'd just buzzed my own head he'd add "Dangerous haircut, Mister Tec!" It's funny because as I type this I think it's odd that he never called me Roland cause I certainly always felt an intimacy was shared. And if I came home really late at night, say after 2AM and I happened to catch him asleep behind the desk, I was grateful to spot that upon waking, in his eyes as he snapped into consciousness, an easy and simple smile. His smile made me feel like a welcome interruption. And who on this earth wouldn't want that to be the look on another human being's face.
I hope I was always a welcome interruption for Vinny. For me, his death is a most unwelcome disruption. I have no doubt that in this building at this very moment, dozens and dozens of my neighbors are mourning this loss. The recent abundance of red and watery eyes I'm seeing in the lobby, by the mailboxes, in the package room or getting off the elevator tell the truth of who this man was to all of us.
Vinny, may you rest in peace. Or if that's not your preference, may you dance with the angels.
