By Charles M. Sumid      Copyright 2025      Written 2019

Seven PM.

The car service knows to wait at the corner, not the building entrance.

He changes in the back: gold braid uniform folded into the Hermès bag,
tailored Brioni emerging.

The driver says nothing about the daily transformation,
just adjusts the mirror as Jonathan becomes Mr. Dubois.

His own building’s doorman straightens, smiles genuinely.
“Evening, Mr. Dubois.”

“How’s your daughter, Marcus?”

“Georgetown accepted her.”

“Tell her I said congratulations.”

The private elevator reads his thumbprint,
whisks him past floors of neighbors
who know him only as the quiet man
who remembers birthdays, funds the building’s Christmas bonuses.

In the penthouse, city lights spread like a hand of cards.

He pours Macallan, reviews the quarterly reports from his property group.

Tomorrow’s board meeting: three buildings considering staff wage increases.

He marks “approved” beside each one,
including the place where tomorrow morning
he’ll polish brass, hold doors, accept tips from people
who live in buildings he owns.

His assistant texts: “Dinner at Nobu? The ambassador called.”

He declines.

Tonight is for the numbers.

At his desk, the same Rolex now catches lamplight, no cuff to hide it.

But he prefers the weight of it hidden,
the secret pressure against his wrist while he says “Right away, sir.”

The hiding has its own pleasures.

The city hums below.

Somewhere down there, Mrs. Albright from 4F
tells her daughter about that nice doorman, how helpful, how kind.

They still call him Jonathan.

Still hand him grocery tips, never knowing
he reviewed their rent increase before dawn,
before the uniform,
before the performance of being exactly what they expect to see.

Tomorrow he’ll hold their door again.

In three years, maybe five, he’ll retire to Aruba.

Or maybe not.

The buildings need fixing. The work continues.

And there’s something about the morning commute,
the weight of brass under his hands,
the thank-yous from people who don’t know
they’re thanking the landlord—

something he hasn’t named yet,
and doesn’t need to.