For the likes of me, I can’t get these new doormen straight. There are four that seem to blend, like madras bleeding in the wash.
It’s easy to recognize Felix because he only has one tooth, and Sampson, living up to his name, is 7 feet tall with arms like Popeye, but the rest have yet to leave an impression.
Don’t misunderstand, they are all kind and nice, jumping to attention whenever I appear, and my manners, such as they are, want to acknowledge them politely, but afraid to call them by name because I keep getting them wrong.
“No, I’m Amos.”
“Oh, so sorry Amos, I thought you were Levi.”
They take it well, but I exit feeling like an elitist shit leaving the scent of not caring.
I must consult Frank who might have a tip since he’s the Bert Parks of supers. Jovial, democratic, always ready with a handshake (unless your rugs were dumped on the street and he had to lug them in).
Maybe name tags might help, or a lobotomy, for me.
I’m from Connecticut, so I’ll make the first move.
“No, I’m Meeny.”
“So sorry Meeny, see, I really thought you were Moe.”