Special Delivery, Emphasis on Special
Not only did Osama Bin Laden kill a lot of people and ruin a lot of lives, but he also made it terribly inconvenient to gain access to any kind of tall, important building in New York City, making it very difficult for delivery boys, which is something I have embodied as of late.
In order to deliver a package or pick up a package, you need to come prepared with a photo I.D., a major credit card, a specific reason for being there, and a plan for getting out. You are subject to search, and you may have to go through a metal detector if it is a really important building. And if you carry something like a pocketknife, which I do, you are placed under high suspicion.
"What is this? A pocket knife? Why do you have this?"
"Well, gosh, I don't know, sometimes, I just want to cut things..."
Let me tell you something about sarcasm. Many people, a lot of people, like it. They use it. It amuses them. It can be an effective form of communication for them. But for people who don't communicate in sarcasm, those people who don't like it, boy, do they ever hate it when a person like me gives them a response like that one.
Those types of people might say that I have an "attitude."
I don't think I have an attitude. I think under most circumstances, I am a pretty reasonable human being. Let me tell you what happened today. I went to deliver a package. I went directly to the address written on the package. When I got to the address, I walked in and met a doorman. The doorman told me I had come in the wrong entrance, and I was to turn around, exit the way I came in, and walk around the side of the building to the delivery entrance on the adjacent street.
Most buildings in Manhattan, office buildings especially, have certain protocol to follow when a delivery is being made, especially when it is something in bulk quantity. A lot of times there is a separate entrance for delivery people around the back or even a whole office that deals with those types: deliveries, couriers, messengers, packages, and mail. This is just a theory, but it somehow seems strangely derivative of segregation, even though New York is not in the South. At any rate, it certainly makes me feel like a second-class citizen when I go into the main entrance of a building and am consequently told by the man to use the "separate but equal" entrance on the side. It's discrimination of some kind, and I don't like it.
So as I faced the doorman of the north entrance, I could see the front desk from the side. The lobby, in the case of this building, was T-shaped. If I had come in the main entrance, where the doorman was now instructing me to go, I would have faced the front desk head on. But since I came in the north entrance, I was at the side. He stopped me from going any further and asked if I worked in the building. I told him I did not, and that's when he made his plea for me to use the entrance on the adjacent street. But I complained, and I said, "but isn't that the front desk right there?"
He said, "are you hearing what I am saying?"
So, I turned and walked out. And then I came in the main entrance, showed my ID at the security desk, and made my way to the elevators, which was just at the doorman's back. I could have mischievously kicked his behind on my way upstairs, but I did not. I went along making my delivery and that was that.
On a separate occasion in a different building, I was delivering something and upon entering the lobby, I found it to be very crowded and confusing with people rushing to try to get to their respective elevators. As it turns out, though, all the people I was rushed around with were part of an elaborate system that I was not yet aware of. All these people had ID's to get into the building, it turns out, which I did not. When I approached the desk and informed them of my delivery status, the desk worker became impatient with me and merely shouted for me to go to "the center! the center!" So, naturally, I went for the middle turnstile. But this was wrong, and he kept yelling and pointing. What he meant actually was the "messenger center," just to the right of the turnstiles. I sometimes forget to explain to people that I'm from the Midwest, and I don't always understand the New York speak. The "messenger center" is a place where delivery personnel go to distribute their delivered goods. They are like customs agents for the building. If someone brings in a foreign object, for instance a turkey sandwich in a brown bag, they are the first to inspect it, make sure the turkey is fresh, make sure it's not actually a bomb, and then send it on upstairs to its rightful owner. For this exercise, I checked in with "the center" and had to be escorted upstairs, including having the elevator buttons pressed for me, so I could drop off a check, something nobody would turn away, even if it was a little explosive.
All this in the name of security.
In order to deliver a package or pick up a package, you need to come prepared with a photo I.D., a major credit card, a specific reason for being there, and a plan for getting out. You are subject to search, and you may have to go through a metal detector if it is a really important building. And if you carry something like a pocketknife, which I do, you are placed under high suspicion.
"What is this? A pocket knife? Why do you have this?"
"Well, gosh, I don't know, sometimes, I just want to cut things..."
Let me tell you something about sarcasm. Many people, a lot of people, like it. They use it. It amuses them. It can be an effective form of communication for them. But for people who don't communicate in sarcasm, those people who don't like it, boy, do they ever hate it when a person like me gives them a response like that one.
Those types of people might say that I have an "attitude."
I don't think I have an attitude. I think under most circumstances, I am a pretty reasonable human being. Let me tell you what happened today. I went to deliver a package. I went directly to the address written on the package. When I got to the address, I walked in and met a doorman. The doorman told me I had come in the wrong entrance, and I was to turn around, exit the way I came in, and walk around the side of the building to the delivery entrance on the adjacent street.
Most buildings in Manhattan, office buildings especially, have certain protocol to follow when a delivery is being made, especially when it is something in bulk quantity. A lot of times there is a separate entrance for delivery people around the back or even a whole office that deals with those types: deliveries, couriers, messengers, packages, and mail. This is just a theory, but it somehow seems strangely derivative of segregation, even though New York is not in the South. At any rate, it certainly makes me feel like a second-class citizen when I go into the main entrance of a building and am consequently told by the man to use the "separate but equal" entrance on the side. It's discrimination of some kind, and I don't like it.
So as I faced the doorman of the north entrance, I could see the front desk from the side. The lobby, in the case of this building, was T-shaped. If I had come in the main entrance, where the doorman was now instructing me to go, I would have faced the front desk head on. But since I came in the north entrance, I was at the side. He stopped me from going any further and asked if I worked in the building. I told him I did not, and that's when he made his plea for me to use the entrance on the adjacent street. But I complained, and I said, "but isn't that the front desk right there?"
He said, "are you hearing what I am saying?"
So, I turned and walked out. And then I came in the main entrance, showed my ID at the security desk, and made my way to the elevators, which was just at the doorman's back. I could have mischievously kicked his behind on my way upstairs, but I did not. I went along making my delivery and that was that.
On a separate occasion in a different building, I was delivering something and upon entering the lobby, I found it to be very crowded and confusing with people rushing to try to get to their respective elevators. As it turns out, though, all the people I was rushed around with were part of an elaborate system that I was not yet aware of. All these people had ID's to get into the building, it turns out, which I did not. When I approached the desk and informed them of my delivery status, the desk worker became impatient with me and merely shouted for me to go to "the center! the center!" So, naturally, I went for the middle turnstile. But this was wrong, and he kept yelling and pointing. What he meant actually was the "messenger center," just to the right of the turnstiles. I sometimes forget to explain to people that I'm from the Midwest, and I don't always understand the New York speak. The "messenger center" is a place where delivery personnel go to distribute their delivered goods. They are like customs agents for the building. If someone brings in a foreign object, for instance a turkey sandwich in a brown bag, they are the first to inspect it, make sure the turkey is fresh, make sure it's not actually a bomb, and then send it on upstairs to its rightful owner. For this exercise, I checked in with "the center" and had to be escorted upstairs, including having the elevator buttons pressed for me, so I could drop off a check, something nobody would turn away, even if it was a little explosive.
All this in the name of security.
posted by Leland J. Fischer at 2:03 AM
