Doorman Tip Redux
I’m sitting in the cigar shop again, basking in my post Today Show glory when Philo comes in to pick up a smoke on his way to work.
“I got a six hundred dollar tip today,” he crows.
“That’s great I say. “Congrats.”
“That shit when right into my pocket.”
“Righteous. How are the other tenants tipping?”
“Those motherfuckers,” Philo says. “Some of them gave us only twenty or thirty lousy dollars.”
“That sucks,” I say.
“And you know what? Those cheap motherfuckers are the ones who bust our balls all year but screw us at Christmas.”
“Then maybe they can no longer afford to live in a doorman building,” I say.
“Fuck an A right.”
Well, since real estate is a blood sport in Manhattan, if people decamp to more economically realistic abodes, someone will take their place in a New York minute.
“Okay guys,” Philo says, an unlit cigar stuck in his mouth. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“Tell those cheap bastards you should be getting a hundred – at least,” one of the other customers shouts.
“We’ll see,” Philo says as he stomps out the door, heading off to take care of people who very often don’t take care of him.