Closing Doors

I moved to New York City in 1986 and worked in a building in Times Square that still employed elevator operators. Old style elevators, like freight elevators, had two doors: an outer door and an inner heavy metal accordion gate that had to be opened manually from the inside.
The elevator operator's name was Abe. I didn't know his age but I suspect he was younger than he looked. His frown lines were so deep he must have been born that way. He wore a faded navy blue custodian uniform that needed hemming and his hair had a pomade sheen reminiscent of the 1960s. It was obvious he lived alone. No one would let him leave the house like that. 
Abe had a demeanor steeped in anger and resentment. He flung the metal gate open with such determined concentration its hinges screamed in protest. He closed it the same way. He was vindictive. He made you run for his elevator. If you didn't get there soon enough, he'd slam the door on you in spite. If he allowed you to slip in, he'd act disgruntled and make sure you knew it.
Everyone was afraid of Abe.
I don't know what happened to Abe but it probably wasn't good. He had one thing going for him though - he was memorable.

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