Doorman in Purgatory

Charley adjusted the stiff collar of his uniform, the polyester itching his neck like it had a personal vendetta. It was Christmas Eve, and he stood behind the front desk of The Stratford, a luxury high-rise on the Upper East Side. The building’s lobby was immaculate—polished marble floors, a chandelier that could blind a man, and garlands draped with precision, as if Martha Stewart herself had descended from decorating heaven. Yet, despite all the splendor, the place was as dead as his social life.

Everyone had fled for the holidays, leaving Charley alone to watch over a building filled with empty apartments. Silent halls, dark windows. If New York City was the city that never sleeps, The Stratford had slipped into a coma.

At 34, this wasn’t where Charley thought he’d be—working double shifts as a doorman while trying to scrape together enough money to escape. Not just from the job, but from her.

His mother, Carmen. A 72-year-old Puerto Rican Jehovah’s Witness with a tongue sharper than a Ginsu knife and an uncanny ability to suck the joy out of any room she entered. Carmen was a woman who could turn a birthday party into a lecture on idolatry and once scolded a neighbor for hanging Christmas lights, claiming they were “inviting Satan into the building.”

Charley lived with Carmen in the same tiny Brooklyn apartment he grew up in. The walls still carried the scent of arroz con gandules and generational guilt. His older siblings had fled years ago—one to California, the other to parts unknown—leaving Charley behind as the last soldier in Carmen’s holy war against happiness.

The intercom buzzed. Charley snapped out of his thoughts and pressed the button.

“Doorman,” a familiar voice crackled through. It was Mrs. Livingston from 10C, a wife with a face that could curdle milk. “Any packages for me?”

“No, ma’am,” Charley replied, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

“Well, if something comes, bring it up immediately,” she demanded.

“Of course,” Charley said, hanging up before she could add anything else. Yes, Mrs. Livingston. Right after I solve world hunger and find a way to leave my mother’s house without divine intervention.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Carmen.

Carmen: Don’t forget to bring home the Watchtower magazines from the Kingdom Hall. The new ones have important articles about false prophets.

Charley sighed. False prophets? Lady, I’m just trying to make it to Manhattan before you start carving my tombstone.

At 9 p.m., snow began to fall outside, the flakes swirling under the streetlights. Charley leaned against the front desk, watching the city blur under a blanket of white. Manhattan was just across the river from moms place, tantalizingly close. He could already picture his future apartment: a cramped studio with peeling paint and a view of a brick wall, but it would be his brick wall. No Carmen. No lectures. No passive-aggressive comments about how he was “abandoning family for materialism.”

The elevator dinged, and Mr. Whitmore from the penthouse stepped out. A hedge fund manager with more money than empathy, Whitmore adjusted his cashmere scarf and glanced at Charley.

“Working tonight, huh?” Whitmore asked, as if the uniform wasn’t a dead giveaway.

“Yes, sir,” Charley replied, forcing a smile.

“Must be tough working on Christmas Eve.”

“It’s just another day,” Charley said, the words bitter on his tongue.

“Well, at least you’re making overtime.”

“Yep. Every penny counts.” Especially when you’re saving to escape a woman who thinks Thanksgiving is a gateway to gluttony and sin.

Whitmore left without another word, the door swinging shut behind him. The lobby fell silent again, save for the hum of the heating vents.

Another text from Carmen.

Carmen: Remember, the end is near. The world is a den of sin. Stay vigilant.

Charley let out a dry laugh. End of the world? If only. At least then I wouldn’t have to explain why I’m 34 and still living with my mother.

His throat ached, a sign that the cold he’d been dodging all week was finally catching up. He reached for the lukewarm coffee on the desk and took a sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. It wasn’t helping. Nothing was.

By midnight, the lobby was a ghost town. Charley leaned back in his chair, staring at the blinking lights on the plastic Christmas tree. He thought about his siblings—Cat in Miami, Sarge somewhere in the West. They didn’t call much, and when they did, the conversation always ended with:

“Why don’t you just send her to a home, bro?”

“Because someone has to pay to take care of Mom,” Charley would reply, though even he didn’t believe it anymore.

The truth was, leaving wasn’t easy. Carmen had a way of guilting him into staying, reminding him of everything she’d sacrificed. How she’d raised him alone after his father left. How she’d worked two jobs to keep a roof over their heads. How Jehovah disapproved of selfish pursuits like independence.

But Charley was done. This was the last holiday he’d spend trapped in Brooklyn. Come January, he’d sign the lease on that studio, no matter how small or overpriced.

His phone buzzed again. Another text from Carmen.

Carmen: Don’t forget, Jehovah loves you… even if you’re being selfish.

Charley chuckled, a low, bitter sound. Selfish? Maybe. But at least I’ll be selfish in Manhattan.

The clock struck midnight. Christmas.

Charley raised his paper cup in a mock toast to the flickering tree. “Merry Christmas, Jehovah,” he muttered. “And happy new year to me.”

The lobby remained silent. Outside, the snow continued to fall, soft and steady. And for the first time in years, Charley allowed himself a small, defiant smile.