The doorman

"Good morning, sir," he said, holding open the high glass door. One arm held wide in welcome, his aim was to move me from the lobby--where I stood pinned in place, a crowd collecting behind me--to the sidewalk outside. He had a uniform, of course, I could see that. Maroon coat, gold piping, epaulettes with one two three four stripes.

The snappy hat, the bright white gloves. All of it, somehow, large and bearing trust. It was a morning in March, and I had made it this far--room, hallway, lobby, door--yet I couldn't bring myself to step outside. Behind me, ...