Henry the shepherd

Henry the shepherd was one of the elevator operators at the school where I work.

It was, up until about ten years ago, an official Board of Ed license: Elevator Operator. I suppose it was a holdout from the days of manually operated elevators. I know the position has, at this point, been phased out. But there was something about the New York City Board of Education deciding on requirements for elevator operators that I found wonderful. If you can make it here you can make it anywhere.

I call him Henry the shepherd because every few weeks he would come to work dressed as a shepherd. Long white frock, staff, and all. The shepherd gear would stay for a few days, often followed by a three-piece suit, a few days of street clothing, and, then, a return to the shepherd outfit.

Sometimes Henry would go weeks without uttering a word to anyone. Then he would start talking again, out of the blue.

One time I got into the elevator and asked Henry if he knew which floor had a functioning water machine. He took the elevator down to the basement, put the key in to stop it, got out, and returned a minute later with a bottle of water.

Henry was a Rastafarian. One time he plastered the entire inside of his elevator with pictures of Hali Salesi. The principal made him take the pictures down a day later.

Sometimes Henry would sit in a chair in the elevator and push the buttons with his toes.

Today Henry got carted off to the rubber room. This is a room down at the Board of Ed where they take school personnel they no longer want near the youngsters but who, due to union affiliation (the elevator operator union, in this case), they cannot quite fire on the spot.

His offense was throwing punches at a school security guard when the guard tried to clip the lock on Henry’s locker in the basement. The new principal was appropriating the space.

I wonder if it was the same locker where Henry kept his stash of bottled water.

The odd ducks are hanging around the city year-round but with warm weather upon us, they are more visible. This morning on my way to the subway I stepped over a sleeping man dressed head to toe in bright green clothing. On his feet were sneakers painted orange. His head was resting on a boom box that blasted NPR.

When I heard about Henry I thought about the green man. Then, in the early evening, I thought about the both of them. I had just stepped out of a bodega and bumped into a friend with whom I had been trying to coordinate all day regarding weekend travel plans.

“Goldberg! Which Hamptons train are you taking?”

“Not sure. 6:50, maybe.”

As we spoke a man stood on the corner a few feet away. He looked perfectly normal but was shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Martini!”

Then, in a quieter voice, “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

Then again, nice and loud, “Martini!”

My friend and I confirmed our weekend plans. I walked home with a nice, lulling chorus of “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” in my ears and fought the urge to tell this man I knew of an opening for an elevator operator.