it," she continued, undeterred, "all the cute ones are actors." It was a curious compliment, but we haven't spoken since, and ever the jonesing approval-addict I catch myself, these days, wondering if she still thinks I'm cute. The other day, this same woman was standing at the bulletproof window, talking very loudly to Joey, with a different message. "You look terrible," she kind of bellowed, pausing for a moment; then she said "I'm sorry" and began walking away towards the door. Joey said something through the muting window; it might have been a question; she turned back and yelled tautologically, proudly, "Because you look terrible!" She pushed the doors open, exiting the Greystone with a triumphal flourish (difficult to do). Promptly, my elevator door shut and I began to ascend. Joey was left alone, with no door. One of the truly memorable regulars (for me) was an elderly man who sat near the door, in a corner, on a threadbare armchair (now disappeared, in an attempt to drive the elderly characters from the lobby and make the building more "presentable"). He never seemed to move. But one day, mysteriously, he was just there in the doorway, blocking my exit, and before I could summon a swift youthful refusal, he asked if I would do him a favor. He wanted me to walk him to his barber's appointment, on Amsterdam. He had three or four hairs on his head. I stared at them and at his spotted scalp while he clutched