Too Blind To See It

In the 80’s, I wore hoop earrings, outsized Levi 501’s, red lipstick and Dm boots. My hometown was jam-packed with theme bars: French (for Croque Monsieurs and pastis), Mexican (for nachos and margaritas), American (for dirty shots and anything with blue curacao in). The fact that they all sold cocktails, were teeming with boys, and had disarmingly handsome doormen, meant that I was a regular outside every door.

The most flamboyant of our local nocturnal custodians (over fifteen years my senior) was a renowned ladies man who also ran a martial arts dojo and high-end clothes shop, and often rendered my best friend and I exceptionally giddy, despite the fact that, to him, we were invisible.

Or so I assumed…

One evening, as he effortlessly eschewed all male competition at the door, and we downed jug after jug of Long Island Iced Tea at the bar, my friend suddenly stopped her chuntering, then side-eyes glistening, whispered: Look! He’s coming over! I swivelled my bar stool to look, and sure enough, an imposing wall of sass and swagger (gamely decked out in wife beater vest, boxing belt, and Mc hammer pants) was making a beeline for us; specifically me.

Inwardly I started to panic: was I being singled out as some sort of Chosen One, or, horror of horrors, was I being thrown out, on account of being five years underage? Towering above my slight frame, the flamboyant doorman said calmly: Can I just do something? At which point, I swear to God, my friend’s heart actually stopped beating. Silently, he crouched down, then gently placing his palm at the base of my spine, he coaxed me into an upright position, and with a satisfied look on his face, sashayed off.

I was mortified; just sixteen, I was painfully insecure, clueless about men, and wholly incapable of deciphering what had happened. Was the surreptitious spinal adjustment a cheeky ruse to touch me; did he genuinely find my wonky posture irksome; or was this monolithic man quite literally putting me in my place? Like most teenagers experiencing emotional discomfort, I immediately procured more alcohol and the unfortunate incident was forgotten.

Or so I assumed…

. . .

Three decades later, my fashion taste hasn’t changed much; swap the Levis for gym leggings, Dm boots for a Run Dmc gold chain, gigantic hoops for sleepers, and you basically have a world-weary version of 80’s me. Despite my appearance having hardly altered, the world (and my hometown) has, and after years in absentia, I recently found myself seconded back to The Shire during a global pandemic.

Frantically scratching about for somewhere to live during lockdown, I arranged to view an attic studio, and who should be there to greet me but … drumroll, please… the aforementioned exuberant doorman, who, true to his 80’s iconography, didn’t notice me.

In his starring role as my new landlord, he quickly revealed himself to be a complex contradiction of grandiosity and zen stoicism, with an assortment of arresting outfits to match; ranging from off-duty sensai to brazen boulevardier. It’s testament to my new-found maturity that I managed to maintain a semi-formal tenant-landlord accord without discomposure for as long as I did.

. . .

Let me preface the following montage by pointing out that it’s stiflingly hot in the attic, and when confined to barracks –by myself- I uphold a strict beachwear-only dress policy…

One morning, I instructed my landlord to let himself in and install a new window blind while I was out. I returned home at lunchtime to find the door wide open, the man in question balanced on a step ladder, screwdriver in hand, sporting his most risqué outfit yet: sweaty workman, stripped to the waist. Caught off guard, I automatically reverted to being the impressionable sixteen year old of yore, involuntarily blurting out: OH MY GOD!

He remained a paragon of calm, casually asserting that his scant attire was on account of the repressive humidity, and really it wasn’t any different to being on a beach. He then launched into a protracted explanation about a vexatious design flaw which had soiled the new blind, but I wasn’t listening. Why hadn’t he put his top back on? Did he secretly want me to catch him half-naked up a ladder, or was he merely trying to shield his designer garbs from sweat stains? Either way, I felt extremely uncomfortable; once again incapable of deciphering what was going on.

After an awkward silence, I clambered onto one of the kitchen bar stools and some clunky smalltalk ensued; during which those omnipresent 80’s vibes filtered out of me and into the conversation. Inevitably, mention of his former life as a doorman came up; at which point I was forced to confess that I recognised him, not least because he had corrected my posture in one of those very nightspots some thirty years prior.

At this, he merely nodded, and returned to the window to admire his handiwork. With a perplexed look on his face, he stroked the imperfection on the blind, then said: Look at this — it’s bent! This kind of thing really bothers me, upon which, I involuntarily sat up straight. Mopping his fevered brow, he then donned his immaculately laundered Japanese utility work-wear, flicked the blind open, and was gone.

As the attic was flooded with light, I realised that this man is simply a raging aesthete: if something is ‘off’, he’s compelled to correct it, be it a wonky blind or a wonky spine. A paradigm shift then informed me that it’s not 1986 anymore, and whilst I’m manning the door of this establishment, gentleman of a certain age should keep their shirts firmly on.

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This post was previously published on Hello, Love.

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