“Can you hold that door open for one second?” I cheerily said to the hipster leaning against the wall near the door as I bobbled a large pizza and drinks for Mary and me, trying to exit.
Everyone in the joint was in a good mood. The front of this place in Eagle Rock is always packed with people signing up to get a table or picking up carry-out orders. It was buzzing.
I lifted my items over the heads of the crowd to make it easier to move forward.
He didn’t have to move his body or feet from his spot on the wall, just bend his right elbow to reach the door handle and hold it. Surely he would help out.
“Well, I’m not a doorman!” he said with disdain, not moving a muscle.
A normal person would just move their hand up and snag the handle, but he didn’t want to seem like he was “the help.”
I guess it would diminish his standing in a hyper-competitive town?
“You can’t hold it for two seconds?” I said.
With the face of a 9-year-old who has been told to clean his room for the 10th time, he grabbed the side of the door with his hand.
“Thanks, I apprecia….” I started to say as I stepped into the open space. When I was halfway through the doorway, he let it go and it smashed into my right leg, the pizza nearly flying onto the roof of a nearby parked car.