My father had landed a good job, so we moved to a new apartment tower made of concrete and glass and permanence. My dad had grown up the son of an alcoholic father during the Depression, and now he was living large. The building even had a doorman. Leo. Leo had thick white hair and eyes so blue they resembled a doll's eyes in the sun. Leo smelled of rotting apples and cologne, and distant good times. He was the most cheerful person I'd ever met, especially for a doorman. No matter the weather, the heat, the cold, Leo was smiling. "Hello, young sir!" he'd say to me. I liked that: young sir. It made me feel important. One night, my parents took me to a party hosted by an office colleague of my father's. My dad spent about 50 hours a week at the office but was worried why he hadn't earned a promotion. Someone at the party walked up and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without a pause I said, "a doorman!" The questioner laughed, but my mother was horrified. She pulled me into a side room and slapped me. "You keep your mouth shut the rest of the night!" she said. Later at home she asked why I had answered "doorman." I told her I had been thinking of Leo and how happy he was. Also it seemed like a great job, standing around doing very little. Years later, I learned the reason Leo had been so happy. He was a drunk. He'd kept a flask of whiskey in his jacket pocket and nipped at it all day. Who could have known I'd turn out just like him after all.