Last night, I sat alone in a black office chair behind a small round lunch table where each morning, I pour coffee down my throat and finish a warmed pastry or swallow one of the usual breakfast sandwiches that come from either the deli on 43rd Street or the one on 3rd Avenue.
The door, which leads to the outside corridor of a maintenance floor, was closed. This door is what separates the building engineer’s locker room from the rest of the building.
The room itself was quiet. It was the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. The room was the sort of quiet that leaves too much room to think and somehow amplifies a sense of lonesome reflection.
The tools of my trade hung behind me on a pegboard in their proper places. The other engineer’s radios were all placed away in their chargers, their coffee cups were drying upside down on top of paper towels. There work possessions, and their boots were tucked away with an almost strange spirit remaining—as if a piece of them were still in the room even though no one else was there but me.
The locker-room coffee machine had served its last cup, and for some reason, the cable gods decided to reboot the television so there was nothing to watch. There was nothing I could do but sit in the silence and type my thoughts on a small computer tablet.
The room is not pretty by any means. The walls are light green and the trim around the doors are the color of lime-flavored lollipops. The floor tile is a shade darker than the walls, and the ceiling is a shade darker than the floor. There are tan lockers in a small room adjacent to where I sit; the floor is carpeted, but of course, the floor is carpeted in greenish carpet tiles to match an otherwise, institutional-like color pattern. We have our own refrigerator. We have a microwave, a few cabinets, and some drawers to keep our tools in.
This is where I work. This is where I start my day and finish it. I come in; I place a key into my locker, turn it, and then I open myself up to a time clock until my shift ends.
There are 31 floors above this room. There are 31 stories s of commercial office space, businesses, and tenants. There are 31 floors of building equipment, fan rooms, utility closets, and electric panels. Above the locker room and including the mechanical floor where it sits are more than 1.5 million sq. /ft. of commercial real estate.
There is currently more than 200,000 sq. /ft. under construction in this building, which is where I make my overtime. The standby shifts tend to be slow and boring. Usually, standby shifts are to oversee construction. And that’s exactly what I was called in to do.
I had an unexpected conversation with a plumber on the 16th floor.
He asked about my thoughts on God. He asked if I believed, and when I answered, “Yes, he asked, “Do you go to Church?”
When I answered, “No,” he asked, “Are you Catholic?”
“No.”
He asked, “Are you Christian?”
“No.”
“Muslim?”
His Slovakian accent was noticeable—but not too thick.
“You’re not Jewish, are you?”
His steel-blue eyes began to roll back. I could see his yellowish teeth as he smiled through a thick, black and gray beard, which grew long and down passed the bottom of his neck.
“You don’t look Jewish,” he said.
“I don’t look like a lot of things.” I told him.
Rather than feed into his ignorance, I tried to teach him something:
The name Benjamin is pronounced differently in different languages. I assume it means different things in different languages as well.
It is pronounced, “Bin-ya-min” in Hebrew, which means, “The son of the south,” or “The son of the right hand.”
Benjamin was the last born of Jacob’s 13 children. He was the founder of one of the southern tribes of the Hebrews. Jacob is my middle name, which is pronounced, “Ya-kov,” in Hebrew.
No one ever calls me Benjamin anymore. My mother used to call me Benjamin when I was very little—but that was only when I did something wrong.
Mainly, I went by Benjy, or Ben, or Benny. The Old Man called me, “Benj.” He called me “Benjamino,” when I was little. And because I was thin for most of my young adulthood; I also went by the nickname, “Bean.”
I liked that nickname . . .
My partner at work calls me, “Kid,” and the kids in my neighborhood either call me, “Sir,” or Mr. Kimmel.”
There were a few people that used to call me, “Tattooey,” but I never see them around anymore.
My daughter calls me, “Daddy,” but I answer to all of these names because I know they refer to me.
One of the night porters cleans the building’s stairwells. I have seen him privately kneeling on a mat, facing west, and praying to Mecca. He prays to God, only, I think he refers to Him as Allah.
I say it is a rough time for him. He is a loving, peaceful man; however, there is a lot of hatred towards his religion. Yet, he still prays and remains humble in his discipline.
My friend who works on the 20th floor is “Born Again.” He often talks to me about Jesus. That’s God’s name too.
In Hebrew it’s Adonai (Ah-dawn-eye) or Elohim (E-lo-heem). There are more names for God in the Bible, but these are just two.
Then of course, there is “Jehovah,” and “Yahweh.”
In Spanish it is, “Dios,” or “Dio,” in Italian.
When the plumber asked me if I believe in God, I told him, “I believe in truth.”
“Whatever name you call God,” I told the plumber. “Whether you say it in your language or mine; I’m pretty sure He knows who you are talking about.”
Whether we sit in Church, or in a Synagogue–whether we kneel in a Mosque, or if we only regard the name of God in a figurative sense, I am pretty sure He understands His different names, and if you ask me, I believe he answers to them all . . .
I used to have coffee with an ex-biker. He was much taller than me and bigger too. His large, mitt-like hand wrapped around his cup of coffee, which nearly vanished inside of his monstrous, tattooed fingers.
He told me, “I don’t believe in God. At least, I never used to. But then I got sober. And when I got sober, I didn’t think it would ever get me into heaven. I just figured it would help me get out of my own personal hell. And for me . . . that was good enough.”
I can relate to that . . .
The Written Addiction 