Fingers soon to be sucked

Saturday 5/30/26

There's a man upstairs in my building who it feels odd to refer to as a man, though that's technically correct. He's really an over-stuffed child. You could call him a guy. That would work. There's a guy who lives on the fifth floor of my building. But when we say "man," there are often these other implications. Expectations, if you want.

A man should be a put-together adult, for instance. There shouldn't be any frat boy aspects. Certainly not any longer.

I don't know how old this guy is. Early thirties, maybe. People have a way they look which is the natural way they look. If it's someone you grew up with and haven't seen them in a while, it's how they looked as they were growing up.

We look less like ourselves, if you follow me, as we go along, because we don't take care of ourselves. We don't take care to take care of ourselves. All that padding is added, for instance. We say it's Father Time, but it's usually Father Laziness.

This guy is well into that process of looking less like himself, which makes it harder to know his age. He has this love--or maybe it's fascination, I'm not sure--of hearing himself belch in the hallways.

I'm convinced it's because he enjoys the echo effect--however slight it is--that the hallway provides his belches. He's a big fan of hallway belching. I think he only belches in the hall. Or, if that's not the case, prefers to save a belch for the hall rather than his apartment, all things being equal. That is, if he could only belch in one spot, it'd be out in the hallway.

He barely lifts his feet when he walks and enjoys scratching his stomach. I encounter him in person from time to time (I hear him much more than I see him though) and I'm always taken aback by his behavior.

For instance, recently he was coming up the stairs from down in the basement or outside--who knows--as I was going down them and he didn't have any shoes on. Just walking around barefoot.

He's the type of person who'd consider it too much effort too much work to slip on shoes if you can get away without doing so. He's often on his phone in the hallway, and I can tell from his side of the conversation that this is but the latest in a series of formidable intellectual exchanges with someone on his lofty mental level whom I unfortunately can't hear as well (though I hear them some, because, unsurprisingly, they're also one of those people who sound like they're spitting their words with vehemence and volume rather than, you know, saying them) because I bet I'd learn a lot from them.

Women are "girls" in these conversations. Some of them are about business, and you have to scratch your head that such a person is counted on for what I guess has to be some form, in theory, of acumen. That he makes decisions, or is perhaps the boss of others. Because he sounds like someone who could be both challenged and entertained by spending a couple hours attempting to remove the lint from his bellybutton.

When he wears shoes, he'll often delight himself in making them squeak on the floor. He's big-time into that. As though this is a brand new sound and concept to him. You'd swear he found this the epitome of captivating. Or that these were the first sounds he'd ever heard and couldn't get enough of this development.

But my favorite encounters have to be those that happen at the door that leads to the street. There have been occasions when I've been leaving right as he's coming in. You know how that is: the person outside is reaching for their keys and there you on the inside, so you open the door for them.

When I do this, this guy walks in brusquely, says not a word to me--not a hello, not thanks. As if I was his butler with whom he's displeased and wishes that to be known and felt. And for me to be reminded once again of our respective stations.

This happened a few Sunday mornings ago. He was carrying a large box from Mike's Pastry. Again: on Sunday morning.

Who goes out for breakfast cannoli? Or who has dessert for breakfast?

But that's not my favorite part. My favorite part is that he was already chomping away. He couldn't wait to get back inside. I open the door for him, and there he is. Chomp chomp chomp. Fingers, no doubt, soon to be sucked.

If I hadn't stepped clear of him, he would have clipped me as he stepped through the opening and I made sure not to drop the door on his person. Like I'm servicing this guy the same way his mouth is about to be servicing those sugary fingers of his (or maybe it works the other way around, given that the fingers are what bring the pleasure to the mouth?).

Again, not a word. The door was just opened and held for you, chief. Rather than say "thanks" or do that thing where one dips the head in acknowledgement--a useful, polite, respectful, and easy/convenient move--he again makes like I'm his servant who had merely done what he's supposed to do unless he wishes to try and find himself another situation.

I have to give him credit, though. Mike's is like three blocks away, if that. At least this guy walked there. Another time I'd gone downstairs to see that Mike's had been delivered to someone. It could have been the same person, but it seems like if you're willing to walk the three blocks in one instance, you'd walk in the others.

What able-bodied person has something delivered from less than three blocks away? There's a Mexican place around the corner. It's literally around the corner. You come out the door, walk a few steps to the left, take a left, walk straight for twenty-five seconds, and you're there.

There'll be deliveries downstairs--they get left on the floor for the person who ordered them to come down and get them--from this Mexican place.

I'm baffled by this. How do you justify not walking around the corner? Don't you have to pay more for that, too?

I wouldn't want to feel the way about myself that this would make me feel. I know, that's me and just because I'd feel a given way doesn't mean someone else would or should. But it seems like you'd feel worse about yourself.

Or I guess it could speak to how we're less inclined to feel lazy or be bothered by the idea of being or feeling lazy.

There's a Starbucks about the same distance away if you take a right outside of the door to the building and then another. In other words, it's around the other corner. Would one have Starbucks delivered? I don't think you can. But if you could. Wouldn't that be weird? So is it a food thing, then?

Maybe hallway belches feel and sound better to their emitter after acting a certain way.

Chomp chomp chomp. Squeak squeak squeak. Belch belch belch.