The Life and Death of Juan Sanabria, One of New York City’s First Coronavirus Victims →

Jonathan Blitzer, writing for The New Yorker:

At 860 Grand Concourse, a residential apartment building in the Bronx, the doorman’s post is just inside the front door, on a landing between two flights of stairs. One of them leads up to the offices of a dentist and a lawyer, who, along with several physicians, rent commercial space. The other goes down past two pairs of gold-painted columns and into the main lobby, where an elevator services seven floors with a hundred and eleven apartments. Tuesday through Saturday, between eight in the morning and five in the evening, tenants going down to or coming up from the lobby could expect a greeting from a trim, punctilious man with close-cropped hair. He wore a navy-blue uniform that hung loosely off his narrow shoulders. His name was Juan Sanabria.

I’ve got a weird fixation with doormen (those who know me well know that I’m sitting on a novel that features a doorman as one of the main characters) and this piece perfectly encapsulates how special they can be, not only to their friends and family, but to tenants in their orbit. I’ve read a lot of COVID pieces these past ten months; this is one of my favorites.