RainStorm

residents, the
    delivery people, the feel of the place, the way a full-timer would,
    and would be easier to deal with as a result.
    I opened the door and moved into a lobby decorated in some
    sort of nouveau colonial style, lots of reproduction period furniture
    and wood paneling and shiny brass lamps. The girl sat behind
    an imposing built-in desk, behind which I imagined would be
    electronic access controls and video feeds from security cameras.
    "Delivery?" she asked, with a friendly smile.
    I nodded. I had multiple contingency stories prepared for the
    questions and events that might follow: What apartment? Funny, they
    didn't mention a delivery. Wait a moment while I buzz them. Hmm, no
    answer. Are you sure about that number . . .
    But instead she asked, "Are you new?"
    I nodded my head again, not liking the question, wondering where it was going.
    She looked through the glass doors at the carport beyond. "Because
    you can park under the carport for deliveries. Sometimes it's
    tough to find a nearby space in the parking lot."
    "Oh. Thank you," I said, in an indeterminate but thick Asian
    accent.
    She looked at the logo on my shirt, then said something in a
    language that I couldn't understand, but that I recognized as Korean.
    Oh fuck, I thought. You can't be serious.
    "Uh, I not Korean," I said, keeping my expression and posture
    uncertain, vaguely subservient, not wanting to cause offense, just a
    recent immigrant, and not necessarily a legal one, working a minimum
    wage job and trying not to fall through the cracks.
    "Oh!" she said, flushing. "My boyfriend is Korean, and I thought,
    because of the restaurant. . . never mind. Sorry."
    Her embarrassment about the mistake, and my apparently embarrassed
    reaction to it, seemed to combine to cut off further questioning.
    Thank God.
    "I just..." I said, gesturing vaguely to the area behind the desk,
    where the elevators would be.
    "Yes, of course, go right ahead." She smiled again, and I nodded
    shyly in return.
    I snuck a peek as I passed the desk. One open textbook, front
    center; one video monitor, off to the side. An easy bet as to which
    one got her hourly-pay attention.
    I knew from the position of the custodial entrance in back that
    the access point would be to the left of the elevators, and I headed
    in that direction, passing an internal stairwell on the way. There it
    was, a swinging wooden door. Beyond it, a short corridor, lined in
    linoleum, at the end of which, the exterior door.
    I looked the door over quickly. I couldn't tell if it was alarmed.
    Its heft, and the presence of three large locks, indicated that the
    building's management might not have bothered. And even if it
    were alarmed, the alarm would likely be deactivated during business
    hours, when the door might be in use. There was a wooden
    doorstop on the floor, which supported the notion that there was
    no alarm or that it was currently disengaged. The custodians
    wouldn't be able to use the doorstop otherwise.
    I used the cuff of the windbreaker to open the locks and turn
    the knob. I opened the door and examined the jamb. No alarms. I
    looked outside. There were several mops propped against the exterior
    wall, apparently to dry there, and a number of industrial-sized,
    gray plastic garbage containers on wheels, too.
    I thought for a moment. The girl in front was obviously more
    interested in her books than she was in that monitor, and I had a
    feeling she would be habituated to seeing maintenance men moving
    in and out the back door during the course of the day. It looked
    doable.
    I propped the door open a crack with the wooden doorstop and
    moved back inside. When I reached the elevators, an elderly black
    woman hobbling along with a four-way walker was emerging from one of them. She paused and squinted down at my galoshes, then
    looked at me. "Raining today?" she asked.
    Christ, I thought. They ought to hire you as the doorman.
    I shook my head. "New shoes," I said, still with the ersatz accent. And if you speak Korean, too, I thought, I'll surrender here and
    now. "I try decide if I keep, and like this no dirty soles." I leaned
    forward and lowered my voice. "Don't tell, okay?"
    She laughed, exposing a bright row of dentures. "It'll be our secret,
    sonny," she said. She waved and moved slowly off.
    I smiled, glad I'd had a lesser crime to which I was able to
    confess.
    I couldn't very well leave with the Kim's bag after having supposedly
    entered the building for the express