This is Cheever's last New York City story and his third one about a poor schmuck working in a luxury apartment. Compared to the elevator operators, Chester Coolidge is practically wall-paper. He doesn't get drunk. He doesn't intrude on the lives of the residents. He's the super who makes certain that the water tanks are filled and the back hallway is clean. He is the perspective character, but has no personality. Chester takes a backseat to the Upper East Side residents and the building itself.
A combination of privilege and family wealth has rendered the Upper East Side deeply strange. UES residents pay $7000 for one bedroom apartments, vacation in Europe or China, snort cocaine on the way to the yoga studio and rely on a small army of domestic servants to cook their food and raise their kids. Trust fund babies, Saudi millionaires and hedge fund bros live side by side in a neighborhood too clean for comfort.
Years ago, I wrote emails for a UES client. The commute was too long for the money, but she was such a disaster that I couldn't resist. I wrote passive aggressive emails to yoga studio rivals, warning letters to her ex-boyfriend's girlfriend and “thank you for convincing me not to remove the tattoo from my butt” correspondence. For every boring brunch email, there was a missive that begin with “I want to tell him to leave me alone but be nice about it” that spun into a story about loaning her fuckbuddy's roommate money for a prostitute that was waiting in the living room. Shortely after her dad threatened to cut off the money, I asked her what she wanted to do for a living and she replied “I kind of want that job that Carrie has on Sex & the City.”
She actually believed that magazines are eager to hire columnists musing on their friend's butt sex adventures.
“The Superintendent” was never going to be about the super because Cheever was writing about the Upper East Side. The very privileged and silly residents were always going to take the spotlight from the overworked sad sack who wants to believe that he's working for ordinary folks with six bedroom apartments and servants.
No one respects Chester. The repair guy thinks he's the janitor. Women yell at him about the back steps. Mrs. Bestwick thinks that he can convince the management company to not raise her rent. She even claims to know the woman whose name is on the LLC that owns the building. Chester doesn't know these people. He just works for them. Poor Mrs. Bestwick still has to move out and she takes her sweet time. She has to take her jewelry and her maids to a nice house in Queens.
Then there's Mrs. Negus who is taking over Mrs. Bestwick's apartment. Before she was Mrs. Negus, she was living with two women and dating men as a career. Within a year, she was wearing fur coats and winnowing down the suitors. She treats her husband like a child. Chester is certain that she will move to an even better apartment in a nicer building one day. He believes in her. Until then, she's going to berate Chester for not forcibly shoving Mrs. Bestwick out.
Then there's the woman who berates a working man for throwing bread at pigeons. How dare he feed her birds? She knows exactly what to feed the birds and she's not going to allow some peasant to give them bread. It could disturb their digestion. She kicks the bread into the sewer. If you've never lived in a city or New York or a wealthy neighborhood, you might think that she's a satirical character. She's not. Go ahead and try to feed birds on the Upper East Side and see how popular you get.
As the day winds down, Chest muses “why did the Bronco and the Bestwicks and the Neguses and the grass widow in 7-F and Katie Shay and the stranger add up to nothing?” Like Chaste Clarissa, they live in a bubble - wealth instead of beauty. When they tell jokes, people laugh. When they talk, people take them seriously. They are unbearable but as long as they don't run for president, no one will laugh at them or inform them of their ignorance. Chester is more sad than cynical. After all, he's chosen to run himself ragged catering to their whims.
Next Week: Don't trust heirs.
My writing jobs have picked up (thank you anti-AI software) but I still owe my landlord back rent, so if you could help, I’d be most grateful.
The first book I ever published through Dybbuk Press was pretty rough (I didn’t offer money up front which was a huge mistake), but it has its charms. Anyhow, it’s called Teddy Bear Cannibal Massacre and you can buy it here. Sorry. there are no killer teddy bear stories in it. I almost bought one but I fought with the writer and he pulled it.