In the 1990s, I lived with a couple of roommates in a doorman building on the Upper West Side. Every December conversation would invariably come around to how much we should tip the doormen and handymen. My roommates would try and think back to who had been most helpful over the previous year. I’d just shake my head. Tipping doormen isn’t about who signed for your packages or hailed your cabs. Instead, the doorman is your first line of defense. That’s why you tip him.

Here’s an example. One Saturday afternoon I was on my couch, licking my wounds from the night before. The buzzer rang, and I limped over to the receiver and said hello.

“I’m not sure if Turney is up there, but he has a guest,” said Paul the doorman, on the line. For a moment this seemed strange because Paul knew my voice. “A woman named Ann is here to see him. Should I let her up?”

“Actually … Turney isn’t here right now,” I replied, suddenly understanding.

Paul knew my backstory with Ann, and as a result he also knew that if I had a bunny, Ann would try to boil it. He saved me. Why? It probably had something to do with the fact that  I’d realized the previous December that Paul was the doorman we needed to tip the most, since he always worked the weekend shift. And things can get a little sticky on the weekends.

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