I could not pass her up; she was the Saddest Doorman In The World. I approached her from behind as I walked down Market toward Third. She was standing there holding the door open, but no one was entering or exiting. Her long, Four Seasons gatekeepers' coat, which looked like something a veterinary doctor would wear while tending to prized thoroughbred horses, hung on her like a smock. Black pants and black loafers propped two knock-knees. As I neared her, she glanced at me and transferred her misery for a second. She was middle aged, with... More >>>