Now Mike Tyson also lived in the building and let me tell you what happened to him when he didn’t give in his Christmas tip and this is no lie. See when Mike first moved into the building all these old union guys were up his butt kissing his ass to the max, with their arms around him all the time going, “My friend Mike, my friend Mike, could you sign this for me?” Trying to get his autograph. They’d be feeling up his muscles and shit. I guess I really don’t blame them, because to some worn-out, sixty-five year old union guy who’s counting the days to retirement, Mike Tyson must be the ultimate symbol of virile masculinity.

Now Christmas is coming up and it’s in all the newspapers that Mike just had a fight, and he made twenty-two million dollars. So all these old union fuckers are like, “Mike just made twenty-two million, he’s our friend, he’s gonna give us a REALLY big Christmas tip!” and I’m like, “You guys are Aerosmith man, dream on, Mike is street, you’re not gonna get a fuckin' dime!” ‘Cause you learn a lot about a tenant by who visits them and the only thing Mike had up was his old-school jail buddies from Spanish Harlem. I don’t know if you know this about Mike, but he’s a mugger, he used to mug people for a living in Central Park, before he got arrested and sent to jail upstate. That’s how he got really big, working out in jail upstate. I even had a friend who knew him there before he got really big.

Which is a shame, because when you think about it, once you attain a certain level of success, you’d think you’d have a whole spectrum of friends. You’d have new affluent friends, plus if you’re cool, you wouldn’t alienate your old street friends -- you’d still keep them too. But not Mike, he couldn’t handle it, this guy had no class what so ever, nothing but the skieviest ex-con junkies would come in to see him. Which is actually pretty funny when consider this building I worked in was chock full of these Robin Leach, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous fuckers. So Mike’s jail buddies would come into the lobby to visit him, lookin’ like the ex-con junkies that they are, with missing teeth, dirty ski jackets, sweating bullets in the middle of winter ‘cause they’re high on amphetamines, and I’d have to let them into the building in front of these Robin Leach motherfuckers. These guys would be freakin’, because you know how paranoid rich people are of violent crime. In an English accent they’d be like,“Oh my God! What did you just let into the building?” and I’m like, “These are Mike Tyson’s friends, we welcome them to the Marbough house!”

Now I’d seen Mike Tyson in the lobby once before and he’s a pretty funny lookin’ guy, he’s not that tall he’s about 6” shorter than I am, but he is wide. It looks like you took a regular person and stretched them out in one of those funhouse mirrors. His neck is as wide as his head, and he talks with this high effeminate lisp, like he’s gay. Now, I don’t have anything against the homosexual community, but you’ll see, I do have something against Mike Tyson and up-close and personal dude looks more like a fucking gay frog CROAK! than he does a human being.

So, one Sunday morning I’m in the lobby and I get a call on the intercom, “BUZZ!” and I’m like, “Good morning, Marbough House, how may I help you?” and this high effeminate voice goes to me, “I want you to get a cab for my two girls -- I’m sending them down right now,” and I’m like, “I’ll try.” and the voice goes me, “WHAT-DO-YOU-MEAN YOU’LL TRY!” and I’m like, “I’m sorry sir, it’s a Sunday morning, everybody is trying to get a cab right now -- I’ll try.” This is because everyone in Manhattan who partied Saturday night, got lucky and slept over someone else’s pad, is now looking for a cab ride home. So I flick on the overhead taxi light, which is located above the front awning of the building, that lights up and says “TAXI.” This way cab drivers know someone in the building wants a cab, and being the good doorman that I am, I even went outside a couple of times and tried to flag down a cab myself manually. But it was no use, it was Sunday morning and there is no way I could get a cab. So a couple minutes later these two fly girls come down, and I’m like, “I am so sorry, I tried to get you a cab, but I couldn’t it’s Sunday morning.” But they didn’t even care, they’re like, “That’s O.K. HONEY, we’re goin’ shoppin’!” and I’m like, “That’s cool.”

So a couple of hours go by and now the whole lobby is filled with these Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous fuckers and their relatives visiting them this fine Sunday morning, (you know they probably just got back from Church). So I’m standing there, wondering to myself, “Who was that, cranky homosexual that buzzed me on the intercom?” Next thing you know Mike Tyson, heavyweight champion of the world, busts out of the elevator wearing these bad black Jim Morrison leather pants lookin’ like some kinda cross between a superhero and a frog, and he’s pissed, and he yells across the lobby so everyone can hear, “WHO’S THE DICKHEAD WHO WOULDN’T GET MY GIRLS A CAB?” and all these rich, candy-assed motherfuckers are like, “Huh!”

I’m smiling to myself and waving, “Here I am!” and I’m thinking to myself, I AM MIKE TYSON’S DICKHEAD! That’s pretty fuckin’ funny, huh? So I’m trying not to laugh, but then, I see Mike comin’ at me and he’s pissed, and I’m thinkin', “OH SHIT! What if he hits me? Or bites my ear off for that matter? But then I’m like, Wait a minute, everyone in Manhattan wants Mike Tyson to hit’em, this way they can sue him for millions and millions of dollars. So, I’m standing there preparing for the blow and Mike walks right passed me, snubs me, and goes out of the building. I’m wipping my brow like, WHEW! But then, I look out the window and I see him turn around like he changed his mind and I’m like, fuck! So Mike comes back into the building, walks right up to me, shakes my hand and goes, “Sorry ‘bout that misunderstanding man -- take my keys!” and I’m like, “I’m sorry Mike, I can’t take your keys, there’s been too many robberies in this building and it’s against union policy -- I could lose my job.” So Mike is really getting pissed off at me now, and I’m trying even harder not to laugh, because the more I look at him, the more he looks like some kinda angry gay frog, CROAK! He thinks just because he’s Mike Tyson, he’s privilaged and he doesn’t have to walk around town worrying about his keys, like a normal person has to. So Mike just loses his temper and yells, “I’M MIKE TYSON -- TAKE MY KEYS!” and he just throws his keys at me and storms of the building. Which was no big deal because I just called Louie, the superintendent, and his came son came down to pick up Mike’s keys. Which was all fine and dandy, but I was pretty pissed off Mike called me a dickhead.

Now all this bullshit went down about a month before Christmas, and it was at that point I knew that Mike wasn’t gonna give anyone a fuckin’ dime. So now it’s the week before Christmas, and some of the more provident tenants have already started to give in their Christmas tips -- which is nice, you get a nice little envelope with your name on it and it’s stuffed with ton’s of dollar bills inside, and every night I am skateboarding to the cash machine with hundreds of dollars stuffed in my sock, paranoid as hell.

Now it’s Christmas Eve, the tips are flowing, everyone’s happy, and everybody’s like, “Where’s Mike?” Christmas Eve -- no Mike, no tip. Christmas Day -- no Mike, no tip. Now you always have those tenants who procrastinate and don’t give in their tip until the day after Christmas. So all these old union fuckers are making excuses for Mike, “Well, maybe he’s gonna be a little late this year.” But by the end of the day it is obvious that Mike is just not gonna tip. So in less that one day, “Iron” Mike Tyson went from being the #1 tenant in the building, to the most hated tenant in the building, and all these cranky old Hungarian and Puerto Rican immigrants are cursing his name. Jose in particular is pissed.

Now I really didn’t care that much Mike didn’t give me a Christmas tip, but I was pretty pissed off that he called me a dickhead. So the next day I’m in the lobby with Jose and Mike Tyson, heavyweight champion of the world, walks in like he’s the shit, and Jose goes right up to him and says, “FUCKING FAGGOT, I HOPE YOU GET ‘THE’ AIDS!” right to his face. He didn’t just say, “AIDS” he said, “THE” AIDS because English was his second language. Then Jose just blatantly snubs Mike like he’s a piece of garbage, walks away, I’m like, “YES, justice is served!”

So you can see what a big deal tipping is in luxury apartment buildings and why Jose hated 29G so much because the guy never tipped at all.