The Bell

It was the bad days that made me eternally grateful for the bell. Crowded subways and spilled coffee. Meetings from the moment I walked into the office until late in the afternoon. No lunch. Some god-awful presentation. Then rain the minute I left for home.

It was those days that I would come home, pull off my soaking wet suit, take a hot shower, and think of nothing but the decadence of the bell.

The bell looked very much like a doorbell. A circle of scuffed brass with some ornate patterns around it and somewhat worn letters that read “PRESS.” In the center, was an off white semi-transparent button. It was installed in the wall just to the left of the fireplace in my living room, build into the wooden molding.

It was a beautiful apartment in a grand old building on the Upper East Side, and the bell was like many in such places, once used to signal the doorman in the lobby to fetch a taxi for tenants. That service had been discontinued, and the button laid dormant when I moved in, but as time went on, I found myself looking at the ornate little bell more and more, determined to find a use for it.

The idea came to me on New Year’s Eve. I had a little get together, and someone noticed the bell and asked what it was for. I jokingly told them it was to call for more champagne. All that night, I kept an eye on the bell, and when someone pressed it, I…