Angel Left His Mark

In 2003, I found myself working on a project at the corner of Park Avenue South and 21st Street, where the old United Federation of Teachers offices were being transformed into 110 luxury residential lofts. For two years, I practically lived there—seven days a week, in the on-site sales office at the base of the building, watching the space evolve from construction chaos to refined living spaces.

Early on, I got to know the construction crew well, as we were all in it together—building something from the ground up. But one person, in particular, stood out: Angel. His workspace was always quieter than the rest, tucked away from the noise of jackhammers and drills, which made it easier for us to talk. And talk, we did.

Angel worked on the bathrooms, meticulously laying tiles. He wasn’t just setting marble in place—he was creating art. I would find myself watching him for hours, marveling at the care and skill he brought to each piece. There was something about the way he worked that reflected who he was—steady, patient, and grounded. He was a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy, with a heart as big as his talent.

That same year, New York City experienced a massive power outage. The whole Northeast went dark, and suddenly, 50 million people were stranded. Angel and I happened to be riding up the building together that day, and we joked about how we felt safer in the rickety construction hoist than in any of the city’s stalled elevators. It was a small moment, but it was the start of a connection that grew deeper over time.

Angel and I shared more than just the project. We were both girl dads. We both loved jazz. We were both caring for aging parents. And we were both first-generation immigrants, each of us having come to New York alone, with nothing but dreams of building something meaningful. Despite our different paths, we found common ground in the challenges and joys that shaped our lives.

When my father passed away, Angel was the first person I spoke to. And when we celebrated a new contract or sales milestone, he was there too—offering a high five with the same warmth and sincerity that made him who he was.

Two people from different continents, with different stories, somehow ended up on the same team, working side by side to build homes for 110 families in the heart of Manhattan. People like Angel—people who work quietly in the background, without fanfare—are the ones truly building our cities. Many of them, like him, are first-generation immigrants, pouring their artistry, dedication, and grit into every brick, tile, and beam, creating something beautiful—not just in our homes, but in their own lives as well.

Now, every time I pass 260 Park Avenue South, I think of Angel. His legacy is there, in every bathroom, in the intricate details of those tiled floors and walls. He left his mark, not just on the building, but on me too. 

Side Bar: 

I just read “Building Material: The Memoir of a Park Avenue Doorman” by Stephen Bruno and it’s a great read (unless you were one of the owners in the Co-Op where he first worked). 

Let’s do this! 

Shaun