TONY Bonsanti, a wooden stepladder propped on his shoulder, moved speedily down the fourteenth-floor hallway. He was clutching a sawed-off cardboard box crammed with a miscellany of light bulbs. His eyes were trained upward. He saw what he was looking for, halted, and dug a bulb out of his box. His job—his only job—was replacing burned-out light bulbs.
“Bulbs all day long,” he told me as he nimbly unscrewed the dead hallway light. “That’s what I do. Nothing but bulbs. I’m a trained electrician, so whenever it’s slow with bulbs, I’ll do other things. But let me tell you, it’s rarely slow with bulbs. This place is hard on lights.”
Bonsanti dropped the expired bulb in his box for later disposal and twisted in a fresh one. “There,” he said. “Light ...