Meet one of the last elevator operators in NYC: ‘It feels good to know I have a rare job'

Yahoo

14 hours ago

Nearly every New Yorker has to push a button and often wait some time for their automated elevator to arrive.
Tony Sciallia, meanwhile, spends his days in a crisp gray uniform, pulling shut an accordion gate and manually transporting riders up and down on one of Manhattan's last remaining hand-operated elevators.
He levels the cab with the precision of a surgeon, nods to the first tenant of the day and begins a shift that feels more like a ritual than a routine.
At the 863 Park Ave. co-op near East 77th Street, where Sciallia, 44, has worked for a quarter century, progress moves slower — and that's exactly how the residents like it.
'It feels good to know I have a rare job,' he told The Post. 'There's that saying: anybody could do my job. But there's only one of them. And that's how you have to look at it.'
Manual elevator operators were once the lifeblood of vertical living in New York City.
In the mid-20th century, the census counted more than 90,000 elevator operators nationwide. But after the 1945 citywide elevator strike — when 15,000 operators brought New York to a halt — technological innovation and changing attitudes accelerated their decline.
Today, the role is all but extinct.
The city Department of Buildings estimates only about 50 hand-operated elevators remain across Manhattan, including a few in Brooklyn, mostly in older co-ops and historic hotels. In an age of automation, a human behind the wheel is a charming anachronism.
'We don't have computer systems. Just us,' he said.
Sciallia's workplace overall is a charming remnant of the old New York. The 1908 building, designed by Pollard & Steinam in a restrained Beaux-Arts style, boasts limestone detailing and 23 units. It also has one home currently for sale — a three-bedroom with beamed ceilings and a renovated kitchen asking $2.5 million, represented by Compass — not to mention historically little turnover.
'It's a very cool feel. That old-world feel,' said Sciallia. 'It's a different era for them. They come from that era. They're very prim and proper,' he said of the homeowners who call the building their home, many of whom have done so for more than a half century.
Sciallia, from The Bronx, was a student at SUNY Westchester Community College when he landed the job for the summer.
'A friend of mine recommended me … so I could make some extra money on the side. And it was perfect. I fit right in.'
Decades later, he still takes the 5 a.m. train from Cortlandt Manor in Westchester, stops at Dunkin' Donuts for his usual — hot coffee, light cream and sugar — and transforms from commuter to concierge.
He's only the fourth person to operate this elevator in more than a century. 'The guy I took his place [from] was there for 35 years. And the guy before that was there for 35 or 36 years, so he started in the 1950s,' Sciallia said.
By 7:20 a.m., the co-op's lobby buzzes with dog walkers, schoolkids and residents heading to the office. And there's only one man to bring them around.
'I am the first one at the door in the morning,' he said. 'We do all the dry cleans, the pickups, the drop-offs we bring upstairs, we do the mail. We wear all the hats.'
The elevator itself is a relic of another era — wood-paneled, brass-accented and manually operated by a rotary lever. It requires finesse.
'You have to level it yourself,' Sciallia said. 'There's a trick. The elevator does whatever you want it to do. That is the trick. So if you're playing around with it, messing around with it, the elevator will mess around.'
When Sciallia recently began training newcomers (believe it: the building is in the process of hiring a new elevator operator) he gives them three tries to land it smoothly.
'You don't want the elevator to keep going up and down. Three shots — you're good,' he added.
Over the years, Sciallia has seen more than what many see in a lifetime: blackouts, the onset of technology making online-order parcels arrive in mass amounts, as well as celebrity sightings. Brooke Shields once visited regularly to see a friend, always with ice cream in hand.
But it's the relationships, not the surprises, that make the job meaningful.
'That is 2 or 3 minutes you have to build a relationship,' he said of passengers riding with him. 'You're not just an elevator operator. You play the psychiatrist role. You hear their issues, problems … you can read it on their faces.'
Sciallia has watched children grow up, from stroller rides to driver's licenses. He's been the first person residents see in the morning, wishes them safe travels before they jet to the Hamptons and sometimes the last when they leave for good.
'There was an older lady, in her 80s, they wanted to put her in a home,' he said. 'And she goes, 'Tony, I don't want to go.' She just started crying and said 'I can't believe this will be my last time in the elevator.'' Sciallia added. 'She passed away like a year later.'
Inside the cab, trust is currency.
'There are [residents] that have been there for over 50 years,' Sciallia added. 'You have to care about the people, their problems, their successes. A robot … won't care. We care.'
It's a sentiment echoed by the building's residents, who have supported Sciallia through personal losses with letters and big bouquet of flowers when his parents passed away over the last few years.
'That was the biggest act of kindness,' he said.
And as modernization goes, Sciallia knows the day will come that the lever is replaced by a button.
'I don't know how much longer I have,' he said. 'But when the time comes … I will miss the people the most. Nothing lasts forever.'