The vestibule was the room between the two doors. The outer door and the inner door. You came off the street and you were not inside yet. You were not outside anymore. You were in between. The vestibule was the building's airlock. The city on one side. The hallway on the other. And you standing in a space that belonged to neither.

The vestibule had the mailboxes. A row of small brass doors with combination locks or little keys. Your name on a strip of paper slid into the slot above each box. The names changed. The boxes did not. You moved out and somebody pulled your name and wrote theirs and the box kept receiving. The mailbox did not care who you were. The mailbox cared that you had a key.

The vestibule had a buzzer panel. A column of buttons with names beside them. You pressed the button and upstairs a buzz went off and somebody pressed another button and the inner door clicked and you pushed it open. Nobody came down. Nobody looked at you. A sound and a click and you were in. The buzzer was the first remote access system in the city and nobody called it technology. They called it the buzzer.

The vestibule smelled like the building. Every building had its own smell and you caught it in the vestibule before you committed. Cooking. Cleaning fluid. Cigarettes. Mildew. Paint. The vestibule was the building's handshake. It told you what you were walking into before you walked into it.

They renovated the vestibule. Took out the tile. Put in a camera. Put in a speaker. You press a button and a screen shows your face and upstairs they decide if they want to see you. The old vestibule said come in. The new vestibule says prove yourself. The door used to trust you. Now the door interrogates you. And the space between the two doors went from a room to a checkpoint.

See also: Doorbell, Door Chain