“Boy, you’re going to wake up your brother. You know he’s still sleeping! And get down here for breakfast you’re running late. You have three minutes, Mr. Lazy Ass,” my mom yells from the kitchen.

“You’re going to wake him up yourself! Stop yelling!” I holler.

She slams the fridge door as a response. I dab a piece of toilet paper on my oozing, bleeding zit and go to the bedroom to get dressed.

It’s dark. Jim is still sleeping. “Lucky son of a bitch,” I whisper. His high school starts an hour later than the junior high. I tug on a dangling, worn-out, red string of wrapping-paper ribbon to turn on the light in the closet. It doesn’t turn on. I pull again. It clicks but no light. I pull. I pull. I pull again. No light. “Shit times two,” I grumble as I grab what’s probably my plaid button-up shirt. The jeans from yesterday are crumpled on my side of the bed. They’re baggy; they’ve got cool silver stitching; they’ll be fine. I pull them on, cinch a belt around my waist and hustle to the kitchen.

“You better take this with you out the door,” my mom says.

She hands me a just-out-of-the-toaster Pop-Tart. I juggle the burning ember of a breakfast from hand to hand as I grab my backpack and head out the door.

I get to the subway platform freaking 15 seconds late. The subway car doors nearly close on my nose. “Next one had better come fast,” I threaten to no one on the empty platform.

Then I hear it, Bentley’s voice echoes down from the top of the stairs. He’s the only dude in New York who publicly tries to sing Alicia Key’s part of Empire State of Mind. “In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made. There’s nothing you can’t do. Now you’re in New York. These streets will make you feel brand new. Bright lights will inspire you. Let’s hear it for New York.” But no one giggles when his voice wobbles and cracks like a retard. His crew just beat-boxes along with him. He’s getting closer. He’s getting louder. There’s no place for me to hide.

To keep my nervous knees still, I go sit on the bench. I choose a middle seat hoping to get cushioned by strangers.

“Hey bitch!” he yells.

I pretend like he isn’t talking to me.

“I’m talking to you lame-ass,” he says.

I steal at glance to assess the situation. A few commuters have joined us by the tracks. But Bentley’s not talking to them. They know it. I know it. Everyone is waiting for me to respond.

Jennifer, wearing skin-tight jeans, a drooping belt and a baggy American Apparel sweatshirt, marched up to the microphone like a super model, each foot exactly in front of the other, knees exaggeratedly popping up on each step so she resembled a two-legged, upright deer. A few audience members released a short spurt of giggles assuming this was part of a comedy routine. Then she began her story:

“I was a skinny bitch. I could have modeled if I was an inch or two taller—that’s what an agent told me. And I know that sounds awesome ladies, but it really sort of sucks. At least half of the advice in women’s magazines, how to lose weight, how to get toned abs, how to have clear skin, didn’t apply to me. I couldn’t join in casual conversations about weight or diet without getting eyes rolled at me or behind my back. I was an outcast—excluded from most of the topics inherent in female-to-female interaction.”
Jennifer had expected a murmur of sudden enlightenment from the audience, but didn’t get one.

“When I got pregnant I didn’t show until I was 6 months along. I didn’t stop wearing high heels until 7 and a half months. Women would gawk in disbelief at my distended belly balancing above my size-2 legs and 4-inch heels. I felt beautiful and proud. I imagined this is how Heidi Klum feels when she steps out on the red carpet dressed to the nines while being as wide as a house, because she always smiles.

“The first time someone offered me a seat on the subway, I was on my way home from the office on the uptown 2 train. It was insanely full. I had had to let two trains go by before I even could squeeze myself on board. When I did, I noticed an open spot mid-car. I hate it when people don’t move in and just stand there crowding the doors. So I finagled myself to the spot and stood there in front of a row of seated commuters. The man directly in front of me was engrossed in a copy of Esquire. But when the train started, I lost my balance and my bump bumped into the Esquire. ‘Excuse me,’ I said in a whisper hoping those three syllables would be the beginning and end of the uncomfortable exchange. But before I could grab my Blackberry to look busy while underground, the guy said, ‘Would you like to sit down?’

‘No. Thanks I’m fine,’ I said in a chipper tone to show just how fine I really was.

‘Are you sure? It’s no big deal,’ he pressed on.

‘I can stand on my own two feet. I’m not some charity case,’ I spouted.

‘Damn. I was just trying to be nice,’ he said.

An elderly woman next to him leaned over. ‘You did the right thing,’ she told him.

And then I topped off my performance with. ‘Sorry. I should have said, ‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’ Oh wait, I did.’”

Here Jennifer anticipated someone in the crowd would give a big woohoo, but the audience was quiet.

“At that I could tell he was assessing whether to join me in a public fight or to crawl back into the safety of the unruffled mass of patient commuters. He chose patience and picked his magazine back up. I felt like I’d won.

“But from then on out, I was offered a seat every single time I boarded a train. It was like that one interaction opened the floodgates of New Yorker’s gentility. But I didn’t need one or want one. I could hold my own weight—which you know isn’t much.”

No laughter. No peep. Jessica kept going.

“So whenever I waited for a train, I made sure never to sit down. I would stand there with the rest of the ambulatory commuters even if an empty bench was just a few feet away. Then when I boarded, I would stay right in the doorway as far away as possible from the seats. But it never paid off. Every single time, some seemingly generous soul would tap me on the arm to offer up their seat. At first I kept up the tough girl act with comments like, ‘Do I look like I can’t hold myself up? Are you telling me I’m fat?’ But eventually this got boring, and I just started saying no like three or four times in row. It would go like this:

Them: ‘Do you want to sit down?’
Me: ‘No thanks. I’m fine.’
Them: ‘It’s ok. I’m getting off soon.’
Me: ‘No really, it’s ok. I’d prefer to stand.’
Them: ‘Are you sure?’
Me: ‘You’re too kind. But no thank you.’
Them: ‘Ok. Fine.’

“But then one day, I woke up with cankles. You know, fat ankles that appear to be part of the calf. Luckily it was a rainy day so I could cover them up with my Marc Jacobs rain boots. But even my big boots weren’t wide enough for my whale feet. Each rain boot fit tight like foot condoms. My feet hurt like crazy and gave me an unsightly waddle.”

Jennifer had expected a few girls to groan empathetically. But no one did.

The college kid hired to help with the party paused, suspended by a mix of consternation and belligerence. He didn’t know what kind of red it was. He just knew it wasn’t white. Qualifications for work-study financial aid positions didn’t include being a wine aficionado—duh. It, in fact, required quite just the opposite. He drank his wine from a box.

Hugh noticed the delay and read it as incompetence. Marjorie, the chair of the English department, always had these untrained kids assisting her all-department events.

“Nevermind, the red is fine. Two, please.”

Hugh took the wine and walked back to the front door where his wife, Emily, still stood. She was smoothing out windblown strands of hair and her grey sweater set in the mirror by the door. He handed her a glass. She took a gulp of it with a shaky hand. He faced out toward the guests surveying how to best insert themselves into the party.

“Oh, there’s Larry, and he’s with his wife. What’s her name? Do you remember? You did enjoy talking with her that one time, right?”

“I think her name was Shirley. Or Cheryl. Or Shelly? I don’t know. I don’t want to be here. I’m still feeling a bit shaken up.”

“Oh you’re alright. Nothing actually happened.” And then he continued. “But something could happen if we don’t stick around here for a bit making nice with everyone. If we left now, my colleagues will think I’m anti-social, or worse, they won’t think of me at all. And then what happens? I don’t get tenure.”

“It’s all about you,” Emily said.

“Well, we’re here for me. So yes, this is about me.”

“We’re here. Do you recognize that pronoun as plural? That means you realize there are two of us here.”

“Fine. But you’re acting as though you think I want to be here. You think I wouldn’t prefer to be lounging around at home than clinking glasses with Marjorie and her cronies?”

“Ok, ok. You say that, but I think you like these things. You shine when you’re schmoozing. You really do. Lubricated with a glass or two of wine, your small talk trumps them all.”

“Well, you think you know me so well, don’t you?”

An older Polish woman sits across from her. There are people standing in between them. As the bodies between them jiggle and shift with the thrusts of the train, she gets glimpses of Stephanie counting her cash. She leans to the side to try to see more of her. Grazyna is a grandmother at the top of a heap of women. She has three daughters, two had graduated from college, and all three had given birth to at least one girl. She knows women. She makes women. This had been her self-appointed strength in life. And she thinks Stephanie is one in desperate need. “Who else begs for attention like that? Bringing a filthy monster dog on the subway and counting wads of cash? It’s a cry for help,” she thinks.

The only clean spot on Stephanie’s soot-covered face is her chin. That’s where No likes to lick her. His name was chosen out of perceived necessity. The plan: if she ever had to scream no, he would come running. Her protector on the streets. Her man. But the name really wasn’t working out that well. First, Stephanie always kept him on a short leash (fuck if she was going to lose him to traffic, she worried). So he was never in a position to run to her. He was always there already. Then it was hard not to give him a complex. No ended up being a really hard word to say without a negative tone in her voice. And it wasn’t fair for him to think she was always unhappy with him. So she trained herself away from throwing no’s around in conversations, in bodega delis when they asked if she wanted milk in her coffee, at the payphone when her quarter’s worth of money ran out. She now relied on not’s, don’ts, won’ts, couldn’ts, shouldn’ts instead of the default, natural no. He was worth it. They were best friends.

Right pants pocket.
One twenty.  She stacks it on top next to other two twenties.
Sixteen ones. Straighten. Face it up. Put it on the bottom.
She keeps No still. “Sit boy,” she says. “Sit.” It’s ok. Keep on counting.
Total: thirty-six dollars.
So many ones. One was a popular number in panhandling. It wasn’t enough to make someone feel responsible for how she spent their money and dictate how it could be used. Train ticket, really? What about drugs? Dog food? Breakfast? Coffee? But for one dollar, no one ever asked. One was enough to help, but not enough to change a life. Not enough to take responsibility for. Not enough to miss.

A Flash programmer and graphic designer on her way to her over-priced and under-maintained Williamsburg loft watches Stephanie while listening to The Kinks on her iPhone. Gutter punks usually have dogs like that, she thinks. They take care of their dogs better than themselves. Feed them before they feed themselves. Get them medical help when they wouldn’t get their own. That panhandled wad is probably going to organic, special-diet dog food. But this girl doesn’t look like a punk, she observes. She sort of looks like little orphan Annie. Tight curly hair (brown though not red). Freckles. No visible tattoos. Thin, petite frame. Blue eyes. Dog. What if it’s named Sandy? Black jeans, black converse, formerly-white collared shirt now brownish gray and a black hoody. No red and white dress here. The sun will come out tomorrow. I can make sun tea tomorrow on my windowsill, she thinks. That would be good.