On the 24th floor of the Kings County federal court house, Julie walked to a wall of windows that looked over Central Brooklyn. Even though the windows were tinted gray, she could tell it was sunny. She believed it was the first stereotypical spring day of the season: warm sun, cool air. She imagined taking that first invigorating, deep breath of fresh air, the type of inhalation that enlivened her lungs after hours of canned, stale air, the type she took after opening the front door of a 747, the type she would take right now if she could.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Destine said.

Julie’s sails deflated and a searing flare burned the skin on the back of her neck. That woman, the talker, was talking directly to her. “It was,” Julie quipped and walked away toward the ladies’ room.

In an acceptably clean stall, Julie sat down with her head in her hands to give herself the semblance of privacy and comfort, and then she decided to text Roger. “OMG, this crazy, overly friendly woman is like stepping up to me.”
Roger was in a meeting at the office, but he still texted back immediately with unequivocal empathy, “Oh no! That sucks.”
“WTF do I do?!” she texted back.

Then she heard the bathroom door open and a woman settle into the stall next to hers.

“Excuse me. Would you be so kind as to pass me a bit of toilet paper? My stall seems to be out.”

Julie froze as though someone had just accidentally opened her stall door. She recognized the voice. But before she could choose an apt response, Destine continued. “Guess we don’t pay enough taxes to keep ample toilet paper in here. Or maybe it’s just a sign of the recession. Who knows?”

Destine’s loquaciousness gave Julie time to realize that while she knew it was Destine, Destine probably didn’t know it was her. So Julie wadded up a handful of paper and reached under the stall wall. A hand grabbed it. “Thank you so, so much,” she said. “It’s always a little awkward when that sort of thing happens, but it does remind us that we’re here for each other. Life isn’t a game of solitaire.”

“No problem,” Julie said concurrently flushing the toilet to cover any recognizable quality of her voice. Then she rushed to the sink to wash her hands. As she hit the lever for the soap, Destine’s toilet flushed. An almost-too-small glop of coral-colored soap dropped into her hand. It would have to be enough. Julie quickly tried to lather it between her dry hands. Then she waved them in front of the black eye of the automatic water faucet. It wouldn’t turn on. Julie noticed the sink was dry. She moved over to the other sink on her right.

Destine opened her stall door and walked up to the dry sink. Julie felt heavy in her ballet flats. It was as though she were stuck to the floor, weighted down by the pressure of the moment. Then her water turned on. She rapidly rubbed her frothy hands together in the stream. Julie felt Destine’s energy. But Destine’s automatic faucet did not. Less than a foot away, Destine was struggling to get the faucet on.

“What is going on here?” Destine said to Julie. Julie interpreted it as rhetorical. “No paper, no water. I do say so myself. Guess I’ll just use yours when you’re done.”

“Ok?” Julie said slowly with a tone that meant “I think you’re weird.”

Destine saw this as an invitation. “I do have two daughters. I know that tone. I know that tone very well. There’s no reason to use that tone with me. I’ve only been friendly to you.”

Julie put on the cold, authoritative and alert face she would use if a passenger had had one too many self-servings of liquor, and then she gave Destine a chance to dissolve the tension. “Excuse me?” she said.

“I’m just saying, I’ve been nothing but kind. This city is filled to the brim, to the brim with people. The common thread between them all?

Each and every one of them wants to feel good, wants to feel accepted. What makes someone feel good? Friendliness. What makes someone feel bad? Impatience. Rudeness. That is what I try to teach my girls. That is what Oprah’s success has taught the world. That is how I live,” Destine said.

Julie’s clean hands dripped into the sink. “Look, I don’t want to start with you. I don’t want to be friends with you. I don’t want to be enemies with you. I don’t want to have anything to do with you, and I don’t want you to force yourself on me. Pretend I’m not here, pretend I’m just a piece of the furniture, pretend I don’t exist, alright?”

Destine stood still startled and confused. Her daughters, her regular challengers, never presented her with a quandary like this.

“Are you telling me you want to die?” Destine asked.

“That’s precious,” Julie said.

No matter how angry they got, how much fire they spit at her, they wanted and needed their mommy. This woman is different. She doesn’t need me, Destine thought.

Julie continued, “Because I don’t want to deal with you, you think I don’t want to be alive? Are you really that narcissistic?”

“No, um. That didn’t come out right,” Destine said. “I just can’t imagine, I just wanted to help, that’s all. You seem unhappy and I just wanted to help. But you don’t want to let me help, you don’t want my help, you don’t want to be happy, that’s fine I guess.”

“Now because I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to be happy?” After these words hissed from Julie’s mouth, she realized Destine wasn’t capable of seeing things from her perspective. “Look, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you think. All I care is that you leave me alone. Go away from me.”

“Well,” Destine said noncommittally.

“Now!” Julie commanded.

“Ok then,” she said, and left the bathroom.

Julie walked back into her original stall, closed the door and sat back down. She lifted her shirt and wrapped her arms around herself beneath the warmth of her breasts. Surprise, frustration, powerlessness, humiliation, anger, dejection and relief simmered through her and nearly spilled out as tears. She checked her phone. Roger had texted back, “I wish I could help you but I can’t. Try telling a bailiff??”

“Why doesn’t everyone just leave me alone? I just want to be alone,” she murmured. But even she didn’t fully believe it.

To play him in a movie, all Philip Seymour Hoffman would have needed to do was replace his black suit from the movie Doubt with a faded grey one and a pea green tie. The clerk had pale, soft cheeks like the underbelly of a pregnant pig. Light orange hair like a watermark receded from his crown. He shuffled papers behind the judge’s desk in the front of the airplane hanger of a waiting room filled with a few hundred Brooklynites.

Tomato juice, no ice, Julie a flight attendant judged. He looked like the type that drank salt and retained a river under his plushy skin, she decided. She sat 8 rows away studying his every move, as though he were an actor in a mystery providing the audience with a subtle but important clue. Sitting in her pleather chair for nearly three hours, she was desperate for a sign about what was going on, what would happen next.

The clerk sat at the desk and moved the long, thin microphone down to his ruddy, rubber-band lips. “If I call your name, please collect your belongings and walk through this door to my right, your left. There’ll be someone there to tell you what to do next.” He picked up a two-inch-tall stack of note cards.

Julie thought she recognized the paperwork. The stack looked like the perforated portion of the jurors’ summons that each person had ripped off and handed to a clerk at the start of the day. Hers could be included in the pile. This could directly affect her. She held on to her Blackberry just a little bit tighter preparing to text Roger about the news.

“Christine Khang,” he read. A thick-bodied Korean woman raised her hand. “Collect your belongings and go through the door,” he said pointing to his right.

She stood up and left a light-weight jacket and tote bag behind her in a pile on her chair, as she shimmed past the few people in her row. “I told you to take your belongings,” the clerk said still using the microphone.

No privacy in here, Julie thought.

The tidy Asian man finished a cold sip of his grande Americano and began to rush toward Christine. “Mu-ŏ-sŭl do-wa-dŭ-ril-kka-yo?” he shouted out.

She instinctually paused and turned toward him.

“I don’t think she speaks English!” Destine called out to the clerk from her seat.

“Thank you. I can see that,” the clerk said. “You two,” he said to Christine and her new translator. “Go stand over here. Sir, even if I call
your name just wait right there.” He pointed to his left and the momentary lapse of entertainment passed.

“John Mulberry. Vincenzo Valentino. Leonard George. Shelby Granowksi. Destine Copland.”

“That’s me. Off I go!” Destine announced to the room. Someone in the background applauded. “What a poor, miserable soul,” she thought. But she chose to say, “Watch’em call your name next!” The comeback wasn’t good enough on Brooklyn standards to elicit even a grunt of approval from the crowd.

“Kathryn Bould. Antonio Ricci. Muhammad Akram Khosa. Jennifer Bland. Marilyne Walker. Julie Smith.”

Julie’s blood which had long been pumping to the steady, slow, natural beat of her heart jumped to attention and hurried to her face, knees and hands. She trembled as she zipped her Blackberry into her purse, smoothed her hair, draped her trench coat over her arm, walked to the front of the room, and hoped no one could see the line of her underwear through the back of her slacks.

When she opened the door, a bailiff and another clerk directed her into a smaller waiting room. This one had about 50 seats and resembled an overcrowded classroom. Destine was already there chatting away with her new neighbors, two women. Julie watched her bend her head down and dig into her scalp to show the women the seams of her weave. Julie sat as far as away as possible from her on an aisle seat.

People continued to file into the room. The bailiff took a seat at the front facing the crowd.

“Is it good or bad that we’re in this room?” Destine hollered at him from the third row back.

The bailiff, a slight man with 5 o’clock shadow at only 11 am, chuckled. “That depends on you.”

“I see. I gotcha,” Destine said.

But Julie didn’t understand what Destine thought she understood. It was a totally cryptic, meaningless answer, thought Julie—and she knew meaningless answers. Whenever someone asked her why they had to turn off their electronics for take-off and landing, she would say, “For the safety of everyone on board.” Then she’d walk away before the agitator could ask for a real answer.

By the time this secondary waiting room was full, Julie had had to shift in her seat 6 times to let people into her row. One man had body odor, an uneven shave and hair so greasy and speckled with dandruff, he appeared almost homeless.
Julie did not consider herself squeamish of the public. Every day on her flights, she would touch the sticky rims of hundreds of dirty plastic glasses and damp napkins. She would look for seatbelts between the creases of clothing and the gross overflow of American bellies. But her passengers were never this type of public. This jury duty level of public didn’t fly on airplanes. They took the Greyhound, she figured.

The bailiff stood up once everyone was in. “Ok, now. We’re going up to the 24th floor. We all won’t fit in one elevator so we’ll have to go up in groups. And there’s only one of me. This means that I can’t lead every single one of you up there. I’ll make sure you get into the right elevator. When you get up to the 24th floor walk out and wait in the hall. Don’t go anywhere.”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” Destine asked.

“You’ll have the opportunity to go up on 24. They’ve got all the amenities you need.”

“Do they have coffee?” she asked.

“Ha ha, you got me there,” he said showing his good nature, patience and charm. “No, but there is a drinking fountain.”

“Oh well then why didn’t you say so?” Destine joked.

Julie rolled her eyes and sighed, “Oh for Christ’s sake,” just like one of Destine’s teenage daughters would have done. Destine heard her and yelled out, “Kill ‘em with kindness,” as she gave Julie a broad, gummy grin.

Walker has several square feet of excess skin that she needs removed, but she can’t afford the surgery. At the Starbucks where we met near her old office—a now shuttered real estate firm in Midtown—she sipped on a grande drip coffee of the day.

“Two years ago at this time, I could barely finish a short 8-ouncer,” she said with a hint of nostalgia and disappointment.

Two and a half years ago, Walker underwent gastric bypass surgery. She had been morbidly obese at 347 pounds and just 5-foot, 3-inches tall. She had trouble breathing and moving quickly. It had gotten so bad she stopped traveling on the subway during rush hour because she needed enough room to sit. “People don’t look at obesity as a disability. So they wouldn’t offer me a seat, even though I was medically disabled,” she said. Walker would go to work at 6 am, leave around 3, and go to bed before prime-time shows were over at 9:30. Her general practitioner suggested the surgery.

“I had already tried every diet. The South Beach Diet, Atkins, The Cookie Diet, I tried it all and didn’t lose an ounce. I tried walking one subway stop further away in the mornings, get myself a little exercise, but it took just too long. I have battled with my weight since puberty, and it really felt like it was out of my control.”

She took out some pictures from her wallet. The edges of the photos were pulpy, the plastic sheaths ripped. It looked as though she’d been carrying them around for a very long time.

“Here I am when I was 9, skinny as a twig.”

In the picture she wore a sunshine yellow T-shirt, a pink tutu and white tights. She was standing on one foot as though ready to do a pirouette. In the lower left hand corner was a close-up, blurry pair of clapping hands.

“And here I am when was 13.” She put the photo on the table.

It looked like a wholly different little girl. In this shot, she was sitting on a piano bench smiling. But her cheeks protruded so far it made her forehead appear too short. Her breasts looked as though they had grown straight into a D cup. A roll of fat spilled out between her T-shirt and her pants.

Surgery was her last resort, but an essential move if she wanted to live a full life, her doctor said. Statistics show it’s an increasingly popular decision. The Imaginary Medical Association of New York reported that ten years ago only 1,300 gastric bypass surgeries were performed in the state. In 2009, this figure was up to 35,000.

When her doctor suggested the surgery, Walker bristled in agreement.

Noah Wailen was looking at her. Her? “Me?” she thought. “Out of everybody in the chic, dark basement bar, including skinny girls with big boobs and thousand-dollar handbags, he’s looking at me?”

Noah dipped his chin in a slight nod. The move was as subtle as a cat that only twitches an ear to react to a sound. He was coolly, coyly acknowledging her.

“Me!” she cheered in her mind. “Meeeeee! Eeeee! OMG I have to tell Vicky.”

Vicky was smiling, showing off her straight, bleached teeth to no one in particular, as she listened to the chatter at the table. She was always smiling but to those who didn’t know her well, it usually seemed sincere. Acquaintances often reacted by smiling back receptively, expectantly, as though Vicky was a ray of sunshine they wanted to get warmed by.

Audrey knew that Vicky really wasn’t that happy. They had shared many late nights drinking alone together venting about their insecurities and sharing the horror stories of their high school years. Vicky, a size 4, worried her thighs had too much giggle, that the German structure of her face made her appear manly, and that people thought she was vapid. Vicky’s deepest scar from high school came after she lost her virginity to a basketball player. After their break-up, he had Sharpied her cell-phone number “for a good time” in the boys’ locker room. Vicky was not a happy camper even though she appeared that way to most people. To Audrey, this made her utterly alluring, like someone who could get beat up and yet keep on fighting. She imagined that was what Hollywood actresses were like: human and miserable but blessed like by a fairy godmother that made their pain fade behind a royal glow of beauty and happiness. It was like Vicky’s make-up, Audrey thought. Vicky would wear thick, syrupy lip gloss all day, everyday, and Audrey had never seen her long hair get stuck in it. Vicky wore colorful eye shadow, and she never looked like a clown or like she was trying too hard.

Vicky would know what to do. Audrey yelled in a whisper at her ear. “Oh my god. You won’t believe this. Look over my shoulder to like 11 o’clock. Wait, don’t be obvious.”

“Ok, ok, I’m going slow.”

“Dude, he’s looking at me. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

“Oh my god. Noah Wailen?” Vicky gushed.

Audrey squeaked.

“How do you know?” Vicky said. Audrey felt spanked by Vicky’s doubt, but tried to ignore it.

“Cause I’ve just been sitting here, chilling out and looking around and we caught eyes. I looked away but each time

I glance back, he’s staring at me. And then, he gave me a nod. Like a slight, hot-as-hell nod.”

“Oh my god! I’m so happy for you. So cool.”

“So, what do I do?”

“This is something between you and him. You should do what’s in your heart.”

“Vicky, what does that mean? Ugh, do I go over there? Should I wait for him to come here? Should I smile at him?” C’mon, help me, she thought.

“You haven’t smiled at him?!” Vicky gasped in disapproval.

“No. Oh my god, I hope I have ruined this. I’ve just been so stunned.”

“Well smile at him, give him an unconfusable sign. Guys are dense, even Noah Wailen, I’m sure.”

“Ok, ok.”

“Hey Riley, man let’s roll a big, fat-ass joint,” suggests Danny.

“Yeah man, we can roll it in the park.”

The park. If I had known we were going to the park, I would have tried to look a little cooler. It’s the park they used to film the fight scene in the movie Kids, the movie. Patches of grass peak out between concrete slopes and benches. The homeless kids hang out by the arch and in the dry, broken fountain. Poets—without a high school degree or a home—stand in the center and shout angry rhymes. Men with dreads sell incense on the sides. A guy is making chalk portraits on the ground. We just barely miss stepping on one of his drawings and park ourselves against a fence. Riley slips his arms around my back. The pressure almost pushes me down face first. But I try to hold my ground. I know he just wants to be close to me.

Roddie looks like he wants to say something or maybe he’s chewing on something. Danny directs, “Roll the mother fucker.”

Riley cups his free hand into his pocket and slips Danny the bud. Danny crouches low to the ground trying to look inconspicuous. As if! He messes up three times and on the fourth, we have a loose but smoke-able jay. Then Riley lights it.

I know what we look like. We look obvious. We’re so going to get busted. For all of Riley’s self-righteous, honor, truth and dignity bullshit, he’s doesn’t see the obvious. I see thousands of possible outcomes from every single decision. He just sees everything as good or bad—and by default everything is good unless proven otherwise. The consequences of smoking pot out in the open? Good, cause he’s never gotten busted yet. But the first time is all it takes. If I get in trouble my mom will never let me see him again.

I feel like a bug is crawling under my skin. This isn’t rebellion or freedom. This is just stupid. We had to buy the weed on the street. But we don’t have to smoke it here. I try to keep my eyes peeled for cops. No blue suits. There are sirens, but there are always sirens. What if the cop is undercover, incognito? Then what do I do? How do I know who’s watching us? “Riley, this is crazy. We don’t know who’s watching us. We could so get busted.”

“Come here.” He puts his arms around me and tells me to take a deep breath as he passes me the joint. “Everything’s going to be ok,” he tells me. I never believe him until the fourth or fifth time he tells me. He’s only said it twice so far. Or maybe I thought it once and he said it once. I don’t know. Whatever. Roddie passes me the jay again and I take a hit as quickly as I can. I pass it on fast. Riley doesn’t notice it’s his turn.

“Take it!” I jab him in the shoulder.

“Relax, Harmony. Everything’s going to be ok.”

That was two. Or three.

“Everyone is chill but me.”

“So chill out Harmony. It’s not that hard to do. Take a deep breath.

“Ok. I’m ok.” I go through this almost every time we smoke pot nowadays. I am little Miss Paranoia, but I can never convince myself that it is only paranoia. What if it’s like women’s intuition and something’s really is wrong? I am stoned, and therefore I am paranoid. I try to remind myself of this. But then I think, what if I’m more than stoned? What if it was laced with angel dust or strychnine or crack or formaldehyde and this really is the end of me? What if I never get to talk coherently to my mom again? Oh my god. I’m freaking out. Breathe, I remind myself. Regardless of the danger I am in, I must breathe.

“SHIT!!!!”

“Dude, Harmony. You’re ok. I’m ok. Everything’s ok.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Riley. There really is a problem.”

“What’s that?” Danny asks as he’s jumping around pretending to do skateboard moves without a skateboard.

“The car. We aren’t in a real spot!”

And we’re off running down the street to the car. We’re going too fast for me to concentrate on the steps. I watch my legs and they tickle because I know all of the muscle fibers are working and that tickles. Danny is yelling like some coach whether we should stop or go at intersections. Roddie passes him up and yells for Riley to give him the keys. “I’ll get there first!” he hollers. He chucks the keys to Roddie across 3rd Avenue.

Roddie misses the keys and they skim against the street and land against the curb. Danny grabs them and sprints the last block to the car. I can’t run anymore. Breathe, breathe. I can’t go any further. What if I can’t run because I’m dying? I’m almost there. Almost there. Keep it going. No one ever died from pot. There! I slam myself up against the car. I rest my head against the sun-warmed hood.

“Hey, the car is ok! Thank you, God. What if it had been towed? What if we had been stranded here? That would have been terrible.” I have to be home by 9 or else I’ll get grounded. I don’t say that last part out loud.

“Riley, slow down!” I grip the seatbelt’s shoulder strap. It locks tight. My mom told me they don’t pull dead bodies out of seatbelts. I hold on. “You don’t have to drive like a crazy person!”

“Do not critique my driving, Harmony. You should be kissing my ass for saving you from the lame-o’s on the bus. I’m doing this for you. Do you want to be late to first period? You should have been ready on time.”

“Oh come on,” I argue back. “I don’t have to act a certain way just cause you drive me to school. I don’t have to be indebted to you forever. It’s not that big of a deal. You have to go to work anyways. School’s on your way.”

“Yeah, well I look like a loser showing up there every morning. I should have something better to do. I graduated. I should be moving on.”

“Then why are you going out with a girl who’s not even an upperclassman yet? Huh? Maybe we should break-up for your image.”

“You always throw that break-up shit at me.”

“Yeah, well, slow down. It’s a red light.” He revs his engine twice before slowing down. School is about a block away. I brush my fingers through my Manic Panic Purple Haze hair and check my face in the visor mirror.

“You look beautiful, baby. Except wait.” The light turns green. But he doesn’t go. He holds up traffic at the stoplight to wipe a barely-there mascara smudge off my lower eyelid. The car behind us honks; he flips it off and squeals his tires as he flies into the school lot.

In the lot, he grabs me by the back of the neck and pulls me in for a passionate goodbye kiss. The parent behind us is dropping off a freshman. I’m watching her through the side mirror as Riley smudges my lipstick with his face. The mother gives her dorky son a peck on the cheek. I wonder if she sees us. Riley lets me go. I grab my half-empty book bag, wipe off the red smudges, and hop out.

“Hey, Harm. Do you have to be here all day?”

“I don’t know. It’s only school. It’s optional right?” I smirk.

“Well, I was gonna make a run into the city for some kind bud, but I have to meet the guy before you’ll be out of class. Can I pick you up sixth period? Roddie and Danny are gonna come with.”

“Alright, meet me at the end of the street so I don’t get busted.”

“Cool baby, see you later.” I slam the door and feel people watching me as I walk inside. I’m special. I’ve got a man.

***

Riley drives the FDR as though he owns it. He wildly plunges around cars; speeding up then slowing down inches from their bumpers. It’s as if he’s got nothing to lose. Luckily most people have the sense to get out of his way pretty quickly. But if they don’t, he’ll stick to them like freakin’ crazy glue until they give in. I roll down the window to get some air on my face. A semi thunders past and almost clips off my nose. Riley grabs me back and says in his most robotic voice, “Please keep your hands and arms inside the vehicle at all times.” I thank him for the original insight.

Danny, the one who usually makes the dumb jokes, laughs heartily in the back. He is always so loud. It’s like he woke up one day and decided that he was the funniest man alive. He probably thinks it’s a pleasure listening to him, like he’s doing us a favor. It’s like he’ll say something that he thinks is funny and wait for the laughs. I never give in. It’s so dumb. But Riley does. He laughs whenever Danny cues him. It reminds me of the line my mom used to say about the neighbor’s twins. “Two peas in a pod,” she said. Right now, Danny’s in the phase of saying the pledge of allegiance to anything that he likes, like a keg of beer. “I pledge allegiance to this keg,” etc. It bores me. I think it bores Roddie too, but he always seems bored. He’s like Danny’s alter-ego. Roddie is silent unless he has something of value to share—quality not quantity. Right now he’s gazing out the window at the East River. He’s so smart.

I rest my head on my arms and close my eyes over the open window. This morning was such a drama. No matter how fast Riley drives, I never seem to make it to class before first-period attendance. Today I got there about three seconds after Ms. Lurie put her pencil down, the one she uses to point at each person who says, “Here.” Mrs. Lurie hates me and so even though I showed up to class, she never marked me present. Then on my way out, after the bell, I tripped on some freshman’s monstrous backpack. Mrs. Lurie, of course, blamed me for not watching where I was going.

Me: we still on?

Josh: oh yeah. It’s a double date.

Me: cool.

Josh: any ideas where to go?

Me: someplace that won’t have a wait and doesn’t take reservations.

Josh: true, true it’s prolly too late for that.

Me: yeah and lines suck

Josh: agree

Me: where are you guys coming from again?

Josh: upper west side. and you’re still in brooklyn right?

Me: yeah park slope. well sorta park slope, south slope

Josh: what train’s near you?

Me: the F. everything’s inconvenient except the lower east side

Josh: oh, well there’s a lot there

Me: but isn’t that a pain for the two of you?

Josh: it’s ok. you’re coming all the way in from brooklyn

Me: it’s not that far

Josh: it’s far enough

Me: ok ok

Me: btw, did you tell me your girl Miriam is vegan?

Josh: yep no dairy, eggs, fish, meat

Me: ok…well at least that narrows it down

Josh: do you like thai?

Me: can’t. i’m allergic to peanuts

Josh: oh I forgot

Me: and fresh fruit that grows on trees.

Josh: how about mexican?

Me: could do. but isn’t that what we did last time?

Josh: oh yeah

Me: there’s got to be something else that works

Josh: k, I’m going through menu pages

Me: me too.

Options on menu pages: African, American (New), American (Traditional), Argentinean, Asian, Australian, Austrian, Bagels, Bar Food, Barbecue, Bistro, Burgers, Caribbean, Cheesesteaks, Chinese, Coffeehouses, Cuban, Delis, Desserts & Bakeries, Dim Sum, Diners & Coffee Shops, Eastern European, Eclectic International, English, French, German, Health Food, Indian, Indonesian, Irish, Italian, Japanese, Kosher, Latin American, Malaysian, Mediterranean, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Moroccan, Noodle Shops, Nuevo Latino, Other, Pan-Asian & Pacific Rim, Pizza, Sandwiches, Scandinavian, Seafood, Smoothies/Juice Bar, South American, Southern & Soul, Spanish, Steakhouses, Sushi, Tapas, Teahouses, Thai, Turkish, Vegan, Vegetarian, Vietnamese, Wild Game, Wine Bar Wings

Me: I was thinking ethiopian would work, but I don’t see it on here.

Josh: maybe under african

Me: true, duh

Me: no ethiopian in the LES just french inspired african

Josh: ok. what about health food? does that sound boring? I figure then we can ask about the ingredients and they’ll prolly be aware of allergies etc.

Me: ok with me

Josh: k

Me: what about peace café?

Josh: any place except peace café. I’ve been there. it totally sucks.

Me: hahaha oh no

In a fridge by the door, gigantic cakes are being preserved. Each icing-covered cylinder stands a foot and a half tall. Each must weigh 40 pounds. An XXXL crowd stands chatting with each other in the waiting area taking turns pointing at the cakes.

Betty notices the cakes, but it’s the array of heavy, uvular old-lady breasts overpowering worn-out utilitarian bras that captures her attention. She imagines the breasts’ soft, white undersides chafing against the waistbands of their pants. The men have distended, hardened bellies. She pictures the flesh dented by the metal buttons of their jeans. Then she winces at her masochistic imagination.
Esther stops at the hostess podium, so Betty stops and turns around to her buddy Mark. She looks him in the eye, raises en eyebrow and with a small smirk makes the mutually understood gesture for fatso: open palm facing up, other hand on top closed with just the thumb and pinky sticking out like legs. She alternates touching the pinky and thumb against the palm of her hand. It reflects a wide wattle.

“Who me?” he jokes pulling on his suspenders. Belts could no longer fight the gravitational push of his belly.

Betty almost gasps from the sharp pang of embarrassment and guilt. Her pride in being a size 8 has exploded into shards by the force of her self-consciousness. Adrenaline pumps through her and burns her cheeks red. She forces a reassuring, friendly smile. “Of course not you. Look around!”

She’d known Mark for so long, she didn’t include him in her judgments. “These people are huge!”

Mark grins in relief, looks around and nods. “Yeah, this place isn’t great for your 30-year diet plan, nor mine!” he teases with a few quick moves of his hands.

She laughs with him.

Crisis averted, she turns back around toward Esther. But Esther is still talking to the host, probably trying to get the woman to honor their reservation even though they had shown up five minutes late on a busy Sunday evening. Betty watches the hostess shake her head with disapproval. But then the hostess looks directly at Betty in an inspective, critical way. She was searching for proof that Esther’s group has special needs. Betty instinctively drops her eyes to the floor. She won’t be forced to put on a self-deprecating show. Focusing on the pale grey laminate tiles and trying to avoid the hostess’ eyes, her self-confidence begins to erode. This moment is just too much like many others she wished she could forget. For so long, so long people so rudely, so unabashedly have stared at her inquisitively trying to figure her out like she’s some sort of spectacle. This is part of the uncomfortable fabric of my everyday, she broods.

On a Friday evening in May, they left their $120,000, 2-bedroom home in an Indiana suburb of Chicago, drove to O’Hare in their hand-me-down 1994 Oldsmobile, blue book value $2,370, and parked in a spot worth $11 per day. For a ticket price of $286.47 each including taxes and fees, they landed at LaGuardia four hours later. There they caught a cab and began the $24-before-tip journey from the airport in Queens to their hotel in Midtown Manhattan.

There they would spend three nights, a long weekend in May–but not Memorial Day weekend. Holiday flights were too expensive. Pete earned $40 an hour by doing various, part-time web programming jobs. To prevent losing any money, he had taken on a few extra hours the week before they left. Miranda was a manager at local coffee shop, The Daily Grind. The owner, Don, paid her a salary with benefits, which she thought was unheard-of for a coffee shop. Even the best baristas didn’t get real salaries. But Don wanted reliability, not school kids looking for summer jobs. He liked to spend the majority of his time at his beach home up in Michigan, yes, even during the winter. He was a ski fanatic whether it was on the lake or cross-country on the snow. So Don needed someone he could trust to be at The Daily Grind at all times. Miranda knew she disappointed Don when she asked for the day off. But she had vacation days as well as the confidence of an employee who knows she’s not easily replaceable. She ran his business after all.

Their hotel room cost $234 a night and was the size of a large walk-in closet. Except in this, one couldn’t walk in very far. The king bed was pushed into a corner up against the wall. This left a 2-foot-wide aisle on the other side. Only one person could walk next to the bed at a time. Miranda and Pete had been together since the 11^th grade, nearly 10 years now, and were stable enough to handle this turn-taking inconvenience without dirty looks or mean words. That’s not to say they were a perfect couple. They did have their issues. Pete often complained that Miranda would overfill things like the dishwasher, Cuisinart or grocery store basket. He felt she was unrealistic and stubborn—pushed things too far. Miranda was frustrated with Pete’s conviction that regularly used stuff should not be put away in cupboards, drawers, cabinets or closets because it should all be easily accessible. She saw this as an excuse and felt he should exert some self-control to dampen his fault of being a messy, messy person. Both gripes could surface in this cell of a bedroom. (She could stand in the small spot next to the bed and say, “You can get by me can’t you?” He could leave all of his clothes out on the floor taking up the already minimal walking space.) But neither would let these issues ignite a fight that could ruin their trip. They could fight about it on Tuesday. Their issues would still be there then.

The owner, Fern, a 45-year-old hippy, India-phile who was born and raised on the Upper West Side but now lives in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, makes CDs of her favorite music and plays them all day, every day. She bought the salon with inheritance money as souvenir of her year teaching English in New Delhi, and then renovated it to more Western tastes. Now it resembles an East Village bar with gray walls, rock music and an abstract logo. On her Facebook profile she announces, “Americans should think more of India than just curry, dysentery, Slum Dog Millionaire and call centers.” She regularly fantasizes that threading, the exacting, low-overhead hair removal process popular in India, will be the new California Roll, General Tso’s Chicken or Chipotle. And she will have started it all. It will be her contribution. That’s why it took so much nerve for her to hire Christine.

Christine, the only non-Indian working in the salon, is strung up like a Marionette. White thread zigzags from her mouth and down around both hands forming an X between her palms, almost like Cat’s Cradle. She puts the crisscrossed center of the X against the brow of a slightly overweight, young blonde. She shimmies the X of the thread a few millimeters forward and back to trap delinquent brow hairs in its twisted center. And she pulls. The blonde’s face tightens holding back a cringe. Little golden hairs fly up like confetti. She starts the process again. Loosen, trap, pull. The blonde remains taut.

The depressive singer croons, “When I rip off the mask/You wanna hang with Slash/Smoke bong hits by a heated pool.”

The blonde, over her initial fear, starts to chat. “I was thinking of treating myself to some Rugala at the Jewish deli down the street. They make the best, ever Rugula. I love it. It’s my reward for going through this.”

Christine doesn’t pause. She’s used to distraction. At the Korean salon where she used to work, she’d chat all day with her co-workers. Loosen, trap, pull. They’d talk about Rain, the Korean Michael Jackson. Loosen, trap, pull. About Jang Dong-gun, the hot leading man. Loosen, trap, pull. About their kids. Loosen, trap, pull. About their families back home. Loosen, trap, pull.

Pop! Christine’s thread snaps in half against the girl’s uneven brow. “So sorry!” she whispers flicking her eyes up to the owner working the cash register. Did she hear? Did she see? Christine grabs the spool in her apron pocket and unravels a new piece of thread with a swift pull.

The blonde opens her eyes. “Have you ever been there? To the deli? Had Rugala?” she asks with almost forceful friendliness.

“Deli?” Christine whispers, jostling her mind from the thread to the girl. “No, no,” she says and grabs the new thread between her lips. The blonde closes her eyes. Christine begins again. Loosen, trap, pull. Hairs fly up and hairs float down. They’re like snow in a just shaken snow globe. Loosen, trap, pull. Loosen, trap, pull. Christine’s head bobs forward to loosen the X and leans backward to tighten it. Then back, then forward, then tighten, then loosen. Over and over and over again.

“Oh, you should definitely try it once. The chocolate Rugala is the best. But, god, I shouldn’t eat it. Too many calories. But you’re so slim. You don’t have to worry about that,” he blonde continues, eyes closed, mind avoiding the hair-pulling pain.

“You read half a book/Then you say, “take a look/T.S. is my new best friend!” the singer gripes.

He sounds miserable, thinks Christine. Loosen, trap, pull. Strange these young ladies like to listen to this, she thinks. Loosen, trap, pull.

Pop! “So sorry! So sorry!” she yelps. The apology louder than the thread’s pop. She looks up. Fern is staring at her. Christine bows her head down in to a deep nod. She’s doing a bad job, bad job. Bad job. She scolds herself.

“It’s ok. I’ve got strong hairs,” the girl explains.