“Excuse me,” Destine said to an Asian man wearing a starched light blue button-up shirt and holding a grande Starbucks cup in his hand. “Where’d you get that cup of coffee?”

He paused on his way back to his seat still empty from when he left it 9 minutes ago. He knew it had been 9 minutes because he had to sign-out and sign-in at the front of the jury duty waiting room.

“Starbucks,” he said pointing out the obvious. “But there’s also a coffee vending machine over by the bathrooms.” He took a quick step toward his seat, but she caught him.

“Where’s the Starbucks?”

“You have to leave the building. It’s just down the block toward the subway.”

“Oh, ok. I love Starbucks. All of those flavorful syrups? Yum.” The Asian gentleman was already walking away, so Destine finished her thought to a man sitting on the aisle across from her. “Turns coffee into a treat, don’t you think?”

“Well, I like Dunkin’ Donuts,” offered the guy from across the aisle. He cracked his knuckles as though to loosen up for the conversation. “Then I get a bear claw with the coffee. Breakfast and coffee all in one stop.” He wore thick glasses and worn-in Carhartts above unscuffed, untied Timberland boots.

“You have a point there,” Destine said. “I can’t argue about the value of a good donut. You know what I mean? It’s hard to find a bad one.” Her voice reached the ears of at least 150 people. It bounced from seat to another like a bouncy ball from a grocery store toy vending machine.

Destine fancied herself a warm-blooded, friendly person. Each of the few hundred people in the room was from Brooklyn and was sharing this jury duty experience together, and that was enough of a commonality to make all of them her next of kin. This warmth, she believed, was important to living a happy life in a city where you’re surrounded by new people every day. This she had tried to teach her twin daughters. “Look at Oprah,” she would tell them. “The most powerful woman in the world is all about compassion.” On a good day, the girls would roll their eyes. On a bad day, they’d accuse her of wanting to get them kidnapped, raped and killed by all of the crazies in the city. Destine could make friends with strangers, but not with her own two daughters. To people who witnessed these arguments on the train, in stores, on the sidewalk, she’d dismiss her girls’ argument and create a tighter bond between herself and the passersby. “It must just be their age. I was a pain in the butt when I was 12 also. I bet you were too,” she’d say to the nearest warm body.

She shifted in her seat to talk to Donut-man more directly. “Ever been to Peter Pan Bakery in Greenpoint? They have the best donuts. Of course, I’m talking on a scale of good to best. Like I said, no donut is really bad.”

“You speak the truth. No donut is a bad donut. Never been up to Greenpoint, though. I live out east in Canarsie,” he said.

“I live in Flatbush, but I go up to Greenpoint for those donuts. It’s worth the trip—not on the G train though. Nothing’s worth that pain in the butt. I have my boyfriend drive me up there sometimes. So why do you think you’re here?”

“Well, I think it’s just pure luck. My number got called. And now I’m here.”

“Did you go out and register to vote so that you could vote for Obama? That’s what I did. And I think that’s how I got on the county’s radar. This has happened to three other people I know. Register to vote, support Obama, get called to jury duty.”

Donut-man considered being put-off by the question. He was never one to talk politics. But he did like the way she smiled. “Actually I didn’t have a chance to vote. I had to work all day and never made it to the polling place in time. I’ve been postponing jury duty for a couple years now. And they wouldn’t let me postpone anymore. So here I am. Losing money by the minute.”

“You mean your job won’t pay you while you’re here?”

“No they won’t. So this is me paying more taxes. I just hope I don’t get called for a long trial. Then I won’t be able to pay my bills. I’ve got a daughter too to support. And as I’m sure you know, they aren’t cheap. Need the newest things, every month it’s something new.”

Destine wanted to reach out to hold his hand as she said, “Lord, don’t I know it. Little girls are hard to please. No one gives me as hard a time as my two girls.”

But she had yet to meet Julie.

Snowy Subway Stair Running

Originally this event was the New York City version of the luge, bobsled and skeleton competitions present in the international Winter Olympics. The event was accidentally facilitated by the Metropolitan Transit Authority, which wasn’t quick to clear snow away from subway stairs. The result? A perfectly, slippery hill. In the first several NYC Winter Olympic Games, competitors would race down the snowy stairwells wearing greased up leather, traction-free soles. The goal was to be the first competitor to arrive on the subway platform ready to board a train. But after a fractured coccyx, several dislocated shoulders (from grabbing onto a railing during a fall) and a broken neck, the Olympic Committee changed the nature of the competition. Now it more closely resembles a track and field event. Competitors must run down the stairs without slipping as quickly as possible. Each competitor must make a foot print on every step. Tracking the footprints has been made easier by the regulation that competitors wear shoes with their initials stamped into the soles.

Identify/Save the Homeless Person

In New York City, there are 37,282 total homeless individuals. Of this, 7,566 are single adults. To stay warm in the frigid weather, these adults cover themselves with tarps, jackets, blankets, newspapers, boxes and other items. This creates a mound of stuff that to passersby might appear to be garbage waiting for pick-up. Clearly, this is not always the case. In this Olympic event, courageous, competitive altruists rush through the city trying to spot homeless men and women. They receive one point for each homeless person they correctly identify from 50 feet away. Once the identification has been made, the competitor must sprint to the homeless individual. The competitor must then quickly assess whether the homeless person needs immediate medical attention. If so, the competitor calls 911 and waits for the arrival of an ambulance. If not, the competitor must bring the individual to a shelter that has vacancies. Shelters with vacancies can be identified by approved cell phone use. This process continues for a grueling 24 hours. The competitor who has saved the most homeless people wins. Scoring is tracked by Olympic judges who follow the competitor throughout the day. Judges are assigned to a competitor in pairs to avoid exhaustion.

Puddle Jumping

Puddle jumping tests agility, speed and leg strength. It is most similar to the long jump event in the international Summer Olympic Games. In this event, competitors start by standing at an intersection made impassable by a giant puddle. When the walk sign lights up, the competitors must jump over the puddle from a stand still. Points are given for distance; points are subtracted for splash. The intersection used for the event is selected by the Committee. Because there are so many of these puddles, the event has never been held at the same location twice. This year’s event will take place in Williamsburg, Brooklyn at the intersection of Lorimer and Meeker.

Subway Balancing

This is the only year-round event. It is a favorite in the city and not dependent on the weather. In this event, competitors must ride a subway train standing up without holding on to anything for as long as possible. The competitor who goes the longest without steadying themselves via pole, a person, or wall likely wins the event. In recent years, the Committee has ramped up the difficulty by requiring that participants play Tetris on their cell phones while balancing in the train. Once all competitors have completed their ride, Tetris scores are analyzed by the judges. Competitors with the top three Tetris scores, weighted for difficulty, get 3 minutes added to their scores. The record holder is a 15-year-old boy who honed his balancing skills breakdancing through subway cars for handouts.

Eating: Hot Ramen

Once a year, New Yorkers flock to Coney Island to watch Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest. But that’s not enough to satisfy New York’s taste for eating competitions. After much demand from the public, the Olympic Committee created its own signature eating event. Each year, the food is different, but it’s always popular New York fare. This year competitive eaters must gorge themselves on bowls of hot, pork-based Ramen. Other years, competitors have had to eat cannolis, roasted nuts, cheese pizza and pretzels. A big upset took place 17 years ago when the Committee selected coffee as the food. After the event, several over-caffeinated participants created havoc. Acidic urine burnt holes in the stage. One innocent bystander was killed when a participant who was sprinting to the nearest toilet literally ran him over.

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.

It had been three weeks. There was no way to know for sure if Nate’s schedule was the same. It was just an assumption, an educated guess, a plausible hypothesis. She had no reason to believe that his routine had changed. As often as she had quizzed their mutual friends, no one said anything about him switching jobs. Either they were all in cahoots and lying, unlikely, or it was true that he still had the same routine as always. “It has to be true,” Molly murmured as she resumed a more calm but still somewhat sad coziness.

A few minutes later, she forced herself up from the bed—a feat more difficult in this bed than any other she’d ever slept in. A large groove in the center consumed her 5-foot 2-inch, 120-pound frame. Someone much bigger than her had made the indentation, or rather, the canyon. To get up, she literally had to claw at the bottom sheet. At least that was hers. Nate let her take the soft, jersey bottom sheet with her even though it was part of a set his mother had bought him.

Once seated at the edge of the bed, her comfy, nearly worn-out, yellow-striped pajama pants hung widely down around her feet. Another remnant from Nate’s mother. She had bought them for her 4 years ago for Christmas. The hems were now grayed and frayed. The butt pilled. The elastic waistband stretched. But it didn’t matter. There was no one to impress. She finally lived alone.

Over the last 8 months of their relationship, she and Nate had fought a lot. In the momentum of these late-in-the-game fights, she would accuse him of cheating her out of the freedom of living alone, of her independence. More and more often this was the first bullet in her arsenal of his wrongs. “I never had the freedom most women have before settling down. And don’t play it off like it’s nothing. It’s why women cheat. It’s why 40-year-old women dress like 16-year-olds. Not that I would do any of those things, but I’m just saying. You took my youth,” she would cry.

“You aren’t making any sense! I never asked you to give me anything. And, by the way, I never sowed my wild oats, either. I gave you my wild oats!” he would rebut.

“Yes, and that scares the living shit out of me!” she would say. A pang of guilt and guttural sincerity punctured her fight. Gone were the sensational dysphemisms. This was how she really felt. And so she would then pucker and hiccup with tears. And then he would hug her. And then it would be ok.

Until one day when he ruined it all.

“You are so paranoid, so annoying. You have pushed me to the point that I don’t love you anymore. It’s over, you fucking psycho,” he said crying from his side of the bed. He also called her obsessive, possessive, vain and tyrannical. He said she acted like Saddam Hussein, like King Jong-Il, that she was a crazy, paranoid dictator. Whether it was meaningless hate spouted from a geyser of his anger or full of meaning from a deluge of his real feelings, it didn’t matter. That was it. His gush of horrible words sunk into her system and pumped through her over and over again like cancerous blood. “I don’t love you.” “It’s over.” She deserved someone who she could trust to love her unconditionally and at all times. She decided she had to leave him.

Within three days of those utterances, she took a break from an unusually laborious freelance web development project and actually, finally, relievingly, scarily searched craigslist for affordable studio apartments in her neighborhood.

http://newyork.craigslist.org/

http://newyork.craigslist.org/brk/

apts / housing
all apartments (includes by-owner + no-fee broker + fee broker)
“Park Slope” Rent min: $0 Rent max: $800 0+ BR
Search

Forty-seven results were found. But each one was a sliver of false advertising. The location misrepresented. The number of bedrooms wrong. The rent inaccurate. Not one real result for an apartment in her price range in her neighborhood.

Jackhammers would have been better—loud noises, he could sleep through. For several mornings now, jackhammers had assaulted his eardrums beginning at six a.m., and he was almost used to them. But the persistent buzz of his cell phone at eleven thirty p.m. on a Friday night successfully penetrated his haze of near sleep. The vibration of plastic against night stand was not loud enough to ignore.

He wasn’t sure the call was from Janine, but he knew it probably was. He reasoned as clearly as he could, his mind clouded by the five milligrams of Vicodin he’d swallowed an hour ago. Five milligrams wasn’t much, not by any addict’s standards, but then, he wasn’t an addict. Just a man who was done feeling for the day and whose friend had undergone dental surgery and didn’t like painkillers. At most he took one pill a week on Friday nights when he was alone, or wanted to be.

Last Friday night Janine had come over unexpectedly. Not exactly uninvited, but the idea hadn’t been his either. So he hadn’t felt too bad about surreptitiously ingesting a pill while she’d been in the bathroom. She’d stayed over that night too, which had been okay. He liked a warm body next to him in bed; it could even be soothing if it was the right person keeping him company. Janine probably wasn’t right, but she wasn’t necessarily wrong, and so it had been okay for her to sleep over.

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

Jessica, 23, was asleep on her 6-year-old futon bed that was pushed tightly into a corner of her one-room kitchen, living room and bedroom. Now there’s not much you can learn about someone from watching them sleep. But since you’ve never met Jessica, I’ll try to use this idle—albeit important—moment to introduce her. She had turned off the lights and gotten into bed around 11:30, and she had fallen asleep by midnight. Her first episode of REM had already concluded, and she had shifted positions once to avoid sleeping on a cold spot of drool. Her alarm would ring at 7:16. Her choice of the seemingly random time helped her sleep. The unrounded number stopped her from nourishing insomnia by calculating exactly how much sleep she’d get before work the next day. Mental math was discouragingly harder to do without round numbers. Work was advertising sales for Cosmopolitan magazine—not usually a hard sell, but getting more difficult given the new media revolution and the recession.

The wall behind Jessica’s crown of tousled auburn hair was shared with a woman she’d never met face-to-face: Stephanie, a 24-year-old bartender who worked at the known-rowdy Coyote Ugly bar. But Stephanie wasn’t a real rowdy one. Yes, she could hold her own in a New York-style yelling match, and she could produce flirtatious smiles that appeared realistic even to the most homely, disgruntled men. But she was actually quite tame and bright, and stereotypically beautiful enough (stick straight blonde hair, acne-free skin and a 32D frame) that she never needed to partake in any more questionable activities to make rent. The most questionable activity in recent memory took place tonight with the delivery from Indian restaurant Taj Mahal Delight.

Bustling home from work, her high heels pounded the pavement like quick, single blows of a jackhammer. “I can hold it. I can hold it,” she chanted to herself as her stomach cramped and gurgled. The barback, who she had a major crush on, had suggested getting Indian as a late-night snack. Stephanie had never tried Indian and lived on a bland diet of ramen noodles, sushi, salads and the occasional pizza slice. But the self-consciousness resurrected by a cute boy, resembling that which plagues most junior high school girls trying to mold themselves into the most popular girl, inspired her to say, “I’ve been dying to try Indian!”

Before she got to her front door, she had her key in hand ready to go. Then with a twist of the wrist and a fast tromp up three flights of stairs, she made it home. Her purple leather purse dropped from her hand onto her bed as she rushed to undo the button of her jeans and get to the toilet. And then she let herself release and push. Just like a woman in labor, she thought, as she let one rip.

The sleeping Jessica sprung up to a sitting position as though the fire alarm had gone off. But before jumping out of bed and worriedly, frustratingly evaluating the public wear-ability of her pajamas (flannel pants and a worn out T-shirt), she paused to make sense of the situation. Then she heard the toilet flush.

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.