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.

Since I moved to New York City in the mid-1970s, I’ve dreamed that all of Manhattan—an island of such amazing history and illustrious man-made beauty—would become as beautiful close up as it looks from afar. To me, the skyline at night looks like the crown jewels of England. The Empire State Building standing up like the apex of the Imperial State Crown. The glistening lights from the lower buildings shine against the dark like the rest of the diamond-encrusted coronal. I’ll briefly digress to tell you a story. I am one of the lucky Americans. I descended directly from the Pilgrims. It’s actually not that unusual for white, Anglo-Saxons. But those of us, who have traced our lineage and are aware of our good fortune, look at the Brits with a sentimental eye. During my tour of duty in World War II, I took a respite on the motherland. But, alas, I wasn’t able to see the jewels—they had been moved to Windsor Palace for safekeeping. Years later with my wife, 12-year-old daughter and 14-year-old son, I journeyed back to the great United Kingdom and finally admired the crown jewels’ beauty. I’ll never forget, my daughter said, “Daddy, can you get me one of those for Thanksgiving?” (We trade presents on Thanksgiving instead of Christmas because that’s a bigger holiday for us—it’s our heritage after all.) I responded, “I wish I could my little princess.” Today she teaches English to immigrants (the legal kind) in the Bronx. She’s still my princess. Now you understand the gravity of what I mean when I tell you how beautiful I find the New York City skyline. It is the crown jewel of these United States of America.

But up close, the city looks like a dump. It has long looked like a dump. Through the promises of each mayor, I have kept hoping the dirt would wash off all the building windows, the drug dealers would leave the parks, the strip clubs would leave Times Square, the dark splotches of decade-old gum would be pried from the sidewalks, the graffiti would be washed away, the pushy men who forcefully clean car windshields at a stoplights and then demand payment would be jailed, the beggars would be fed (or moved south to a warmer, more appropriate location like Florida), the homeless people would be housed (or moved to Florida with the beggars), and (I add this in honor of recent news of a great descent) every working girl would be the expensive, discrete kind like that of Eliott Spitzer, not the everyday gold-digging hookers with whom Tiger Woods associated. While you and your brethren, particularly Mr. Giuliani, did remove the drug dealers from the parks, the “working girls” from Times Square, and the windshield washers from the stoplights, there is still a lot to be done. The sidewalks must be cleaned. The subways are filthy. Graffiti is still a prominent element of the landscape. Homeless people and beggars still abound. I dream of a clean and well-to-do Manhattan—doormen in the foyer of every residential building. How do I expect these changes to be financed? Sales tax. Of course that’s not feasible now. In spite of the influx of Blue-Chip retailers (for which I most heartily commend you for attracting to this city), there are still too many of the lower middle class—and even lower—living on our island who don’t spend enough to supply the city with sufficient levels of tax. But you, my good sir, are on the right track.

That Union Square once the protest grounds of laborers—what an ugly association—now has a Best Buy as well as a Barnes & Noble, Whole Foods, DSW, Forever 21, Babies “R” Us, Staples and Petco, I couldn’t thank you more. I can now buy all that I can carry. Ah-this brings me to an important suggestion. I’m no city planner or architect. But what if you made the center of the square, the part that’s still a park, into a parking lot! Then shoppers could buy even more than they could carry! As far as I’m concerned that would be a great boost to my quality of living, and imagine the sales tax you’d bring in. Quite a windfall!

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.

He lost his last job at an underground subway magazine stand after he yelled at a regular customer, a commuter. That particular evening, a Tuesday, the American business man had decided to pick up and flip through three magazines. Akram fumed from behind the counter. There was a strict no-reading policy. This wasn’t a library or a waiting room at a doctor’s office. When he reached for the fourth, Akram snapped at him, “You read, you pay.”

“What? Where’s Ostrinki?” he barked with a sharp New Jersey.

“He’s not here. Just me,” Akram said.

“Well, I’ll see him tomorrow then.” He stepped away and waited for his train about 6 feet away from Akram. Bored and impatient he turned to scowl at him every few moments until his train barreled into the station.

Akram’s day off was Wednesday. The businessman would definitely see Ostrinki. And Akram wouldn’t be there to defend himself. And he did see Ostrinki. And Akram was fired on Thursday.

So on Thursday afternoon, Akram went to the branch of the New York Public Library nearest his home in Queens. He sat down at the computer. He knew how to google. The librarian had taught him how on his first visit. “That,” she said, “would be the key to everything he needed to know.” She also wrote down a list of words that he might need. He took the small, folded square of scrap paper out of his pocket and chose a few words: new, york, city, job, no, experience, and necessary.

After clicking around for a bit, he landed on one that gave him hope. It read, “part-time, immediate, earn $275 per week, no experience necessary.” It was to distribute flyers. He wasn’t exactly sure what flyers were. But he knew about distribution of product, distribution of responsibility in big business, distribution of wealth. He felt confident that he could do this.

So he dug a quarter out of his pocket and called the listing’s number from a pay phone outside. A man’s voice on the other end of the line told Akram to show up at Psychic Sylvia’s home office on the second floor of a building in midtown Manhattan at 7:30am tomorrow morning.

Akram was elated. He went straight home to prepare for Friday. When he arrived, he unbuttoned his brown shirt, threw his arms open and said to his wife and 12- year-old boy, “I have a better job now.” He then asked his wife to wash the shirt in the shared hallway bathroom of their studio apartment. His son was given the responsibility of wiping off subway grime from his briefcase. Akram then removed his pants and folded them with very neat, tight creases over a metal hanger. Comfortable in his undershirt and briefs, he fell asleep early.

The next morning at 7:28 a.m. Akram walked up one flight of stairs near the street corner of Madison and 28th Street. He entered a room draped with red, pink and purple velour. It hung over the chairs. It hung over a lamp. It hung from curtain rods. It was everywhere. An electric fountain bubbled loudly in the corner. But Sylvia, the psychic, and Jack, her husband, looked a bit more normal, Akram assessed. Jack wore jeans and Sylvia wore a flowery, long skirt.

The first thing Jack did after the obligatory hello was to walk in a tight circle around Akram, size him up. Jack saw an Arabic man in his forties with some dandruff. But he was tall and therefore noticeable, eye-catching. He was also pretty clean cut, well dressed in brown office attire. Akram wouldn’t offend passersby. Sylvia stared at Akram from the doorway. She was probably reading his spirit. That, he assumed, was her strong suit.