“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.

“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.

Julie, a flight attendant, was grounded. It was as though there was a blizzard spanning the whole Eastern half of the U.S. and she had to get home from O’Hare, but every New York airport was temporarily closed. She fidgeted in her pleather chair that was connected to 24 other pleather chairs by shared arm rests. But it wasn’t winter. It was the first warm day of spring, when all of New York dusted off and glowed refreshed. And it wasn’t the airport. It was a King’s County courthouse—jury duty. And she had never wanted to go home as much as she wanted to get out of that room right at that moment.

The walls of her one-bedroom apartment in Park Slope were white, unpunctured by nails, unfettered by artwork. Her refrigerator had only natural peanut butter, blueberry jam, a Britta filter and honey mustard. The kitchen cabinet where the previous tenant kept pots and pans, she stored washed plastic takeout containers. The dishes in the cabinet were unscratched. The coffee table, kitchen counter and bathroom sink remained unstained. The couch a mod design in bright red from Ikea, but uncomfortable to sit in for long stretches, sat stark like a sudden stoplight on a dark, country road. A fruit bowl held bright oranges and Granny Smith apples. This was how she liked it—like a picture from a catalog.

And that’s how Roger kept it. He just wanted to fit in to her life, to burrow out a nook and stay there till death did they part. She loved him more than his own mother did, he thought. So he slept, brushed his teeth, shaved, showered, stretched out on the couch to watch TV, and poured himself evening drinks of Jonny Walker Black, without leaving a mark. At least 60 percent of his time at home was spent wiping, sweeping and smoothing. He loved her.

In the courthouse Julie stretched in her seat to try to see the street without getting up, but couldn’t, even though she had placed herself at the outer edge of the row. She only saw the stationary and bland second floor of nearby buildings. So she decided to watch the activity of this bottled up swath of Brooklyn around her, a few hundred of her strangest neighbors sitting under the fluorescent lights waiting just like her. Some people read the Daily News. A minority read The New York Times. About 20 percent of the people were engrossed in books and 50 percent were on laptops. There was one man making what she knew to be friendship bracelets out of thread the colors of the Jamaican flag; one young woman with thick eyeliner and combat boots slept deeply; one overweight black woman struck up conversations with every person within a 10-foot radius from her seat; and yawns. There were many, many yawns rolling through the room like far-off thunder.

She had brought her computer with her. But to get it out of her bag, open it and boot it up would be to commit to her spot, to build her chair into a little nest. That in Julie’s mind would be like surrendering to her situation, to her container. So she decided to text Roger. He didn’t need to wake up until 10:30 this morning, but he wouldn’t mind hearing from her even though it was only 8:33. “Holy Christ, this sucks,” she sent. And then she waited.

Ralph’s butternut-squash head hangs down. The yellow kitchen light reflects off his oily bald crown. He looks at the deep blue stain on the thigh of his jeans. Last spring, the pen he kept in his hip pocket sprung a leak. It was the one he used to fill out invoices for his handyman jobs. “Ralph the Right Man for the Job” was printed on the pen’s side. He had bought 500 of them. He hopes no one else’s “Ralph” pen leaked. He hopes Rose will feel better soon. But Ralph is old enough to know that hoping does no good. He has to accept what he can’t change and change what he knows he can improve. Rose’s outlook he can probably improve.

They were married at age 19 in 1966 at a VFW in South Brooklyn. He knew her so well she was like a puzzle piece he could always shape himself around. He knew how to support her no matter what she said, no matter what was on her mind. They had evolved together over a lifetime.

“And there’s nothing of me anywhere else,” she says fingering a neon yellow square of yarn she’d knitted together and used like a trivet. He looks up at her. She is missing something; she had been for a long time. But now the deficiency had gone on too long. He knew what she needed—a meaningful job.

When he accepted the offer for early retirement last year, he drummed up a handyman business lickity split. He liked to help people and finally could do so without the beast to feed. His longtime albatross: the cable company. The cable company just wanted to make money. Ralph just wanted to make people happy. The pursuits overlapped when he was able to fix people’s cable connections without having to charge them more for the service. This didn’t happen nearly often enough for his liking. Then came the Internet. Cable customers wanted to ask him all about their modems, their connection speed, their WiFi, and to Ralph it was all gibberish. The cable company said training Ralph and the other older gentleman wasn’t a good investment. The cable company was done with Ralph, and Ralph was done with the cable company. As his pension kicked in, his next endeavor was clear. He made himself into the ultimate Mr. Fix-It—a hero in Carhartts. He made people happy by making their sliding doors slide, drains drain, creaky door that woke the visiting grandchildren quiet as a yawn. His work lived on in all of the problems he solved with his calluses. He was improving people’s lives. But Rose? He couldn’t say that Rose found the same satisfaction in work.

Rose cleaned homes—the same homes over and over again. When she’d leave a home smelling of bleach and ammonia, the walls unscuffed, the wood floors shiny, the windows translucent and streak-free, the stubborn spot of petrified burnt onion off the stovetop, she felt accomplished. Task done. Goals met. But then she’d go to that same house a week or two later, and it would be a mess. Her hard work from before non-existent. And it was this Sisyphean battle that kept the money coming in. If families didn’t ruin her work, they wouldn’t need her anymore. Ralph knew it disappointed her.

Ralph knows Rose needs to hear him say something. She needs to hear that he has heard her. He pushes his brain hard to come up with something helpful to say. But he comes up empty. “It’s like how you can’t remember something when you’re trying to remember it,” Ralph says.

“What?” Rose isn’t sure if she should be excited, relieved or frustrated by what he just said. A twinge of hope picks her head off her hand. She looks at him expectantly.

“Oh, shoot. Just thinking out loud, I guess.”

“Oh.” Rose’s eyes go back down.

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.

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.

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!

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.