“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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No laughter. No peep. Jessica kept going.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s all about you,” Emily said.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.