Gisela brought things to a conclusion with flair. She started to move. She glanced at Elizabeth again.
—You look good today. Yah.
Gisela appreciated Elizabeth’s appearance. It didn’t matter if Elizabeth hadn’t slept through a scarred night that might’ve terminated in her loss of control, a night that could’ve resulted in her assassinating someone. Gisela’s version of reality was unique, cut to fit. Everyone’s was. Most versions were less radically altered than Gisela’s. Gisela wasn’t about fashion. She had style. You had it or you didn’t.
Elizabeth didn’t argue with anyone’s style or experience. Only sometimes with what it meant. Gisela, as she herself put it, was rent-controlled. Elizabeth was rent-stabilized. Elizabeth would look up Jean-Henri Dunant in the proofroom. The room had a reference library. They had to check themselves before they corrected anyone else, to find the rectitude or error of their own ways first.
What’s the difference between Chinese food and Jewish restaurants?
With Chinese food, after an hour, you’re hungry again. In a Jewish restaurant, after an hour, you’re still eating.
She had to lose the friend and the job.
In Memoriam. If you hanged yourself, I’d feel guilty for a minute. Then I’d get over it. All the smiles in your repertoire can’t sugarcoat your treachery. You deserve yourself.
Elizabeth approached the scraggly little tree in front of a popular bodega. Most people on the west side of Avenue A congregated there. She nodded to some of the men. Sometimes Hector played cards with a couple of them. They sat out in front at a table. Hector always lifted his hat and tipped it when he saw her. He was courteous. His hat-tipping inspired panic in Elizabeth.
The scraggly little tree was enclosed by wire mesh. It was home to penned-in chickens and a duck. They had a plastic tub of water they could jump into. They couldn’t wade. They couldn’t fly or run. They had each other. They looked sick.
—Sweet chickens, cute duck, Elizabeth said to a man.
He was dropping lettuce leaves into the enclosure.
—Si.
—They’re yours?
—Si, they’re mine.
—They’re sweet.
—The children like them.
Hope you’re not going to eat them, she nearly said. They were too sick to eat, even if he wanted to.
Three ruined alcoholics graced the corner. They were slumped in their usual places. Three men sprawled or asleep on the ground. Occasionally a woman. Swollen, red, black-and-blue faces are more awful in the heat. One man was holding the morning’s pint. He passed it around. They stayed close to the liquor store, but not too close. They lay next door to the corner slice-of-pizza store. It had a cat in its doorway. Elizabeth never talked to any of them. They vomited all over the corner.
He didn’t throw up, he held his liquor, walked in his sleep in tacky hotel rooms that I thought were cool. I could’ve become pregnant. He wanted a kid, he’d left one already. I would’ve had an abortion. He was drunk all the time. They didn’t have abortions for Gisela. All her kids gone, dead, if she really had them.
Four chaplains in an authoritarian army are playing poker. It’s forbidden. A colonel walks into the room and they quickly put away the cards. The colonel takes a Bible and asks each one to swear he wasn’t playing poker. The priest puts his hand on the Bible and swears he wasn’t. The Buddhist monk puts his hand on the Bible and shakes his head no. The minister swears he wasn’t. The rabbi places his hand on the Bible and asks, Have you ever seen a person play poker alone?
Earl wasn’t at the door in front of the post office. Geraldo, the guy with the patch over one eye, was guarding their position. It was a heavily contested beggars’ site. It’d belonged to Earl and Geraldo, the Hispanic pirate, for a while now. Elizabeth had been leery of Geraldo and partial to Earl. Now she favored both with small donations.
Earl was an elderly black man. He’d lost his job years back and could never find another one. He’d lost his wife, his children. He’d been robbed of everything. Sometimes in the summers he worked in hotels as a dishwasher. That’s probably where he was now, unless he was in the hospital. He was sick a lot. His brown skin turned gray in the winter.
—Don’t have change now. Later maybe, she said.
—OK, Liz.
—Where’s Earl?
—Don’t know.
—He hasn’t been around. Is he in the hospital?
—Don’t know. I’ll see what I can find out.
The line was long. It was always long. But the post office was air-conditioned. The woman who heard voices coming from her post office box wasn’t there. She was plagued, a movie star down on her luck. She rubbed orange rouge all over her white cheeks and wore lace gloves. Always a sign of derangement. The woman complained loudly and bitterly about the roles that were taken away from her, she protested vehemently, glaring into her postbox, against the post office. It was holding back her mail, it was losing her mail. It was the government’s fault her movie career had stalled. It was a government plot. Everyone on line sort of sympathized with her attack on the efficiency of the post office. You didn’t have to be schizophrenic to nod in absentminded agreement.
The mental movie star wasn’t around.
Elizabeth stood on a line. There was no movement.
—Put more people on. I have to go to work, a woman yelled.
—Yeah, yeah, let’s get moving, a man seconded.
—This is terrible, Elizabeth said.
—Patience is a virtue, a woman said to Elizabeth.
—I have no virtues, Elizabeth said.
Nothing happened. The line grew. Air conditioning didn’t help. Everyone became hot under the collar. Elizabeth used to go to the manager’s window and ask to speak to the supervisor, but it took time to roust the supervisor. She hated wasting her life on line. Everyone did.
There were three windows open out of six. There was a new worker at one window, a young, eager, and good-looking black woman. Elizabeth sympathized with workers on their first day on the job.
Elizabeth wanted to mail a small package and buy a book of stamps. The new worker weighed the package. She pulled open a drawer and grabbed a book of stamps. She struggled to lift up a few loose stamps for the package. Then she dropped all the stamps on the counter and took the package off the scale.
The new worker couldn’t grasp the stamps, she couldn’t pick them up off the counter. Her extremely long nails curled under and hit the surface of the counter. she couldn’t put her fingertips on the stamps. The nails repelled her from doing that. She tried using one nail, like a shovel, and then she used two nails, like tweezers. Finally she resorted to sliding the stamps off the counter with her palm—fingers out, nails curling to infinity—into her other palm. Somehow she pasted the stamps on the package. The young woman beamed triumphantly at Elizabeth.
The line now snaked three times around the post office. It was the new worker. She was supposed to speed service. She was hindering it. Teeth clenched, Elizabeth walked to the supervisor’s window. She rang a bell and waited. An overweight white man in a cheap suit came toward the window. He walked very slowly. He had mustard stains on his maroon tie.
—Yes? the manager said, already annoyed.
—There’s a new woman working a window.
—Yes?
—She’s OK, but I don’t know what the civil service laws are about discriminating…
—Discriminating?
—About personal stuff…
—Personal?
—The woman has very long nails. I don’t know if this is discriminating, long nails. It’s not discrimination… it’s about regulations… The point is, she can’t pick up the stamps.
The manager was bored. He listened without comprehension.
—See the line? Elizabeth asked, exasperated.
—I see it.
—It’s very long.
—So?
—The new woman can’t pick up the stamps. She physically can’t pick
them up and put them on the mail and something should be done. I don’t know what the regulations are about personal dress…
—Dress?
—Nail length.
There was a long pause. They were at an impasse.
—I’ll check into it, he said, finally.
—She could do a good job, she just needs to be told that long nails aren’t…
The manager wanted her to go away, to evaporate, to shut up. Nail length probably wasn’t itemized under the dress code. It wasn’t simple like smoking in the workplace.
People with long nails have them to show they don’t do manual labor. They might also imagine that dead cells jutting out of their fingers is attractive. The young woman hadn’t realized the post office required light manual labor. Elizabeth didn’t know if the young woman could do a good job. She gave her the benefit of the doubt. She didn’t want her fired for the length of her nails.
Lesbians cut their nails short. Hands and nails were a dyke thing. Let them take over the post office, Elizabeth thought. She’d phone Chris. Chris wouldn’t want to work in the post office. No one did. It was disabling because everyone thought you were disabled.
Elizabeth grabbed her mail from the postbox and raced out. She hoped the new worker hadn’t seen her talking to the supervisor.
A man smelling of cheap perfume rushed in. His face was pink. He brushed her body with his body. He’d been freshly shaved at the barber. He was round and pink. He brushed against her twice.
—Sorry, he said.
—That’s OK.
—Sorry, he said again.
He looked familiar.
—Who’s that? Elizabeth asked Geraldo the pirate.
—Don’t know. I’ve seen him before though.
Elizabeth dropped two quarters into Geraldo’s worn paper cup. She’d heard about an Anglo-Pakistani writer visiting New York. He noticed a black man holding a cup on a platform in the subway. The writer dropped a quarter into his cup. The man said, That’s my coffee, idiot.
Subways were fast. She could read on the subway. Elizabeth rode the subway during the day. Not at night. Large men spread their legs across two seats. Small men also took up two subway seats. They did it differently from big men. Small men hunched and pushed their bodies forward, shoving as much of their bulk forward as they could, they even bulked up, made as much of themselves as they could. Some big teenaged girls took up two seats on purpose and very fat people took up two, sometimes three seats, not on purpose. But subway riders hated them anyway. She did.
Sitting next to one of the big or small men, squeezed between two strangers, Elizabeth forced her fury down. She could choke on it. She could become violent. She squeezed into whatever space was available. She made them as uncomfortable as she could. She was uncomfortable too. She was crushed between strangers. It was a violation of the unknown kind. Her knees were locked together. She was perched on the seat, the way she sat on the toilet. She couldn’t breathe. She might explode. She could just as easily have thrust a knife into the guy’s chest and cut out his heart as asked the civil question, Will you please close your legs?
She did once, but like going out onto the street and telling the young super to stop revving his engine at six A.M., she would never again ask a man on the subway to close his legs.
When the question escaped from her mouth, it popped, and sex sprayed out. Sex was lying there in the question like his enormous legs across two seats. She’d ejaculated and startled them both, startled the whole car. The big guy shut his legs fast. Then the two of them continued to sit next to each other, primly, as if they’d just had bad sex. Elizabeth suffered for the whole ride. It was a worthless victory.
She wouldn’t do that again. She didn’t enjoy the ride better anyway, crushed and infuriated. She stood. She would stand. She couldn’t read standing. She’d occasionally glare at the offenders. She didn’t try to sit down next to them. She hung on to a metal strap. The legspreaders put their newspapers up in front of their faces. They turned the volume up on their cassette players. They zoned her out. She didn’t exist to them.
Two bags of vomit are walking around the neighborhood. One bag of vomit starts to cry. The other bag of vomit asks, What’s the matter? The first bag of vomit says, I was brought up around here.
Elizabeth drifted in front of the newsstand. She had her hand out. It had a dollar in it. The beautiful Indian woman wasn’t there. There were only two Indian men. People were buying lottery tickets in back. One of the men took the dollar.
—Where’s the woman? Elizabeth asked.
—Ah, she’s away, one answered.
—Away?
—Yes, she’s home.
—Is she coming back?
—She will stay home.
—Tell her hello for me, please.
—I will tell her.
Elizabeth received fifty cents change for the New York Post; “O.J.’S TEARS: ANGUISHED STAR ATTENDS EX-WIFE’S FUNERAL AS COPS TIGHTEN THE NET.” The Indian woman had seemed content selling newspapers. When the man said good-bye to her, Elizabeth viewed him with suspicion. It was an unguarded moment. “KNICKS SET FOR CRUCIAL GAME 5 TONIGHT.”
Kenny was waving to her. Her former mail carrier was a short black man from the Bronx. The post office gave Kenny another route after he’d had her route for ten years. He was taken off it, just like that. Kenny had grown attached to the block, knew their names, their mail. He couldn’t sleep for a while, he was so distressed.
—No one thinks mail carriers have feelings about our routes. We do. Ten years. I know you ten years. Almost eleven.
His new route was still in the neighborhood.
—Hey, Kenny.
—How you keeping?
—So so. You?
—My mother’s ailing.
—Sorry.
—Praying she’ll be all right.
Kenny lifted a hefty pack of mail from his blue cart and unlocked the door to a five-story building. He disappeared. In his cart lay thousands of envelopes. Some would change the fortunes of their recipients. Mail carriers were important. They brought messages to the block.
Maybe the Indian woman had a fatal disease. The man wouldn’t tell Elizabeth.
The public telephones were being guarded by some of the goons. You couldn’t make a call. They’d say, We’re waiting and stand there impassively, aggressively. They didn’t have remotes. You were supposed to wait patiently until they received their call and their orders to move. There was nothing else to do. You didn’t want to get capped just because you wanted to use a pay phone.
How do you know when your dad is fucking your sister in the ass?
His dick tastes of shit.
Elizabeth almost fell on the music junkie. He had a fish-shaped guitar. He was hitting on two teenaged girls. One of the girls sneezed. They were trying to get away from him.
—You’re allergic to me, and I was just going to ask you to marry me, he said.
The girls giggled. A scab-faced junkie could mention marriage and raise giggles and blushes. Elizabeth didn’t give him money. Except the other day when she saw him, bloodied, forehead bandaged like the head of a revolutionary soldier, and his fish-shaped guitar wasn’t hanging down his skinny back, so then she gave him money. The cops had taken his guitar. He was dead to everything but dope and his tinny, fish guitar. He’d be dead soon enough, he wouldn’t bother anyone.
I wouldn’t want to talk to him for a minute, and I’m giving him money. He’d just whine, like the almost-dead woman who walks around here, scuffling, bent over, bent in half, begging in a subhuman voice, no one wants to give her anything, no one wants to listen, no one can stand her, no one wants to keep her alive, she’s like an infection. It’s a disease, narcissism of the afflicted. She’d talk your ear off if you let her.
The Mexican takeout and sit-down was a cold hole in the wall. Elizabeth ordered a cheese enchilada. She thought it’d go down. She sat down. A rookie cop walked in. He ordered too and sat down next to her
. His gun stuck out from his waist. He was wearing his vest. He was corseted and rosy-cheeked. The vest was the new model. He was freshly shaved. He was overheating, stuffed and split like a boiled hot dog.
Elizabeth was ready to confess. She asked him if he’d seen any crossbows and arrows lately. The cop looked at her, the way cops do at civilians who aren’t perceived as immediate threats, the way experts look at amateurs, and the cop responded, not to her question, which was too silly for him even to consider. She saw his frustration. It colored his pink cheeks pinker.
—I’m useless, they can round up all the legal handguns, because most murders aren’t committed with legal firearms, the murderers don’t use legal guns.
He thought hard.
—And another thing, don’t get me started…
She didn’t say a word.
—The thieves are laughing at me. I try to arrest someone for breaking into a car, and they say, Why you picking on me? Go after the murderers. I’m not murdering anybody. There are bad guys out there. I’m not doing anything, I’m not hurting anyone. You know. No one’s got morals anymore.
The cop rested his elbows on the table. He opened his hands wide. She could see his palms. She looked for his fate line. It wasn’t there. He breathed hard. His vest didn’t move. His order—rice, beans, and a beef taco—was ready.
—Here’s a different case. What about that junkie with the fish-shaped guitar? The cops took his guitar from him.
—Don’t know about that, I didn’t hear about that, the cop said.
He was chewing.
—He begs. You guys took away his fish guitar.
—I didn’t.
—I’m not accusing you personally, but what’s the principle. You take away his livelihood…
—What’s a fisherman…
—He’s a junkie with a fish-shaped…
—You don’t know what the guy was doing. You think you see things. Civilians don’t. You don’t. Believe me. Us cops…I seen things that’d make your stomach turn. Believe me.
He looked down at his rice and beans. He stared at his plate listlessly.
—I believe you, Elizabeth said.
The deaf tenant, Herbert, walked in. Elizabeth wanted the cop to keep talking. She wanted to gain his trust, reach out to him, and have him unfold like a clean sheet, or a dirty one, and she’d see the marks, he’d reveal secrets he’d never told anyone. She lusted for his illicit cop secrets.
No Lease on Life Page 11
