Tuesday Morning

So I got trapped on my roof yesterday…

Yeah. That’s right, trapped on my roof.

Let’s just be clear here, I’m not a complete idiot, and I swear it’s never happened before.

Don’t judge. It could happen to you.

First class was canceled, quite fortuitous actually, as I would have missed it anyway. Seriously, what professor in his right mind would buy that as an excuse? I sure as hell wouldn’t… I was sitting on the far side of the roof, observing the day, waking up, in my old Tulane sweatpants and a sweater… and slippers. It as breezy, but no more than usual. And then I hear a strange noise, and the shadow of a chair, which should have been holding the door open, sliding across the roof. I ran for it, but to no avail. The door slammed shut. The CRASH door slammed shut. Do you know what a crash door is? It opens out from one side, the other is just a steel plate, which, if you’re on the wrong side of it, laughs at you, mercilessly. I climbed over a few other roofs, looking for an open door. Nothing. I came back to my roof, and peaked over the edge, seeing if I could spot any of the EMTs usually parked on the block. Too early for them I guess.

Fuck. So I had to do it. I really had to do it. Shit. This can’t possibly be good. I took off my slippers, put them in my pockets and headed up and over the guard wall off the back off the roof. Doowwwnnn the fire escape. Past my window, I could see my own front door, mocking me, all the locks unlocked, just asking to be opened. Down another flight. Sleeping couple, passed them quickly, and the crazy lady with smiley faces all over everything. Down another, boarded up, no one was getting into those apartments. Another, the bathroom windows of the tattoo and piercing parlors. And finally, down the last ladder, which was mercifully extended down to the ground. Slippers on, embarrassing, but better than bare feet I suppose. Out to the front, up that first flight to the buzzers. Please please please let someone be home. I buzzed all but my own, safe to assume no one was there. I got an answer, I think it was 2, voice sounded familiar. Pitiful as I sounded, I don’t think anyone wouldn’t have let me in. I bounded up my stairs, inside, locked everything and plopped on the couch. Phew.

Kathryn

“Yeah, I’m crazy…”

“Yeah, I’m crazy. I’m the crazy fuckin’ Puerto Rican.”

As he tosses yet another bill out of the bus window. Four so far; one in half, something about meeting you half way. One was for Bloomberg “and his office. Here’s a dollar… … Cockroach…”

He finally settles into a seat, and pulls a wad from his sock, after removing the first forcibly from his left back pocket. He sorts them, holding on to the bigger bills, pulling the ones and disposing of them. One by one. Money comes and money goes; he was making it go a bit faster. A bill stuck in the window frame, trapped – waiting for someone to realize its value. Another, tossed to the floor, quickly snatched up by the chubby asian woman.

He settles into a comfortable position, elbow resting on the back on the seat in front of him, arm extended, contentedly flipping off the front half of the bus.

He studies another bill, tilted downwards, holding it to the flame of his imaginary lighter. He watches it burn. Rip it up, thrown it down.

“All the money in the whole world doesn’t get you anything.”

The floor is littered with little bits of green paper.

This is a true story, perhaps a bit embellished. A late night experience I had, coming home on the m15. I opted for the longer trip on the bus vs. the shorter subway ride in order to get some school reading out of the way, but then this guy came and sat down in front of me. I was compelled to take notes, I couldn’t help it. He was so adsorbed in his own story, he could have turned his head a few degrees and bumped into the notebook in which I was writing about him, but he never did. 40 minutes later, when I got off the bus, he was still sitting there, talking to himself, and to his money.

-Kathryn

Gentle Monster

The boss man’s dog was lazying around behind the bar when I arrived late Friday night. I didn’t notice him until I leaned into the bar, getting a little more distance than usual, on my tip toes. I didn’t what it was at first, blame it on the bad lighting. Before me lay this monster of a dog, gorgeous, orange- blonde, drooly, french mastiff. He came out from behind the bar later on in the night, as the place emptied, and gave love all around. He’s the kind of dog that doesn’t whore himself out for attention, but when you stop rubbing him, he starts wagging his tail, and turns to give you that pitiful, “why did you stop?” look. Needless to say, he had me hooked. Cali and I hung out for most of the night, and it was really nice to have that canine contact again. The kinda funky smell and feel left on your hands after you’ve played with them, I’m surprised I missed that as much as I do. Cali was just what I needed, and I must say that I do hope to own a dog that large and docile some day. 

Kathryn