Wading Through Red

I have decided most days in this megalopolis of waste seem to pass with greater comfort if one chooses to fabricate his or her own reality. Although I welcome the true grit of humanity as well as my own unpleasant characteristics, I must admit I could have done without the mental image she imposed upon us. Stepping down into my hole, I thought of her. Opening my subway map I thought of her. The elephant woman consumed the next 7 hours of activities, even after the third shower, two bowls of cereal, and several bloody segments of the news. I concluded the evening by throwing up, downing analgesics, and passing out on the couch to the tune of late night sit-coms (A 50’s TV Mom had driven home in the wrong stationwagon . . . again). When I woke the next morning with my signature migraine, I felt I had accomplished something.

*

I left the apartment early enough to have a decent chance at the pay phone without waiting on too many dealers or degenerates to make their various connections – plus I have noticed that they seem fairly patient when waiting on small white girls to do their business. Luckily my phone was to be hooked up by the end of the week, but I wanted to get a head start on shrinks since it was so close to the holidays. I figured there would be considerably more whining patrons this time of year, none of which had my radiant awareness of true mental hygiene. As usual, my exiting the gate entailed stepping over Irwin’s empty beer cans neatly crunched at the foot of my steps. Unfortunately he was unavailable for target practice, so I simply kicked them aside saving them for later. There were four cans, which meant he had some luck the day before; the other two were probably closer to the store of purchase.

"I’m sorry, Dr. Blah Blah isn’t taking any new patients blah blah . . ." I hung up. This went on for a good 2 pages of notes and phone numbers. I decided to finish crossing out the rest of the shrinks while being spoken to in a condescending manner on my own phone line. The dope dealers were starting to seem a lot less patient today. There must be a seasonal demand for numbing pharmaceuticals.

A quick pace home taking in as little odious garbage fumes as possible was the plan until I noticed Irwin’s counterpart, Wilma, on his step. I like Wilma. She wears no shoes, a tailored, black cashmere sweater, and she’s quiet.

"What size shoe do you wear, Wilma?" I asked loudly over the usual traffic and passing boom boxes.

Slowly she raises her head from her chest and empty bottle. "Ten," she said, squinting out the sun.

"Oh," I said disappointed. I wear an 8. When I got inside, I gathered up all the shoes I didn’t want or need anyway, and put them in a bag to take out with the trash. If she couldn’t squeeze into them, someone else would.

After balancing the checkbook and calculating all the money I had saved, including the change I found in my new, used Salvation Army couch, I decided I shouldn’t wait too much longer to put in my apps at the nearby diners. I celebrated the balancing of the checkbook by taking a really long shower.