Selling the Souls of Others

HEY HEY HEY!

No, I'm not playing Fat Albert, although I'm big enough to. No. The old, shriveled up woman who works at the laundromat is finished pulling my pants out of the washer. She's gearing to go after my shirts. Whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm here. The old lady points accusingly at the mound of clothes that are my pants, shouting out at me in Korean. Easy, easy there. I wave my hands down at her, and go for my other washer, pulling out my shirts. Wow, this place doesn't fuck around. I just stepped out to take back my detergent and to go to Duane Reade to order my prescriptions.

Going back and forth with my laundry helped me to get a lot done this morning. I went to the cafeteria and got my lunch and a little breakfast to go with it. Tuna Fish Sandwiches made by the 'Old Lady'. I call her that because she and the Black Lady in the kitchen are a panic. The Old Lady can barely do anything. She moves at the speed of molasses going uphill, her hands tremble so badly that you hate to ask her to hand you a hot cup of coffee, and her sandwiches are a study in abstract art. The Black Lady just stands there with a look of contempt on her face, staring you in the eye, but you know by how she addresses you, that it's not directed at you, but at the shenanagins going on behind her with the Old Lady.

Todays show is, can the Old Lady open a can of tuna, and how long will it be before the Black Lady has to intervene to do it for her? The Black Lady turns her impatient stare towards me, and then quickly smiles. "Would you like a lunch?" she asks sweetly. Yes please. She goes off into the kitchen, takes the bag from the counter top and stops before a refrigerator. "Would you like a water?" Yeah, sure. She goes in and fetches the water, slipping it in the bag and handing it over to me. "Your sandwich is in the bag." Now all the while, the Old Lady is struggling with the can of tuna and a can opener. Her hands shake so much, probably from Parkinson, that she can't connect the cutting side of the tool to the can.

Now I ask you, who in the world would give her this kind of job in the first place? Someone obviously heartless, or gets his kicks out of watching old people do silly things. I myself swallow down a laugh, I mean, I'm not mean-spirited, but a man can take only so fucking much. She should be doing something like greeting people into the dining room, where they have a person. Switch the two, you know?

I leave the lunch room comedy hour to go upstairs and drop off detergent or just to take a break. On one of my trips a young man with a huge box on a hand truck is struggling out from the elevator. I hold the door open for him, and he stops in the doorway. "Yo man, I have size thirty four pants for sale." No thanks. That's when I notice something, nearly every time I meet someone going in and out of this building, they're hawking something.

Recently I'm walking down the street and there's this character ahead of me hawking something in the crooks of his arms. It looked like two notebook binders from the back. We're just walking down the street together, he ahead of me at a distance, and lo and behold, he turns into my building. I walk in behind him as he goes to the elevator. We both walk in and he turns to me and says: "Man, I've be'n ou' all day 'n' NOBODY wants ta buy dese good pair of pajamas fo' five bucks." I look at him flatly. I have nothing to say to that. The elevator door opens and he rebops out, "Take care, brother."

Everybody is hawking something here. The Spot reminds me of an ant mound, where worker drones go out and come back with grub. A huge ant mound right smack in the middle of the Upper East Side, disgorging an army of hawking dudes out onto the sidewalks. A literal hive of activity searching for cash.

I hate hawkers.

I retire to my room and hop on my baby, typing my heart out when the intercom rings. "Come downstairs to administration please." I press the talk button, alright. I knew it, sooner or later they were going to ask me for that damn check. I go an fetch the PA check and head to Administration, already knowing what it is that they want. One of the Admins walk in with a folder, and before I raise the check he speaks: "You have documents that we need to process you." Wha? "You are missing a birth certificate or immigration papers. You have to get those." I thought this was over this check... He shakes his head. "We need those papers. Can you get them for us?" I can tomorrow, I don't have them on me. "Tomorrow," the Admin is concerned. "You have to have them by tomorrow." Alright, I'll go to the Department of records and get that for you. He takes the check, hands me a receipt and is gone. I wander my way back upstairs. I'll have to get up early to make it to the Department and deal with those lines.

In my room I keep seeing images of birth certi- ficates, I keep seeing one that I filed some- where. I begin to search. Where would I put a birth certificate in all of my shit? I began to dig harder finding an arbitrary stack of paperwork and upon going through it I produce that fucking birth certificate. I go back downstairs victorious. The Admin is pleased. He raises his hands to the sky: "Praise the lord," he calls.

I feel that this was an important hurdle. I brushed past a close one. I know that this was critical as I watch him make copies of the document. How large was this creature that loomed over me for the moment.

I return to my room and take a seat. Soon, I will have to go downstairs to see the Sugar Plum. Good news? What are charts?

Hobobob