crappy sneakers

12/4/07

as a postscript to yesterday-

my landlord agreed to let me pay an extra $10 per month to pay them back for the window gate i'm going to get. now, it's just a matter of getting them to install it. they also said they'd reimburse me $100 for a broken lock that I paid $300 for, awhile back.

when i described in further detail what happened with the lock, he sweetly clarified that it was a cylinder problem and that it would be a $10 reimbursement, rather than $100. I do adore these mom n pop, community realty organizations.

i recall that evening with the broken lock as one of the few times i've felt entirely alone and pathetically female-ly vulnerable, and it culminated in me jogging down washington avenue at 6 am in my ugliest shoes to withdraw $300 from an ATM while two surly Russian men waited for me in a van.

i mean, in summary.

it was 5:30 on a Sunday morning (still a saturday night?) had walked into my apartment and opened the door, tipsy, with at least a few intriguing saturday night memories formed, and tried to pull the key out of the lock. it refused to come out. tugging and twisting till my palms sweated, i gave up and went inside, the door swinging open and the keys still firmly in the lock, door stuck open.

i considered going to bed and waiting to deal with it in the morning, hoping no one came in, or leave, wander brooklyn till i woke up a friend to crash with and hope i didn't get robbed while gone; in my drunkenness, i had enough clarity to do neither. but i did begin to force frustrated tears, the kind where your own, gently fake wails is entirely soothing, if only because you sound like a childish idiot in your own ears and you shut the fuck up.

i found a locksmith who sent two burly, irritated eastern europeans who stood in my apartment while i splashed water on my face to sober up. it was awkward, intimidating, and the fucking sun just still refused to come up. they replaced the lock, telling me no credit card, only cash. $347. they'd wait there for me.

see, i didn't have $347, and I certainly wasn't in the mood to leave my apartment to two polish giants while i went to an ATM in the dark.

no credit card? no check?
nope!
can you come with me?
no, we'll wait here.

(Quickly, quickly sobering up in the panic of poverty and potential bodily harm)

i'm kind of nervous to go withdraw this much money while you stand in my apartment. go wait outside. in... your conversion van.

(Better and better!)

agreed.

so, i put on my old running shoes, totally incongruous with that evening's outfit, and start running down washington avenue to get the money i really don't have, to fix one of those new york problems that you can't predict and thus can't lament.

that's when the real tears start coming- thoughts that don't usually plague me (why don't i have a man to fix this? or come with me? why can't i save money? why do i even fucking live in this city in order to pay for an apartment that, at the moment, anyone can get into, except for me, because i'm jogging at 5:45 am to an outdoor cash withdrawal machine?) start to pound in rhythm to my running.

the absence of certain things are amplified by the presence of others- hot, helpless tears and, still, the fucking moon. It appears that, in March the sun doesn't come up till around 10 am. And none of the things I'm wishing for are going to materialize, of course- the closest thing to a savior that night was my overdraft account. My bank in shining, 19% interest armor.

i got the money and they gruffly wrote me a receipt. on a legal pad.

i don't use those sneakers at all, they're pretty ugly. i found some new ones in the lobby of my building.
so there's ups and downs to every living situation, i suppose.