Rape New York

How an Uneventful Day and Place Became Eventful

25 | rny how an uneventFul day and place Became eventFul AFTER WAKING UP TIRED for several days, I decided to go to the doctor. My boyfriend A recommended one he had used. My body ached, especially my feet and hands. I had reasons to be physically exhausted. I’d finished my thesis that summer, then packed all of the things we had accumulated during our three-year stay at Princeton. A motorcycle accident had left me with abrasions on my abdomen and a broken clavicle. I’d just completed a draining search for an affordable apartment while teaching my first semester at Cooper Union and simultaneously flying back and forth to Madrid to secure a visa. A, whom I had lived with for a number of years, needed to return to Spain, which meant I needed a roommate to cover the rent. Despite these setbacks, the major effort was over. I was shattered, but looking forward to starting a new life. When the nurse at the doctor’s office asked me what was wrong, I told her I was suffering from exhaustion. She told me that she, too, was feeling a lack of energy, which I could 26 | rny see was true from the slow, lethargic way she moved. “Did you have a blood test?” I asked, while she filled vials with my blood. “No,” she replied. “You should,” I said, which made her smile. I had to wait a long time to see the doctor. I had been to his office once before with A and he made us wait then too, at least an hour and a half in the office. My plan for the day had been to buy groceries, collect a prescription,eat,rest,and then work.I got out at 125th Street. The trip was fast; one stop to Fifty-Ninth Street and then an express to 125th. I walked to the Duane Reade Pharmacy on 125th, then to C-Town, the supermarket on the corner of 125th and Broadway. I bought a big bag of oranges, three grapefruits, orange-papaya juice, a bottle of milk, a container of yogurt, some potatoes, carrots, and bread.The four plastic bags, two in each hand, were difficult for me to carry. Only six months had passed since my motorcycle accident and just three since the metal pins had been taken out of my clavicle. As I carried the groceries, I practiced the breathing and diaphragm exercises that A had given me to take stress off my lower back. He was good at giving medical advice, but not at helping me pack, I thought. I walked up Amsterdam Avenue past the hairdresser, the liquor store, the swimming pool closed for the winter, and the bus station on the other side of the street. I felt tired and walked slowly, observing the neighborhood. I went up the hill at 129th Street with its strange half-industrial, halfresidential landscape, to Convent Avenue. Close to home, I 27 | rny crossed the street. Good buildings, but poorly maintained, I thought, as I turned in at 408 West 129th Street, where I lived. I went up the front steps and put down my bags so I could get my keys. The lock was broken and the door was open. I would have to write another complaint. I was really tired of writing these letters, but the landlord ignored phone calls. I went up, happy to be nearly home with healthy food for the week. I smiled at one of my neighbors. She was a friendly older woman in her sixties, who always dressed with care. She reminded me of L, a neighbor in Madrid, whom I’d passed on the stairs for ten years. L had died the previous summer. I often thought about her and all those women who wear skirts and hose, even in winter, to buy a pound of sugar. Too cold for me. I was dressed in a dark green turtleneck sweater, orange jacket, and brown mountain hat. I opened the door of my apartment with my shopping bags hanging from my arms and took them into the kitchen. I put them down and walked back toward the entrance door while removing my hat and my bag. The apartment was stiflingly hot, in stark contrast to the months I had endured with no heat at all. When I went to close the...