ALMOST NOVEMBER 3RD
When you live in a city as large as New York, you want to dust at least twice a week. I like to get at it in the morning on a Monday. Go back on a Wednesday, and depending on whether my co-workers want to grab any drinks or not, I’ll come home and get a good dusting in around 9:30pm on a Friday. My weekend is a breeze. But if we do go out, and I’ll know before hand or not, I can dust that morning instead. Maybe on Saturday. It’s always good to clean on Saturday. People are more likely to come over then. Friday you go out, Saturday you party indoors and Sunday you relax. So in case anyone wants to visit my apartment that night, I’ll have time to prepare some sort of meal or appetizer. Maybe I’ll paint a rug. That’s my thing, and people say it’s just gorgeous when hung on a wall. Decorative rugs.
I hope we don’t go out, but I see Sherry and all her teeth and they’re telling me it’s time to stop caring, and start daring. That’s her little phrase. She coined it three years ago. And three days. It’s a Friday now and until an hour ago I thought I’d have time to get at the dust waiting back at home. It’s disgusting. I really believe so. I read it once, and believe me, I’ve researched it since. Dust is us. Pun intended. Dead skin cells all floating around looking for a place to crash like that dope Sherry’s always running away from. Why must we be subjected to her quest every other Friday night?
I love Sherry. This is the best night I’ve had in almost three years. Svetlana came out tonight. No one’s seen her outside the Teacher Lobby since Paul passed. He’s not dead. It’s just that when a principal moves on to another school, he’s usually moving up. Up to a better school, with smooth walls, glass walls, and dry-erase boards on Urinals. (They say it helps them multi-task). Principal Paul has passed on from PS69. Rest in peace. I’m still dusting study hall for his spare skin cells. Dust. Sex dust. With Svetlana, I’m sure.
He’s not real, you know.
I hate Sherry. She’s got a real way of ruining an evening. But she’s right. She’s always right. The guy I’ve been talking to all night. The one over there by the photo booth. Snapping, flashing, voting all night. He’s totally into me. Been checking me out all night. Not the other girls. And twenty minutes ago I, Miss Gibson (of formally Mrs. Gibson), approached that man and (not accidentally) spilled a drink all over his black suit – which he leaves open, with a beautiful corsage almost, like a man’s tiny corsage. We laughed, I apologized, we danced. We almost kissed.
How long’s it been?
Somehow I’ve managed to embarrass Miss Gibson by letting Mrs. Gibson open her damn mouth. Here we are in a cab together and he’s asking me how long it’s been since I’ve fucked another man. Well it’s been a long time Mr… Mr…
Jarman. Mr. Jarman.
He pays for the cab and I realize that I’m about to see his apartment. It means I’ll see him. His decorative rugs, normal rugs, bath towels and dvd collection. His dust. I’ll see the rest him under that stained black suit. Mr. Jarman’s black suit doesn’t even have a reflection. It’s deep and I could fall into if it weren’t for my stain. I could fall into it… I could use a glass of water.
Six flights. No elevator. Why are there Christmas lights? It’s cold in here. Dirty. Dusty and dirty and we’re climbing up six flights. He’s telling me he loves children. He cares about them. Even donates. Donates to something, I don’t know, and his black suit is so dark against these halls like following an absence. He’s a hole in my hands. I notice the key to his front door. It’s the size of my finger and suddenly we’re inside and I’m sneezing.
In God I trust.
God bless me. It’s everywhere. All of it. It’s all his. It can’t be anyone else’s, there’s no one else here in this tiny place where the dust rises feet above anything solid. It’s all dead flakes and it’s pulling from me. I sneeze. The dust goes everywhere and I can’t see anymore.
God bless you.
I need… a window. I need to breathe.
Only six flights up and the man can see everything from this window. My school. It’s right there on the corner, just behind that empty lot. I live by my school. To the left there, that’s my apartment. The one that’s so clean. The apartment I need to be inside of right now. Just thinking about it has my lungs relaxing and I’m confident I’ll be able to climb this fire escape all the way down. There’s no way I’m going back into his catacomb.
But it’s all yours, Candice. The dust. It’s everything you’ve thrown away. Your neighbors too. I can see it all from here and I open my windows for you. Even the children are here! Can’t you smell them?
I hate Sherry. The bitch is always right.
Candice don’t! That’s dangerous.
But that’s not my name.
Mrs. Gibson!
I’m not Candice Gibson. This fire-escape isn’t tipping and even though I’m scared, I won’t die when I fall because…
I’ve woken up.
Candice is here yelling at me, like always, and I’m yelling back at her. Like always. Soon I’ve forgotten about my dream and I’m making breakfast for the little brat before she goes off to her little prison. It was the same, wasn’t it? Candice’s school… I was working there and…
You fuckin prick!
I hate New Yorkers. This is the third asshole who’s tried waving at me to slow down by his stop. He’s annoyed to look at me. Don’t tell me I’m fucking late, cocksucker. I see you standing there and you better believe I’m on time.
It’s about time.
I keep my mouth shut and remember there are thousands of me’s who are ready to pick up the phone when I get fired. Do you think Candice wants to be a teacher? Is she going to be a teacher? A New York teacher might as well be a New York beggar. She’s better than that. That’s not why I dreamt it. Not why Candice or Mrs…
I find it hilarious when you people wave me down like I don’t see you. It’s my fucking job to pick you up, asshole. They don’t hire just any cunt in the shit-eating business. We’re not all morons here!
My mouth has gotten me fired before. Divorced too. Like Candice, and the absence. How terrifying that all was. Like this road. Cars and trucks and legs and dogs and limbs and cribs and traffic. It’s all one big death trap with no health plan. Think about that before you cuss out the next guest who walks onto your bus with an attitude. They’re all assholes in this city. You know they are. You’ve been cleaning up after them for years.
The dust.
I switched my week around to pick up Candice after school today. I had to take Svetlana’s shift on Tuesday. There goes my day-off. I was only ten minutes late to see Candice, but, as it turned out, my aunt didn’t get my voicemail and instead of disappointing my kid now, there’s time enough to surprise her later. Although this only proves that my Aunt Sherry is a lazy bum who’s been freeloading since ’69. We’re supposed to go voting on Tuesday. I finally got her interested enough and she wants to vote for Gibson.
Gibson.
That’s funny. Candice Gibson. How strange.
I have time now to go looking for the Mister’s apartment. I’ll remember his name. It was something like Harm, or Harmony, or something. I’m close, I can almost taste it. Like the dust. That disgusting moment last night even had a taste. A smell too. The dust. I remember it when I find the dream’s first floor. It’s exactly where I thought it would be. Where I remember it being. How I remember it – dirty. So here I am on the sixth floor now; standing outside the door of what should be a stranger. But in my head he’s the evil man I always feared would ruin my daughter’s life one day. It’s dramatic, I know. It’s ludicrous, I know. And they fire people in NY considered to be ludicrous. I can’t lose my job, but I know that I can’t let this moment go. It isn’t the first day I’ve woken up like this. Feeling the absence of my Mister. As much as I’d like to ignore it, I can’t. Because I’m not Miss Candice – 2nd grade schoolteacher who cleans four-fucking-times a week. I don’t care that much. I don’t pay attention that much. It’s dust. It isn’t affecting my life like hers. Not until right now outside this door; and instead of knocking I think it’d be best to just open it. Go striding through. Pick my arms up and flash my MTA badge and call it a gas emergency. I can lie, and I’m ready to, but there’s no one here. His room is the same. The view – less luxurious - is the same. I’m there. My child’s school is there. My bathroom window. Her playground. My living room. Her corner where she waits and for Aunt Sherry to scoop her up. It’s all here and I should be scared, but I’m confused. More than anything else I’m dumbfounded as to why there are so many posters along the walls. Taped up, tacked up, nailed into the door and hanging. Flyers stacked in the dozens, sometimes the hundreds. They clutter a room that has no table, chair, or dresser. Nothing but the words and those images all shouting at me in laminate plastic and printed colored paper. They all say the same thing.
Vote Jarman.
Mr. Jarman.
He cares about you.
Mr. Evil, Black suit, Jarman.
Your children.
Mr. Absent.
And their education.
I hate Sherry. That bitch is always right.
