Subway Elevator

 I was waiting for the elevator in the blast furnace heat of the 95^th St station next to an older woman in denim shorts and brightly painted nails.  She was closer to the elevator when the doors opened, releasing a blast of even hotter air, like it was coming from hell itself.  She cringed but got on and I followed.  “You’d think they could air condition these elevators,” I said. “This is the worst station for heat,” she replied. “I moved here from Bensonhurst.” Before I could joke that I wouldn’t be able to leave the cannoli, she added“little Chinatown.” I know many older people miss the days when Bensonhurst was all Italian, but there aren’t many new immigrants coming from Italy, and many of the second generation ones have moved to Staten Island or New Jersey. The same thing happened to Carroll Gardens. But you can’t blame the new immigrants for that.  “And now look what’s happening here,” she says.  I’m not sure what she means, but then she gestures towards me and says “at least some people speak English.” 

 

I was thinking that almost everyone I have met in Bay Ridge speaks English, including the recent immigrants.  They just happen to speak one and often more languages in addition to English, when she said “I work all day on the upper east side serving people.” I nodded sympathetically, thinking she meant she was a waitress. “That’s a schlep,” I said. “I work late and then I just want to relax w my cats ,” she continued.  “How many do you have?” I asked.  Cats are a safer topic than the ethnic composition of Brooklyn. “Three,” she said.  “I have seven,” I replied. “I like you already!” she beamed.  I was not feeling like I reciprocated.

 

“I’m a dog groomer,” she said, “in people’s homes. And now I take care of the owners too, people I have worked for 40 yrs. A lot of their caregivers aren’t doing what they need them to.”  “I took care of my dad. I kept him at home.” I told her to express understanding. “These young people,” she said.  “Anybody below 60,” then she glanced at me and revised downward, “under 50, doesn’t want to do anything anymore .”

 

 She turned to the stairs instead of getting on the 2nd elevator with me so I didn’t have a chance to tell her to consider how much they are getting paid. Young – and not so young-  people are tired of being exploited and working their asses off for wages so low that they can work full time and not be able to afford a place to live. In the absence of a livable wage, people are piling on multiple jobs and side gigs to get by and that doesn’t leave enough energy to give 100% to any one thing.

 

The energy of that conversation was lingering as I headed down the still-damp sidewalk, but a man coming the other way eating a slice of pizza paused between bites to tell me he liked my Hands Off NY shirt, and it kind of cancelled out.

 

I got to my block, feeling grateful that the rain had brought cooler air after a day in my 85 def office.  As I passed my hedge, it started to meow.  I turned on my phone light and peered behind the bushes and found Smokey, drenched, meowing his distress.  When I left this morning, he had not noticed the new window hole, although one of the black girls had and when I glanced back her face was filling the entire space.  He obviously noticed while I was gone, squeezed his large self through a not very large hole and then confirmed that his brain cell to fuzz ratio is dangerously low, completely forgetting that he could easily go back when the rain started.  Too tired to deal with chicken wire or much of anything else, I placed a heavy I kept him at home.   box of canned 9-lives in front of the hole and hoped that that impediment, along with his memory of being wet, would keep Smokey in for the night until I can tackle a more permanent blockade in the morning.