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CHAPTER 1
Every few Sundays, Segundo, the very short superintendent who lives in the basement at 223 East 32nd Street, opens the back pages of The Village Voice and orders two very tall call girls. He doesn't know we know. Segundo avoids all interactions with us. At most, Andrew and I might get a muffled response to the "hello" we pitch him when one of us is coming and the other is going, but most of the time Segundo just stays in the shadows. Sometimes we'll see him taking out the garbage or hosing down the sidewalk. Once in a while, I'll spot him sitting on the stoop, alone, vacantly staring straight ahead.
I find Segundo quite remarkable and often speculate about his place in the universe: What does he eat? And does he cook it, or order takeout? Is he Catholic? Has he ever been in agonizing, consuming, can't-live-without-the-other-person love? His recent haircut (buzzed — I imagine he sheared off his raven-black hair by himself in a dimly lit bathroom of his subterranean apartment) is growing out. Both Andrew and Segundo shaved their heads within the same week; Segundo's grows faster.
One recent evening, after arriving home from a walk around the block, five of us — me, my husband, Andrew, our little dog, Maybe, and two leggy women — clogged the narrow hallway of our apartment building. As the ladies slithered past us, I got a close enough look to notice that they weren't dressed appropriately for the cool October weather. Their skirts were short and sequined. They wore stilettos. They were giggling. To me, they looked like panthers. I nudged Andrew, who was unlocking the door to our bite-sized apartment. As he pushed it open, the two women exited the building and, without even a glance, Andrew said, "Look out front. There'll be a man waiting in a minivan." There was indeed. I was stunned.
"They're prostitutes," he declared.
"Two of them?!"
"Two of them. Segundo's been getting busy."
"No. I don't believe it."
"Right next to our room."
Only a thin wall separates one life from another, but unless we are in the right place at the right time, the truths of others remain unknown. Some choose not to think about it, but I can't help it. The world inside of New York City is just a terribly interesting place.
xyx
"Assistant?" Andrew asks from the kitchen.
"Yes, assistant?"
"The cabbage."
"You got it."
Andrew stirs the tomato soup as I step out of the shower and open the door a crack. Then, leaning out of the bathroom, stretching my arm into the kitchen, I take the frozen cabbage from him. As I grab it, I see Maybe hovering on the floor by Andrew's feet. She's waiting for fallen scraps. She's one year old, and a rescue. Andrew adopted her before he met me.
"Thank you, assistant," I say and quickly slide back into the bathroom. I'm trying to be polite. I'm trying to be a good wife, but I'm not sure how.
The bathroom is less steamy than the kitchen. I set the cabbage down next to the faucet, wipe off the mirror and look at my face. To me, it looks worn. I blame it on Manhattan: too frenetic, too cruel. Also, I'm not smiling. I once heard or read somewhere that if you force yourself to smile, the muscles activate something in your brain, trigger synapses, or massage a gland; something that makes you feel good, like a switch to a lever moving a pulley that tilts a bucket and produces a feeling of contentment. All I have to do is turn my frown upside down.
Dr. Reich explained that if I stuck frozen cabbage in my bra, things would improve. She said that the common green cabbage has some chemical or enzyme that is used for "engorgement therapy." In other words, something in the cabbage stops breasts from producing milk, and if I consistently wear these leaves, production will cease. I don't need the milk because there is no baby. All that's left is the milk.
Dr. Reich used the word "engorged." No one has ever used the word "engorged" in the same sentence as my breasts — typically, they're the size of small plums. But not now. This body is not mine. I used to think I had some say in how it conducted itself. I am twenty-eight years old.
The bathroom door is closed, so I am alone. With this hollow rectangle of white-painted wood, I've created isolation, solitude. This is all I want. Lately, I don't want to be seen, especially not like this. I don't want my husband to see my skin. Skin provokes primal urges in humans, urges that, unlike my newlywed husband, I am not having. Naked invites sex, and I don't want to initiate anything. Whenever I start to entertain the notion of sex, I just get tired. I just want to sleep. So it's out of the question. He should realize this. How can he not realize this? I shouldn't have to spell it out. I'm tired. I'm angry.
I take the cabbage off the counter of the sink and slip it into my bra. It's not something I'd describe as pleasant — the cold, frosty leaves piercing my nipples on contact. In several minutes they begin to warm, and I will smell like my mother's golabki. At night in bed I sleep on my back because every time I turn onto my side, my arms squeeze my breasts together like an accordion and they leak milk. It's embarrassing. The stuff goes right through my athletic bra, which I've also been instructed to wear. I don't want Andrew to see any of this. We're to believe big breasts are lovable and playful, little breasts are cute and sweet, breastfeeding is beautiful and natural, but what about swollen, leaking breasts with no baby to feed? Would you put this in the same category as burping and passing gas — functions that sexy women do not do? Do I keep this a secret since it's not sexy? What good is a sad, broken machine?
Andrew told me, in some sort of attempt to make me laugh again, that he would make use of my milk. That he would churn butter or make cheese out of it (what, Parmesan? Brie?) and we would save some money. I did laugh at this. Manhattan is expensive.
"Maybe! Roll over! Maybe, roll over!"
"You've got to pitch your voice higher," I tell him. Dogs prefer higher-pitched voices. Andrew says okay and repeats his command, this time in the voice of a man imitating a little girl.
The dog. She's what we talk about now. Maybe is the safest topic, the most neutral, the least baffling thing to discuss. You might say we're avoiding more challenging topics, that we're walking on eggshells, but there's nothing left to break. Really, we're just tired. And we've only just begun. We're trying to wrap our heads around the idea of wrapping our heads around something, quietly trying to accept what is. And when you don't quite know how to do that with someone you've only just met, you talk about the dog.
"Yes, Maybe," Andrew says. "Good girl."
This month marks the third year since I uprooted from Portland, Maine, the tranquil oceanfront city where I'd moved after graduating college in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In Maine, I had a steady editing job, saved up a good sum of money, and experienced nothing that would qualify as either anxiety or ambition. But I was making my parents proud and, I believe, lowering the collective low blood pressure of my family. In Portland, my days were pleasantly unsurprising. The people focused little on work and a lot on leisure, farmer's markets, and things like parades. Winters weren't bad or ugly — you could snowshoe to work — and in the fat of summer, the Atlantic sea breeze would seep through my open window and augment my slumber with a parental embrace. In the mornings, the sun would move across my bedroom floor and bake it like bread before my bare feet touched it. I never felt rushed. In my mud-colored kitchen with uneven shelves, I would brew coffee and polka-dot my cereal with blueberries. And yes, they were local and organic and they were affordable. Life felt flawless. I was at peace. But it wasn't enough.
In Maine, all the pine-tree license plates and rest-stop billboards said things like The Way Life Should Be, and Vacationland, which Maine is. The state motto is Dirigo, which means "I direct" — which I did not. In Vacationland, I didn't live with direction. I didn't live with force or drive or intensity. In Maine, my life wasn't so much about dirigo — it was about acquiescence. It was about settling into an uncomplicated life, watching days glide by like little clouds. And even though that's what I'd been aiming for, even though that's what I thought I wanted, or was supposed to want, something in me refused to settle. So I left. I came to New York to be a writer.
"Dinner's almost ready," Andrew calls.
"One more minute! I'm just brushing my hair," I answer, then put my head in my hands for one more moment of solitude. But right as Andrew is pulling the bread out of the oven, the fire alarm goes off. It happens nearly every time we cook, so we developed a system: knock on our Hungarian roommate Attila's bedroom door, grab his giant fan, turn it on high, open the front door of the apartment (for air flow), lift the giant fan over our heads, blow air onto the fire alarm, be nonchalant. The situation is taking place inches away from where I am in the bathroom. It seems as if there is no silence in this city.
In retrospect, I wish I had transitioned into a metropolitan life a little more gradually. My mother had warned me, "Why be small fish in big pond?" My father wasn't a fan of my sudden upheaval either. He knows how sensitive I am. And my friends all wanted to know what I was going to find in New York that was so important, why it was so much better than our town. I thought I'd figure it out, that I'd show them. In retrospect, I wish I'd understood that one must ease into these things, these giant life changes. I simply thought this was my chance to make something of myself. But I didn't think much about all the things that it would involve, about what had to happen between the introduction and the conclusion: the body. There was no set path to follow, no guidebook or road map. Back then I thought that in life you either had to comply or act out. Prove something. So I packed up my car and put it on I-95 and just drove. It hurt a little, because tearing yourself out of a nap always hurts, always just a little. New York City. Three years ago this month.
"Be careful. It's hot," Andrew says.
"Thank you for cooking dinner, assistant," I say.
He blows on the soup. "Mmm-hmm. You're welcome. What's the plan for tomorrow? Will you get a chance to write?"
"Doctor's appointment at eight-thirty in the morning. Will you come?"
"Sure."
"It's going to be our very last one."
"Weird."
"I know. Weird."
With nothing else for us to say, Andrew and I sip our soup as NPR fills the apartment with talk of bailouts, meltdowns, audacity, hope. Change.
We are leaving the apartment the next morning, and I am trying to remember if my doctor's appointment is on 13th or 16th Street. We're running late, but so are they — they always are — so it doesn't matter. We'll take the subway. Yellow cabs speed down 32nd Street. The garbage trucks are swift and brutal. The sidewalks work as highways. And soon, the streets will marinate in cigarette butts and urine — dog, bird, human. Soon, middle-aged Mexican men will deliver Indian takeout to young bankers from Connecticut. What is this? I find the word "misanthropy" resurfacing again and again in my mind. The people of New York generally coexist peacefully, which is impressive, considering there are 27,352 people per square mile. But it is a class-divided society. The city has a rich cultural environment, full of galleries and restaurants and museums and shows, but unless you're incredibly wealthy, it requires sacrifice to enjoy those things. Unless you are rich, you struggle every day. You grind away. You ride the subway for two hours just to work at Starbucks. We go to New York to make our careers, and we end up stepping over homeless people lying flat on the sidewalk as we walk to work.
I just hate what we are allowing ourselves to do in this city, just to survive. For instance: my classmate Grace. Grace has decided to sell her eggs so she can pay her bills. The fact that Grace has gobbled down hormones to pay off her student loans really pisses me off. I hate how she is harvesting her goods just to make a dent in her educational debts. And no one will know, and no one will care. But she is my friend and needs my care, so I'll be picking her up from the fertility clinic and taking her home today after my doctor's appointment.
I recall how Grace once theorized that Manhattan was an alien spaceship that hadn't taken off yet. "You see," she explained, "it's still chained to the ground and keeps filling up with systems upon systems, people on top of people, all with a giant conveyor belt rolling food in and garbage out. Someday we'll feel beneath our feet a great rumble: the giant New Yuck spaceship taking off."
Since moving here, I'd like to think I've become a proficient bullshit detective: I can spot a professional dogwalker who hates dogs, a nanny who wants children of her own, and people maniacally texting because they're afraid of silence, afraid of themselves. "I've felt the ground rumble a million times since I moved here," I told Grace. "It's called the subway."
It was a couple of Thursdays ago, the night of the big 2008 vice-presidential debate, when Grace revealed her plan. We were scrunched into a packed bar in DUMBO to watch a girl and a boy, all grown up in stiffly pressed suits, race for God knows what. "Going through with it" was what Grace had said. "Men sell sperm all the time," she told me. "All they have to do is fist their mister into a plastic cup and their rent is paid."
Governor Palin royally botched the image she'd recently branded herself with: representative of Americana uteri. I sipped my drink while Grace finished hers off heartily. We ordered another, then another, and watched as Palin's ticket shifted into one backed by moose hunters and white people scared of black people. "Nucular," she said. "Nucular weapons."
Moments before, Grace had gotten us into an uncomfortable situation with a gaggle of French people who had strewn their coats and legs across the seats of one of the booths of the packed bar.
"You can't save seats here," Grace told them.
"Grace, just let it go," I said.
"They're not even American. I'm sitting down," Grace said, looking at their faces. Hers was pale and round, and her mascara had settled as it always did — right under her eyes — making Grace look like a rabid kitten. Or a scary babysitter. Or the moon. I didn't know at the time that this was due to the hormones she was taking.
"I'm sorry," Grace persisted. "But your feet can't just claim territory that's not yours."
"Come on, Grace, let me buy you a drink," I said and peeled her away.
From the balcony, we watched the crowd below. The lighting washed the room in a soft, scarlet haze and made the people below look like red devils. Everyone faced a huge projector screen set to PBS. Their faces flickered, as if they were looking into a fire pit. We stared at it, too.
This was when Grace told me about the harvest. "I guess I fit the bill," she said. She explained to me that she'd been on hormones, and they made her moody and act weird. Before all this happened, someone from school had forwarded a Craigslist ad to Grace and me and a bunch of the other girls from the Sarah Lawrence MFA writing program. The subject line said, Give the Gift of Family. Think of it this way, the ad read. You are not selling your eggs or your body; you are being compensated for your time and commitment.
I prodded the Internet to find out more. One site explained that in the United States it's illegal to "sell" eggs, so the handover is labeled a "donation" followed by monetary compensation for "time and energy." One site had a picture of a chicken laying an egg. With egg donation, another site read, women who are past their reproductive years or menopause can become pregnant. Thus, the oldest woman in the world to give birth was sixty-six.
I read more about the procedure. It begins with up to ten self-injections of a drug called Lupron, which stifles a woman's natural menstrual cycle. After the Lupron, she starts taking hormones to put her egg production into overdrive and produce not one egg per month like they're supposed to, but up to nearly twenty, just like a chicken. After the harvest, she'll be listed in a catalog that includes her photo, SAT scores, and academic degrees for the potential buyers.
"The procedure is two Fridays from now," Grace said, "and I was wondering if you could pick me up." I had told her of course, anything she needed. "Thanks, dude," Grace sighed. Then she put her head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Poor Your Soul"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Mira Ptacin.
Excerpted by permission of Soho Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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