This was not unusual. Our buzzer didn't work, so whenever friends came over, they would shout from the street to be let in. We kept a roll of socks next to the windowsill, which we would tuck a set of keys into and drop to the visitors below.
What was unusual was the tone. The shouting from the street was agitated and urgent. The man's voice grew hoarse as he shouted, "Anna! Nerdy! Are you there? Let me in!"
Anna was the master tenant. Nerdy was her younger sister. That was Lo's anarchist nickname. That was not what I called her.
Lo and I were home together that afternoon. We went to the window together and looked out. The man gesticulating from below appeared white, standard height, normal build, middling face, average intellect, late 20s, wire glasses, unshaven, with black leather jacket, with motorcycle helmet in hand. The left side of his clothing was torn and embedded with gravel. The motorcycle was not there.
It took a second for me to parse the visual details and then focus on his face: angry, hurt, demanding, but not wild, just impatient.
This was Matt.
He saw us looking at him. "Nerdy! Bananarchist! You gotta let me in!"
We delivered the keys by sock. Then we stood at the apartment door, listening to him come up the stairs. He limped.
Matt had been in an accident. Half a mile away, on the on-ramp to the Major Deegan Expressway. He saw the gravel on the road too late to steer around it. He slipped and skidded out on his left side. He left the bike on the shoulder and walked.
"Why didn't you stay by the bike and wait for the cops?" I asked.
He didn't answer and instead handed me his leather jacket. It was very heavy. There was a thick protrusion in the left breast pocket. I set it on a chair.
Matt inspected himself. He pulled his shirt up, and he pulled his pants halfway down his thigh. "Ugh!" he said. "Jesus Christ!"
It appeared as if a craftsman of model airplanes had lightly applied the finest grain sandpaper to a hand-sized patch of Matt's mid-section. His skin was slightly abraided - here and there I could see pinpricks of blood, maybe burst capillaries - and reddish. It looked as if a bruise might form on his hip. But otherwise his damage was mostly dignitary. His helmet and heavy jacket had protected him from harm.
"Fucken gravel," Matt said. He winced dramatically at every movement.
Anna at the time was exploring eco-alternatives for feminine hygiene. She had taken an old flannel sheet and cut it into rags. She stuffed rags into her underpants to collect the flow of her period. I tried this for a while. I spent a lot of time washing my pants.
Anna saved her rags, and at the end of the month, she stewed them in a pot of boiling water and poured the runoff onto the base of the ficus tree, the Wandering Jew, the pothos, the jade, the spider plant, the cyclamen, the ferns, the violets, the lilies, and the succulents.
"Iron encourages plant growth," Anna said.
So I was not impressed by a little blood from a bike spill.
"You just gave up your bike? Why didn't you stay there and wait for the cops?" I asked again.
Matt glared. "Why don't you check my jacket?"
I went to the jacket and patted it down. That thick protrusion again. I opened the pocket. Inside was a three-inch stack of bills. Seven thousand dollars. Cash.
Anna was the master tenant. Nerdy was her younger sister. That was Lo's anarchist nickname. That was not what I called her.
Lo and I were home together that afternoon. We went to the window together and looked out. The man gesticulating from below appeared white, standard height, normal build, middling face, average intellect, late 20s, wire glasses, unshaven, with black leather jacket, with motorcycle helmet in hand. The left side of his clothing was torn and embedded with gravel. The motorcycle was not there.
It took a second for me to parse the visual details and then focus on his face: angry, hurt, demanding, but not wild, just impatient.
This was Matt.
He saw us looking at him. "Nerdy! Bananarchist! You gotta let me in!"
We delivered the keys by sock. Then we stood at the apartment door, listening to him come up the stairs. He limped.
Matt had been in an accident. Half a mile away, on the on-ramp to the Major Deegan Expressway. He saw the gravel on the road too late to steer around it. He slipped and skidded out on his left side. He left the bike on the shoulder and walked.
"Why didn't you stay by the bike and wait for the cops?" I asked.
He didn't answer and instead handed me his leather jacket. It was very heavy. There was a thick protrusion in the left breast pocket. I set it on a chair.
Matt inspected himself. He pulled his shirt up, and he pulled his pants halfway down his thigh. "Ugh!" he said. "Jesus Christ!"
It appeared as if a craftsman of model airplanes had lightly applied the finest grain sandpaper to a hand-sized patch of Matt's mid-section. His skin was slightly abraided - here and there I could see pinpricks of blood, maybe burst capillaries - and reddish. It looked as if a bruise might form on his hip. But otherwise his damage was mostly dignitary. His helmet and heavy jacket had protected him from harm.
"Fucken gravel," Matt said. He winced dramatically at every movement.
Anna at the time was exploring eco-alternatives for feminine hygiene. She had taken an old flannel sheet and cut it into rags. She stuffed rags into her underpants to collect the flow of her period. I tried this for a while. I spent a lot of time washing my pants.
Anna saved her rags, and at the end of the month, she stewed them in a pot of boiling water and poured the runoff onto the base of the ficus tree, the Wandering Jew, the pothos, the jade, the spider plant, the cyclamen, the ferns, the violets, the lilies, and the succulents.
"Iron encourages plant growth," Anna said.
So I was not impressed by a little blood from a bike spill.
"You just gave up your bike? Why didn't you stay there and wait for the cops?" I asked again.
Matt glared. "Why don't you check my jacket?"
I went to the jacket and patted it down. That thick protrusion again. I opened the pocket. Inside was a three-inch stack of bills. Seven thousand dollars. Cash.
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