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three times and down it quickly, grabbing
onto the sink to steady myself from this dizzying whirl. I’m
surprised I can even put an outfit together this morning, but when
I finally do and am getting ready to leave, Fran stumbles out of
her bedroom, holding her head.
    “ Bad hangover, huh?” I
laugh.
    With a throaty voice, she replies,
“yeah, you could say that.”
    I walk over to the kitchen, find a
clean glass, quickly pull a bottle of Poland Spring from the
fridge, then pour it for her before grabbing my coat and purse.
“Better drink a couple of those so you can make it through the day.
There’s also some Advil in the bathroom cabinet. I’m off to work;
I’ll see you later.”
    “ Gabby, wait,” Fran says,
slowly making her way to me.
    “ What?” I don’t know if
it’s the headache or last night’s argument that makes me want to
run away.
    “ I just wanted to apologize
for what I said last night. I mean, I meant what I said, but it
just came out wrong. I don’t know, Gabby…I just want you to be
happy, you know, and I haven’t seen you happy in a long time. It’s
just time, that’s all.” She pauses. “You know, remember when we
were growing up and I had issues with friends, boyfriends, and my
stupid dad? All those days I just wanted to disappear, to crawl
into a hole and just stay there. Gabby, you wouldn’t let me. You
were always the one who was there for me and who lifted me up from
my well of despair. You made me see that things would get better.
In many ways, you helped me to believe in myself; you helped me to
realize my own strength. Well, now it’s my turn, Gabby. I want to
do that for you.”
    I don’t know what to say. Fran and I
don’t usually talk about these touchy-feely things. “Thanks.” Then
I turn and walk out the door.
    Someone is smoking a
cigarette in the entranceway of our building. I guess the No Smoking sign on the
wall means nothing. I fan away the smoke, which only makes my head
hurt more, and head toward the subway. Every sound, every movement,
is intensified this morning. The screeching of tires, heels making
their way across the sidewalk, taxi drivers screaming at each
other. Why do they have to scream?
    By the time I step off the platform
and onto the street, I’m suddenly aware of an urgent need to pee. I
have to go, and desperately. I pressure my feet to carry me faster,
but they’re less than cooperative. When I finally get to The Brew
House, I head straight for the bathroom, rushing so I don’t have
accident number two here.
    I’m greeted by a delightful bathroom,
if there is such a thing. One wall is purple and the other yellow,
covered with what looks like graffiti art, while the third is
covered in a giant chalkboard. How cool. I quickly pee, trying to
translate the graffiti words into English, then put my purple lace
undies back in place and smooth my skirt. When I go to flush, I
notice the gifts in the toilet that were left for me. Gross.
Grabbing the handle, I try to flush it. Nothing happens. You’ve got
to be kidding me! Shit. The toilet is backed up!
    Now what? Pacing the floor, trying to
come up with some wondrous plan of how to make this all go away. My
mind’s blank. Maybe I’ll kill some time and try again. I wash my
hands slowly. Hmmm…better wash them again. There’s hand lotion on a
funky café table, so I put that on and rub it in thoroughly. I
think I need some lip gloss. Pulling it out of my purse, I stare in
the mirror a bit too long until my lips are glowing. Then I hear a
knock on the door. Great! Now the next person is going to think I
left this shit in the toilet. “Just one second,” I call out. I try
to flush again with no luck, so I snatch a couple of pieces of
toilet paper and throw them over the crap in the toilet. That’ll
have to do. Grabbing a piece of chalk, I write the words “it wasn’t
me” on the chalkboard and draw an arrow to the toilet. Yeah, real
believable.
    When I leave the bathroom, the next
person is