Strike Three: Tuesday to Wednesday
Five of us make it in. One Metro North, one LIRR, two Gypsy cab rides and one walking distance. I shiver in pink fur and goose down, fever and mucous winding lazily beneath my cheekbones down into my throat. I go in anyway. It would seem as though I were lying if I called in today. Gridlock Sam reminds me to bring Kleenex for the walk to work.
The party is another casualty of the history being made. How splendid it might have been, had it occurred. Bloody rare beef and satin-clad asses on women who are a decade or two past their mistletoe heydays. This fact would be eluding them right now, as the glass of white wine gives way to a screwdriver to another screwdriver to a shot with the fat girl from finance. She pretends that come Monday you won't roll your eyes as she passes by. You both know it's a lie.
Gone are the hopeful average Joes who were out here in the cold and the TWU 100 finery last Friday humbly asking you to support their simple request to go from an average salary of $55,362 to $70,309 over the next three years. We are just trying to put food on our tables. And mahogany kitchens in our houses. And diamonds on our poor wives' fingers. Instead, 42nd street is filled with the ungrateful commuters who have driven these poor martyred heroes to this, never realizing how very difficult it is to sell a ticket to a tourist from Fort Worth or pull a brake lever when the light ahead turns to red. In the driveway sits a Ford Explorer from 2003. Haven't we suffered enough?
The city grinds on, with a little less aplomb than it might were it another city. The lady with too much hair and cleavage tells the camera how everyone has really banded together in the midst of the strike of the blackout of the terrorist attack. Never mind that in other towns people smile at one another and help each other, not waiting for disaster, every single day. We are New Yorkers. Our disgust is our birthright. She shines brighter than the Cup o' Noodles neon sun rising above her, asking you how you feel about the strike. How was your commute? Where do you work? Have some coffee or hot cocoa, generously donated by Ellen's Diner on Broadway.
The fever awakens me. I emerge from tangled bedclothes and sleep, and make my way under a stream of steaming water that won't keep me from shivering, no matter how far to the left I turn the knob. Knees and feet and hips and shoulders argue loudly as I stand at the sink, hands trembling around two impossibly orange gel caps. Gridlock Sam reminds me to drink extra coffee today. Don't waste your money on name brand Kleenex. Starbucks gives them away for free.