Back to the old neighborhood

Tammy suggested you take an Uber, but you’ve read too many analyses of their business model, so you call a taxi instead. And, because you don’t want to **** Tammy’s finances, you just have the driver take you to the nearest stop for the 78 bus, and ride that the rest of the way.

Once you reach your neighborhood, you get off and slowly, reluctantly, make your way to your building. Or… what’s left of it.

It looks… largely intact, but there’s clearly been a lot of damage.

You hate to admit it, but you’re almost certainly going to have to think of it as “your old building” from now on. And maybe even “your old neighborhood.”

There’s a police car parked out front, with a cop in the front seat. As you walk up the front path to the door, the cop gets out of the car and calls to you.

“Sir?” she says. “Sir, you can’t go in there.”

“Oh, but I –” you start to explain, and just then a gust of wind knocks her hat off and sends it tumbling. She grabs for it, misses, grabs again, misses again, swears, and the wind shoves it right past you and you manage to grab it off the ground as it rolls by.

“Here,” you say as you hold it out to her, and she sighs in relief. She’s got a really pretty smile, and big blue eyes, and what are probably nice tits although it’s a bit tough to tell through her uniform.

And a shaved head.

“Thanks,” she says, and takes the hat from you and puts it back on, then glances in the car’s side mirror and adjusts the hat’s position a bit. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but it feels like the hat comes off easier now that I shave.”

“Style, or solidarity?” you ask.

She looks impressed, and you hear a buzz. “Solidarity first,” she says. “Cousin was eight and had leukemia, so –”

“Oh no, are they okay?”

You hear another buzz.

She smiles again. “Yeah, he’s fine – just turned thirteen last week!”

“Fuck cancer,” you say, and give her a thumb’s-up.

“Fuck cancer,” she agrees, and returns the gesture. “Anyway… afterward, I decided I like the way it looks.”

“It looks… interesting,” you say diplomatically.

She grins. “That’s very diplomatic of you!” She rubs her hand along the side of her head; you can see a tiny patch of pale blonde stubble in the morning light. “Actually lost me a boyfriend, would you believe?”

“What, just because of the hair?”

“Yeah, I – fuck!”

The wind knocks her hat off again, but this time she catches it in mid-air. You golf-clap, and she blushes a little.

“You were saying?”

She nods. “I know that when people say they got dumped for a teeny tiny thing, they’re usually omitting a whole lot of huge things that are obvious to everyone else, but I’m serious. It really was just because of the hair!”

“But your cousin –?”

“No, no. Michael was fine with it – said he was fine with it – as long as Leif was still in chemo. We get the report that he’s in remission, we have a big family party to celebrate, and then in the evening once we get home, Michael tells me he’s glad for Leif and now I can be pretty again.”

Your jaw drops.

“You’re very pretty!” you assure her. “Plus –”

Your gaze involuntarily drifts downward for a second. She notices this, and snorts.

“Plus I’ve got really nice tits?”

You try to look innocent.

“You said it, I didn’t.”

She smirks, and squeezes the aforementioned really nice tits through her uniform. “Glad you like ’em.”

“Michael’s loss.”

She makes a face, and sighs. “Right. Michael. He tells me I’m not pretty without my hair. I tell him I’m planning to keep shaving. We argue about it for three days, and then –” and her voice is wobbly now – “and then he fucking dumps me. I was with him for almost four years, and he dumped me because I shaved my head.”

She looks at you, and her eyes are wet. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s been three years, I’m mostly over it. I shouldn’t be heaping all of my bullshit on you.”

“It’s okay,” you tell her. “You obviously needed to talk about it.”

“Thank you,” she says, then sniffles and wipes her eyes. “You’re a good listener, and a good friend.” Your phone is buzzing and buzzing in your pocket. The wind starts to lift her hat again but this time she grabs it before it gets more than half off.

Something silly occurs to you, and you can’t help but snicker.

The cop looks at you suspiciously – but not in the way cops usually look at people suspiciously. It’s more the way that you’d look at a good friend who you’re pretty sure is fucking with you. “What?” she says.

“I’m sorry, I just… I had the idea that you’re a Victorian lady and I’m infringing on your modesty or something. All these tiny accidental glimpses of your scalp, ooh, so tantalizing!”

She giggles. “Hoisting up my dress to give you a scandalous peek at my ankle?”

“Heh, yeah. Actually, wait, were they really that crazy about ankles?”

She frowns. “Hm. Now that you mention it, it sounds like the sort of ‘see how stupid our ancestors were’ idea that can get popular.”

“Let me look this up,” you say, and pull your phone out of your pocket. The cop stands next to you so she can read over your shoulder, and the two of you spend several minutes going through and discussing various historical analysis websites that debunk the notion of Victorian society being composed entirely of ankle fetishists. The Multiplier icon is flashing with notification messages, but you’re actually interested in the ankle question, plus it feels like it’d be rude to look at the cop’s profile while you’re in the middle of talking to her.

Eventually you both agree that you’ve done enough historical research for now. You put the phone away. “Well,” the cop says. “Today I learned.”

You shrug. “I mean, regardless of ankles, it still feels a little weird for me to be seeing your scalp like that. It’s like, I dunno, Muslim women with the hijabs, or Orthodox Jews?”

She snorts. “I don’t sexualize my scalp. Are you sexualizing my scalp? Don’t sexualize my scalp!”, and she punches you lightly in the shoulder. “I don’t care if you see it,” and she lifts her hat off and puts it back on. “I just don’t want to lose my hat. It’s my hat.”

You nod, conceding the point. “Okay, okay. I apologize for having sexualized your scalp.”

Her lip twitches. “Although…”

“Hm?”

“My head kind of looks like a tit, doesn’t it?”

You blink. “What?”

“All round and smooth,” and she runs her hands over the curve of her skull. “Imagine me with a great big nipple instead of a nose.”

“… and when you lactate, it’s a nosebleed?”

She cackles in delight. “So you do think my head looks like a tit?”

You purse your lips. “I would like to speak to an attorney before I answer that question,” you say in a very serious voice.

She grins, then looks at you with a really innocent expression. “You’re not a scalp fetishist, then?”

“No,” you say. “I’m not a scalp fetishist.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “Well… are you an ankle fetishist?”

You waggle back. “Only one way to find out!”

Doing her best to keep a straight face, the cop quietly sings old-timey striptease music as she slowly rolls up her left pant leg until it’s just above her shin, then rolls her sock down until her ankle is exposed. Then she puts her foot on the car bumper so you can look at her ankle more easily.

You look at it. It’s an ankle.

She keeps it exposed for a few seconds, then pulls her sock back up and rolls her pant leg back down.

“Well?” she says after she straightens up. “Do you have an erection now?”

Then she turns bright red and clamps her hands over her mouth. You burst out laughing.

“Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod,” she says desperately. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to – I mean, I mean, I, I, I… oh my god!” She’s laughing too, despite herself.

“To answer your question,” you say, when you’re finally able to talk again, “…no. Seeing your ankle doesn’t give me an erection.” She nods, and – is it your imagination, or does she look the tiniest bit disappointed? You decide to go for broke. “What does give me an erection, though, is when a really pretty, really smart girl tells me that she’s interested in my dick. Especially when she’s got really nice tits and a great ass.”

She blinks several times, and bites her lip. “Oh my fucking god,” she says quietly, “we’re in public, and I’m on duty.”

You hold up your hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry!” you say. “Do you need a moment?”

She nods, then looks away from you and takes several deep breaths. You use the opportunity to adjust your pants.

“Okay,” she says. She takes your hands in hers and looks you in the eye. “You are utterly amazing,” she says, “and I want to spend more time with you and get to know you a lot better. Would you like to have lunch with me?”

Your eyebrows go up. Although you’re getting along with this girl incredibly well, there’s a big problem with her suggestion: you’ve already agreed to meet Penelope for lunch today. Plus –

– the cop’s expression changes abruptly. “Wait, wait, wait,” she says. “I just realized something really, really stupid.”

“I bet I know what it is,” you tell her. “On three?” She nods. “One, two, three –”

“WE DON’T KNOW EACH OTHER’S NAMES!” you both shout, and then you’re laughing again.

“Oh god, that was good,” she eventually says. “My name is Sigrid. Sigrid Petersen.” She points to the “S. PETERSEN” on her badge, which you hadn’t actually looked at until now.

“Hi, Sigrid. I’m Jacob Carter.”

She smiles. “Hi, Jacob. What brings you to this neighborhood? Do you live around here, or – oh! Shit, that’s right! You were trying to get into the building, yeah?”

“Yeah, this is where my apartment is. Or… was,” you explain, and the joy bleeds out of you like an emotional vein’s been cut. You slump. “And I wanted to take some pictures for the insurance, see how bad it is, maybe see if there’s anything… salvageable?”

Now your voice goes wobbly and your eyes get wet.

“Do you need a hug?” Sigrid asks gently. You nod, and she wraps her arms around you. You hug her back, sniffling. The two of you stand like that in the sunlight for a moment, as you get control of your emotions. “It’ll be okay,” she mutters. “I’m here for you.”

Then the wind knocks her hat off her head again and she scrambles for it.

Once she’s re-hatted, she sighs. “Well, that broke the mood. Can I see some ID?”

You blink, taken aback. “But –”

She looks the tiniest bit annoyed. “Jacob, I trust you completely,” she says, “but if I’m gonna take you in there, I need to be able to say that you proved this is your address.”

“That’s fair,” you concede, and pull out your wallet. Sigrid watches as you pick through membership cards and debit cards and transit passes and the like. You find a lot of forms of photo ID, but nothing with your actual address on it.

She grimaces. “No driver’s license?”

“I mean, I have one, but it’s got my old address on it. I was gonna update it when I renew next year.”

She looks thoughtful. “Do you know anyone who could vouch for you? Maybe we could contact your landlord?”

“Worth a try,” you agree, so you pull out your phone – ignoring the Multiplier notifications even though you very much want to know what the app says about Sigrid – and call. No one answers, so you leave a message.

“What about your neighbors?” Sigrid suggests. “Do you know any of their phone numbers?”

“I mean, we talk a lot, but I don’t –” and then you stop, because here comes one now on the other side of the street.

“ELEANOR!” you yell, and wave your arms. “OVER HERE!”

Eleanor sees you, waves back, points to the cop car, goes all the way to the end of the street and crosses there, then makes her way back to the middle of the block to meet you.

“Jacob!” she exclaims once she’s close enough, and hugs you. “I was so worried about you!” You feel a buzz come from your phone.

Huh. Eleanor’s always been a really good friend ever since you moved into the building, but… that was it, right? She doesn’t have any special feelings for you?

“Eleanor! Hi!” you tell her, and squeeze her back. “This is my friend Sigrid. Sigrid, this is Eleanor Rodriguez, her apartment is across the hall from mine.”

“‘Was’,” Eleanor corrects sadly. “I don’t know if anyone will ever be able to move back into this place.”

You explain about the need for photo ID that has an address; fortunately, Eleanor’s ID is more up to date than yours, and she vouches for you on the condition that she gets to go in with you and Sigrid.

“We stay together,” Sigrid says. “Eleanor, Jacob vouches for you, so I trust you, but I could still get in trouble if I let either of you wander around in here by yourself. If I say don’t touch something, you don’t touch it, even if it was yours. If I say stop, you don’t take a single step forward.”

Eleanor is trembling, so you offer her your hand to hold; she immediately latches on to you, and you feel another buzz come from your phone. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s fine,” you whisper back, and then Sigrid pulls open the door to the building.