him. When the broadcast was over and I finally got out of bed, I noticed that she’d posted her stool sample with Christmas stamps and included the spidery handwritten message “Happy Holidays.”
Our building was full of people who, for one reason or another, had found their way onto Helen’s shit list. Some were doomed right from the start: she didn’t like their looks or the sounds of their voices. They were stuck up. They were foreign. Our landlord had a small office just off Bleecker Street, and Helen used to call him at least three times a day. She was like the secret police, always watching, always taking notes.
Then the landlord died, and the building was sold to a real estate conglomerate located somewhere in New Jersey. The new owners didn’t care that the woman on the second floor had found a black boyfriend, or that the super was composing electronic music instead of improving his English. Overnight Helen became powerless, and those who had lived in fear of her grew progressively more defiant. You’d think she would hate being called a tattletale or, even worse, “a nosy old bitch,” but, strangely, such names seemed only to invigorate her.
“You think I can’t kick your ass?” I’d hear her yell. “Ya mutt, I’ll mop the fucking floor with you.”
The first few times I heard this, I laughed. Then it was me she was threatening to mop the floor with, and it suddenly didn’t seem so funny. This was another of those arguments that came out of nowhere: a word here, a word there, and the next thing I knew we were at each other’s throats. Ironically, the fight started over a blown fuse. My electricity had gone out, and I needed a key to the basement. Helen had one, and when she refused to loan it to me, I told her she was being an asshole.
“That’s better than being a drunk,” she said, and she waited a moment for the word to settle in. “That’s right. You think I don’t see you with the empty cans and bottles every morning. You think I can’t see it in your swollen face?”
Had I not been so loaded that I could barely stand, my denial might have carried a bit more weight. As it was, I sounded pathetic. “You don’ know. Anything about . . . what. Goes on with. Me.”
We were in her doorway when she put her hands on my chest and pushed. “You think you’re tough? You think I can’t kick your ass?”
Hugh came up the stairs just then, his ears ringing from all the noise. “You’re like children, the both of you,” he told us.
Following our little scene, Helen and I didn’t talk for a month. I’d hear her in the hall sometimes, most often in the morning, giving food to Joe. “It’s my Famous Pasta Fagioli, and that one next door, the Greek bastard, would die if he knew I was giving it to you.”
It was a stranger who brought us back together. In the ten or so years before she retired, Helen cleaned house for a group of priests in Murray Hill. “They were Jesuits,” she told me. “That means they believe in God but not in terlet paper. You should have seen their underwear. Disgusting.”
In her opinion, a person who hired a housekeeper was a person who thought himself better than everyone else. She loved a story in which a snob got his comeuppance, but the people I worked for were generally pretty thoughtful. I felt like a bore, telling her how unobtrusive and generous everyone was, and so it came as a pleasant surprise when I was sent to clean an apartment near the Museum of Modern Art. The woman who lived there was in her late sixties and had hair the color of a newly hatched chick. Mrs. Oakley, I’ll say her name was. She wore a denim skirt with a matching blouse and had knotted a red bandana around her throat. With some people this might be it, their look, but on her it seemed like a costume, like she was going to a party with a cattle-rustling theme.
Most often a homeowner would take my jacket, or direct me toward the closet. Mrs. Oakley did neither, and when I made
Our building was full of people who, for one reason or another, had found their way onto Helen’s shit list. Some were doomed right from the start: she didn’t like their looks or the sounds of their voices. They were stuck up. They were foreign. Our landlord had a small office just off Bleecker Street, and Helen used to call him at least three times a day. She was like the secret police, always watching, always taking notes.
Then the landlord died, and the building was sold to a real estate conglomerate located somewhere in New Jersey. The new owners didn’t care that the woman on the second floor had found a black boyfriend, or that the super was composing electronic music instead of improving his English. Overnight Helen became powerless, and those who had lived in fear of her grew progressively more defiant. You’d think she would hate being called a tattletale or, even worse, “a nosy old bitch,” but, strangely, such names seemed only to invigorate her.
“You think I can’t kick your ass?” I’d hear her yell. “Ya mutt, I’ll mop the fucking floor with you.”
The first few times I heard this, I laughed. Then it was me she was threatening to mop the floor with, and it suddenly didn’t seem so funny. This was another of those arguments that came out of nowhere: a word here, a word there, and the next thing I knew we were at each other’s throats. Ironically, the fight started over a blown fuse. My electricity had gone out, and I needed a key to the basement. Helen had one, and when she refused to loan it to me, I told her she was being an asshole.
“That’s better than being a drunk,” she said, and she waited a moment for the word to settle in. “That’s right. You think I don’t see you with the empty cans and bottles every morning. You think I can’t see it in your swollen face?”
Had I not been so loaded that I could barely stand, my denial might have carried a bit more weight. As it was, I sounded pathetic. “You don’ know. Anything about . . . what. Goes on with. Me.”
We were in her doorway when she put her hands on my chest and pushed. “You think you’re tough? You think I can’t kick your ass?”
Hugh came up the stairs just then, his ears ringing from all the noise. “You’re like children, the both of you,” he told us.
Following our little scene, Helen and I didn’t talk for a month. I’d hear her in the hall sometimes, most often in the morning, giving food to Joe. “It’s my Famous Pasta Fagioli, and that one next door, the Greek bastard, would die if he knew I was giving it to you.”
It was a stranger who brought us back together. In the ten or so years before she retired, Helen cleaned house for a group of priests in Murray Hill. “They were Jesuits,” she told me. “That means they believe in God but not in terlet paper. You should have seen their underwear. Disgusting.”
In her opinion, a person who hired a housekeeper was a person who thought himself better than everyone else. She loved a story in which a snob got his comeuppance, but the people I worked for were generally pretty thoughtful. I felt like a bore, telling her how unobtrusive and generous everyone was, and so it came as a pleasant surprise when I was sent to clean an apartment near the Museum of Modern Art. The woman who lived there was in her late sixties and had hair the color of a newly hatched chick. Mrs. Oakley, I’ll say her name was. She wore a denim skirt with a matching blouse and had knotted a red bandana around her throat. With some people this might be it, their look, but on her it seemed like a costume, like she was going to a party with a cattle-rustling theme.
Most often a homeowner would take my jacket, or direct me toward the closet. Mrs. Oakley did neither, and when I made
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