“But growing up doesn’t mean giving up. Are you sure you’re not settling?”
“He’s not a bad person. I’m sure he hasn’t been a peach of a roommate. Trust me, I know his bad points. But we all have bad points. Deep down, he’s a pretty great guy. I wish you could see that. My god, if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have a place to live,” she reminded me, in a way that seemed to be ending the discussion.
“Yeah, I know,” I admitted. Who was I to say? I’d already taken him back three times to save my apartment. “I’m just saying to really think about it. I’m just looking out for you,” I added as my final word on the subject.
Oddly, she seemed upset that someone was looking out for her.
“Maybe you should try looking out for yourself for a change,” she said and simply walked out of the theatre.
That night, as I tried to console myself with a cup of tea, I heard something hitting my window. It looked like little candies.
On the sidewalk below, Timmy was dressed in his elf suit, tossing peppermints at my window. As soon as I appeared in the window, Timmy jumped up and down in excitement.
“Dorrie, I adore you!” he began to sing his made-up song. “I’m pining for you! My adored!”
I quickly opened the window and tried to whisper down five flights, “Shhhh! Stop singing!”
But he had a few more bars left in him…
“So, Dorrie, won’t you look towards me! Loving you only! Dorrie!”
“Timmy. Stop. Please,” I begged. Not only was this completely embarrassing, it was definitely drawing attention to my residency.
“What do you want me to do?” he pleaded in desperation.
“Nothing. Do nothing.”
“But I love you,” he seemed utterly perplexed.
“No. You don’t.”
“I do! I so so so so do!!!”
“Timmy,” I called out as softly as I could, “it’s not going to work. Ever.”
But why not? Why not?”
I couldn’t take it any more. I hated to do it. But someone had to.
“Because you’re gay!”
“What?” he seemed completely taken aback as lights began to switch on in the building across the street and neighbors rushed to their windows.
“You’re gay. I’m sorry.”
Timmy stood there for a moment in shock. Then suddenly, he took off running down the street. He jingled all the way.
17
The next morning, at six a.m. on the dot, the roofers showed up. I’d barely slept the night before, but the loud banging and pounding upstairs didn’t bother me. Why did I need sleep, anyway? It’s not like I had a job. Don’t even need to do laundry if you don’t have a job. I just stayed in bed; watching bits of plaster hit the floor. My only other occupation consisted of mentally beating myself up. I felt horrible about what I’d said to Timmy. I could still see him running down the street in his pointy-toed shoes. I felt terrible. Actually sick. There was a tickle in my throat. I crawled out of bed and took my temperature. I had a fever. Great. I was coming down with a cold.
Christmas had made me physically ill.
A few hours later, I finally got out of bed, and filled the cat food dish. More than anything, I just wanted someone to talk to. I’d gotten used to submitting my problems to Dr. Prince. Maybe she didn’t always have all the answers, but at least she listened. It’s more than the Salvation Army Santa did.
Midway thru the afternoon, I finally got in the shower. I was jobless and almost homeless---why should I even shower? But I did. Because I like to be clean. God knows how many hot showers I’d be able to take when I was homeless. Better enjoy them now.
Two hours later, just as the sun was going down, I finally left my apartment. Not that there was anywhere to go. I didn’t have a job so I couldn’t spend any money. Couldn’t see any Christmas shows. Couldn’t afford anything festive at all. The play was up and running, so I wasn’t needed there. There was nothing I wanted to do, anyway. No pleasure in anything. I just walked. All over Manhattan. Christmas Island. But none of it was for me. I didn’t even deserve to have a Christmas. I spent the rest of the day applying for the meager positions listed online, nursing my Holiday cold, stressing myself out till the wee hours of the morning, and sleeping most of the day. I think this is what they call clinically depressed.
The next morning, as a last resort, I dug out the business card Dr. Prince had given me.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Rankin’s office,” the receptionist answered.
“Hi. I’m a patient of Dr. Prince. She gave me this number to call.”
“What’s your insurance, dear?”
She put me on hold. A few minutes later, she came back. “I’m sorry, but we don’t take that insurance. Do you have a secondary plan?”
“No. But she told me I could call this number,” I said as I blew my nose.
“We take most of the insurance policies she handles, but not that one. I’m sorry. I could give you number for the New York City Crisis Hotline.”
“No. No, thank you. It’s not a crisis.”
“Well, that’s good now, isn’t it?” she said, as if I were slightly retarded and had almost managed to color in the lines. “Merry Christmas!” she made sure to add before she hung up.
I was now a problem for the city. A burden on the system. On second thought, maybe it was a good idea to get in the system now. After all, I’d probably be needing public assistance sooner or later. Did
