Free Just North of Whoville by Joyce Turiskylie Page A

sheets? My lady dishes?
     
    The huddle broke up and the leader looked at me and said, “Okay mami.”
     
    And then they left.
     
     
    At least Alex had been right about the “not speaking English” thing---or was he? Maybe they did speak English. Maybe they were undercover spies for the building simply posing as Spanish-speaking maintenance men? Or maybe I was veering off into Crazytown. The truth is they didn’t seem too concerned about who I was or why I was there. Happily, I had the play to distract me.
     
    Steve had emailed me a copy of the script he’d worked out with Nate. Like most people, I’d seen the movie on television at least a dozen times. George Bailey, a young man from the small town of Bedford Falls, has his hopes and dreams repeatedly dashed by the circumstances of life. Finally, on Christmas Eve, when everything appears to be lost, he decides that the world would be better off without him and attempts suicide. Only by the intervention of an angel named Clarence, does he begin to see the difference he made in the lives of everyone one he ever met. By the end of the film, he rediscovers the joy of living, the town steps in to help, and he feels like the luckiest man in the world.
     
    I would be working on this for the next six weeks of my life. I felt nauseous.
     
    But it was work. A good theatre. And there was Nate. Nothing like a little innocent backstage crush to keep my spirits up while an angel tried to get his wings.
     
    At work, Deb and Jamie kept me busy by bringing in more and more Christmas decorations for me to hang. At a certain point, I ran out of space to make the office look tastefully decorated and just gave up by wrapping garland around anything that didn’t move and taping cardboard snowflakes and Santas all over the place . I thought that might take me off decorating duties----but they loved it, and handed me more tangled lights and Christmas music. By the end of the week, it looked like a Holiday-themed daycare had exploded.
     
    Celia had called, asking about the roof. But as far as I could tell, nothing had been done all week. I could tell, because the rain continued pouring in. Thankfully, the forecast for the weekend looked dry.
     
     
    Weekends in New York, for some, are relaxing, glamorous, and filled with nightlife, shopping, celebrity-filled benefits, and fine dining in the trendiest new restaurants. I’m sure there are people who do these things. I’ve seen their pictures in the papers.
     
    I’ve also seen those women who just enjoy the simple life. Strolling thru Central Park with their boyfriend or spouse and children. Just enjoying life at a leisurely pace. They look so relaxed and content. Just walking around looking in shop windows and squeezing fruit at the Farmer’s Markets. Like they’re regular human beings. And I don’t think they’re tourists. Tourists are bigger and wear sweatshirts. These are the happy locals, enjoying all that New York City has to offer.
     
    Then there are people like me---for whom a day off work is nothing more than a huge list of errands---most of which never even get done.
     
    No leisurely stroll thru Soho for this gal. The wet towels were really starting to stink. Heidi’s dirty paw prints were everywhere---though Heidi was nowhere to be found. And something that looked suspiciously like mold appeared to be growing on the floor boards. I’d have to do something about that, even though Monday’s forecast predicted rain.
     
    But you can’t just let mess pile upon mess. That’s how those garbage houses get started. One day you look at your dirty dishes in the sink and think, “I can do those tomorrow.”
     
    Next thing you know, it’s two years later and a Haz Mat crew from a reality show is going in with gas masks and rubber gloves while you’re standing on the front lawn next to a bunch of old appliances, some used car parts and Fred Sandford talking to the local news. “I don’t know why my neighbors are