Free The Bag Lady Papers by Alexandra Penney

always so worried about money—I have not thrown out one stub of the official-looking statements that the MF sent every month.
    The pile is over a foot high and the papers weigh as much as two gold bricks. I must Xerox the stuff so I can give it to Bob, who is helping me with the SIPC forms.
    Bob is a godsend. He’s the attorney who paid a house call to me in what seems like a lifetime ago, with the heartening news that I could stay in my apartment for the time being. When he offered to help with all the paperwork, I hastenedto tell him to please keep track of his hours. I will pay him of course (from what, I’m not sure), but he waved me off and said, “You don’t have to worry about that.”
    I do worry. Of course I want to pay him for his advice and his hard work. I don’t want to be a charity case for anybody, but I am extremely grateful for his smarts and his time. I can offer to do portraits of his grandchildren, but that’s not nearly enough. I have to believe that my luck will change, and when it does, I will be able to pay him.
    Three hours of my day so far have been spent on Madoff. I take a long, hot shower to get rid of the grime under my fingernails, and then get ready to head to Kinko’s, where I’ll copy the hundreds of pages of paperwork. Resentment wells up in me: for the time that has been spent, for the money that will be spent, for my dirty clothes and bad mood—all to have these effing Madoff forgeries copied.
    The only way I can manage the loathsome stack of papers is to take a taxi to the shop: I use even more precious dollars than expected because we get mired in bad traffic.
    At the copy shop, I stand in line watching the clock. Eighteen minutes tick by. Finally I am facing a young clerk with fancifully decorated, false clawlike fingernails. They are true works of fine art. And, it turns out, so is she.
    I show her the pile and explain that I need two copies of each, collated, please.
    â€œThey are legal size and regular letter size,” she tells me.
    â€œYes, they are,” I agree.
    â€œAnd some are double-sided,” she says, rifling throughthe sheets with the fingernails carefully pointed upward so they are not sullied by touching the paper.
    â€œThat’s true,” I say.
    â€œI don’t think we can do this job,” she says, and begins to turn to the next customer.
    â€œCan you tell me why not?” I say, trying to remain civil.
    â€œThere’s nobody here who knows how to do this kind of job right now.”
    â€œOkay, I have some time on this, at least a couple of days,” I say, knowing that I simply cannot lug this pile back to my apartment. “When will somebody who knows how to do this job be here?”
    She is looking past me now, ready to help the person behind me.
    â€œYou’ll have to speak to the manager,” she says, not looking at me. Her cell phone rings. She answers and begins to talk.
    Now I’m angry. But the copying must be done.
    The manager is on his break, and there is no assistant manager on the premises. I run down the list of all my friends in offices who could let me use a Xerox machine. Out of the question: I can’t impose on them for something like this.
    It’s now raining heavily outside. I have this big canvas bag of papers and nothing to protect them from the torrents. For a few seconds I stand there stupidly, not knowing what to do. I hail a taxi and give my home address.
    Back in my apartment, I sit on my bed and give in to a ferocious rage that I haven’t felt since it all happened. I try to cry but no tears come. I walk into the kitchen, then back tothe bedroom, at least a dozen times. I open the fridge, looking for something to eat. I open and close the fridge door ten times or more. At last, I take out a yogurt, then smash it so viciously into the sink that the plastic container explodes onto every surface it can possibly cling to except the ceiling.