Free The Bag Lady Papers by Alexandra Penney Page A

Cleaning it up helps to calm me a bit.
    I try to cry angry tears again, but no dice. I think of making myself a drink the way they do in the movies. But I would just get a headache. Finally, I find myself in the bathroom taking the longest, hottest shower of my life.
    What do I really want to cry about? I ask myself. There are people far worse off than I am. I have my health. I have my wonderful but faraway son and my beloved niece and their amazing families. I have close friends who love and support me in every way imaginable. I am not a bag lady—yet. Okay, I’m no spring chick, but I have some talent. I have connections. I am still sitting in this beautiful apartment. So I have to sell some stuff. So I have to go out and earn money again. So what?
    I am actually talking out loud to myself. Reluctantly I leave the shower and the pelting water, which does seem to give me a measure of composure.
    The phone is ringing and it’s my friend Patty Marx. I tell her about the copy shop claw-nail clerk and how I came home and completely lost it.
    â€œYou’re not angry at that girl, it’s obviously about Madoff,” she says, and of course I agree.
    â€œSure, you can always say people are worse off but it’s not that meaningful or consoling, because it’s happening to you. Just because things could be worse doesn’t mean you have to be grateful for everything you have. What happened to you is real. It is bad,” she says. “You were robbed. Allow yourself to be angry and pissed as much as you want.”
    We make a date to meet at EJ’s for dinner the following week. I hang up and feel a huge relief. She’s absolutely correct that no matter how often I rationalize that it could have been worse or think about the people for whom it was or is worse, I still have to contend with what happened to me. My whole body feels lighter after talking to her. Words help. Love and friendship help more than anything.
    I am brushing my teeth that night when I think about what’s worse than losing all your money:
    Losing your child or your husband or someone you most deeply love
    Losing your health
    Losing your mind
    Losing your sense of humor—maybe!

CHAPTER 9
Change Is Good: My Fishmonger Days
    I rish fisherman sweaters are aptly named—they were part of the garb of choice at Rosedale Fish Market. The oils retained by the natural woolen yarn foil the fragrance of the merchandise. Also essential was a lightweight rubber apron wrapped around your entire body so that it covered your jeans or OshKosh overalls. A clean white cotton apron topped that for hygienic purposes. Black rubber boots with salmon-colored soles had to be tall enough to reach under the apron. Thus your entire personage was shielded from unwanted scents and you could tread safely across the floors that were splashed with fresh water hourly to keep Rosedale spotlessly clean. I considered it a rather stylish uniform.
    At Rosedale, I had plenty of time to read and study. Ourmajor traffic was in the early-morning hours, when private cooks came in to check out the catch of the day, and around four thirty to six in the late afternoon, when people were returning home from work.
    Rosedale had always been hospitable to artists and writers and musicians, I learned. Robbie’s wife came from a well-known, wealthy family. What Mrs. Robbie was doing in a fish market—albeit a very upscale one—I haven’t the vaguest clue. But then again, I was there, too. Robbie took a shine to me and bestowed upon me the ultimate gift: I was allowed to be the first female to accompany him to the Fulton Fish Market.
    Once a week, at four thirty in the morning, he would pick me up in his truck and we would barrel downtown. After he had bought the fish for the day, we’d head to a mahogany-paneled bar with beautiful old mercury-backed mirrors on the corner of South Street, where all the out-of-town fishermen in their baseball caps and