Free To Feel Stuff by Andrea Seigel Page B

ignore my shitty lungs and the pounding of my heart by looking down the rows and rows of brownstones on the other side of the street. It helped to focus on the vanishing point where the streets dropped off down the hill.
    After about twenty more minutes, I think, I finally reached Meeting Street. Once there I decided to take the descending slope with a sideways shuffle, so gravity wouldn’t throw me into an accidental jog. When I got to the bottom, I smiled without even knowing that I was going to smile; I felt somewhat accomplished. A middle-aged woman with a knit turkey sweater reading “Gobble, gobble” in red yarn was going into Emery-Wooley, and she held the door open behind her until I also made it through.
    The woman disappeared into the Brown Card Office, but I went farther into the basement. At the soda and candy vending machines I knew I was getting close. Next I came to an open door and stuck my head inside. Because there were wooden tables and plastic chairs and air that smelled like cinnamon, I figured I had done things right.
    After stepping into the dining hall, I was stopped by a guy sitting at a folding table.
    â€œExcuse me, I need your card.” He had a gigantic chemistry book open on the table and one knee propped up on an orange chair. His hand was upturned in the air, and his thumb and forefinger twitched for me to place something in between them.
    â€œThe card,” I repeated. During the short periods of time before (and between) my illnesses, I had an ID card like everyone else. I’d forgotten that you needed it to let you into buildings and to eat meals. I couldn’t believe how out of touch I’d gotten. I hadn’t seen my card for at least a year and a half.
    When I didn’t reach into my pocket, the card swiper looked at me with an “Are you retarded?” expression. “I need to get it from you. So I can swipe it. So you can eat,” he said.
    â€œI don’t have a card on me,” I told him.
    â€œWell, are you on meal plan?”
    â€œMotherfucking meal plan,” I thought. Then I remembered that too—that you signed up for your meals ahead of time. I definitely didn’t have a meal plan. “Yes,” I said. “It includes breakfast.”
    â€œHere’s your alternatives. You can pay for your breakfast, and I’ll take your SIS number if you know it offhand, and then all you have to do is go to Food Services by the end of the week and file for reimbursement. Or else you can just go back to your room and get your card. If you lost it, the card office is over there.” The card swiper pointed out the door.
    I looked the opposite way, toward the inside of the dining room. A Hispanic man in a hair net and a chef’s uniform was walking toward a table, carrying a thick waffle on a plate. He took a seat and began to spread strawberries across the top of his waffle. Two women joined him, also Hispanic and also carrying waffles. Their hair nets were even like waffles. Their skin was the color of the edges of the waffles. I wasn’t hungry at all, just determined to get a waffle.
    â€œI don’t have any money on me,” I told the card swiper. “What else?”
    The card swiper lowered his hand and returned to flipping through his book while shaking his head. “Look, I’m not the breakfast fairy. If you’re asking me to let you in for free I can’t do it. If you can find someone who will let you use one of their guest credits, then you can do that. Otherwise, you’re out of luck.”
    Three girls who looked like they’d just come from hockey practice came into the V-Dub and handed the swiper their cards. They never stopped their conversation.
    â€œDo you want to share a cab to the airport?” one asked.
    â€œWhat time is your flight? It’s not worth it for me to be sitting there for ten hours,” said another. They all had ponytails and the roots of their hair were