September 26, 2011
1. Newblog2011: 09/26/11 "Flash"
Two nights ago, I was at the Boston Public Health Commission shelter in Quincy. I had already been to the other side of the shelter, where the cafeteria is and where the restroom that has some privacy also is. It was later at night; the cafeteria closes at 7:45 p.m., so I had gone there as soon as I’d gotten to the shelter, after having gone to the office to be assigned my bed.
I was sitting in the TV room, and wanted to change the shirt that I’d been in for at least that day. One of my few, clean, clothing options left was a long-sleeved button-down shirt (no code in this sentence or anywhere on the page—I’m pretty sure I’ve said, many times “There’s no code in what I write unless I say there is,” and that’s what I’m going to try to go with from now on). The shirt I was in was also a long-sleeved shirt.
The women’s restroom in that area is both dirty and dilapidated. There are no doors on any of the stalls. There are benches in two of the shower stalls, benches which are less than a foot away from the showers and so are often wet. You never know what’s going to be in the shower stalls; tampons, clumps of toilet paper that have been used (not only on people’s noses) and left there.
There were only two other women in the TV room. One of them was on the wooden bench a few feet in front of me; she had her back to me and was watching TV. The other woman was in the corner of the room. She had her back to the window, was facing the room and had been talking to herself nonstop since she’d been in the room.
I felt too tired to take my backpack, which I haven’t tried to fit into my locker with my other, large bag at that shelter, into the restroom and balance it on my feet in the last shower stall, while trying to change my shirt. That’s what I would have had to try to do, assuming that the floor of that stall wasn’t wet from someone’s shower. I also didn’t want to take the time to go into the restroom, which might or might not have any toilet paper or paper towels, and use paper towels to wipe off and then cover one of the benches in one of the shower stalls so that I could put my backpack there for the few seconds it was going take me to put on a clean shirt.
I would have tried to do the “wear one shirt while you put the other one over your head, pull your arms out of the sleeves of the first one, put them through the sleeves of the second one, and then pull the first shirt out of the second shirt through the neck of the second shirt” routine that I imagine countless girls in countless locker rooms and on countless sports teams have perfected as a shirt-switching art throughout history. However, the second shirt was a button-down shirt, and the fabric of it couldn’t stretch for me to put it on over the other shirt, maneuver in it, and then take the first shirt out of the second shirt’s neck if the second shirt were buttoned up enough to make that scenario worthwhile from the standpoint of preserving every appearance of modesty.
I checked the door to the TV room to make sure that there were no men outside of it or passing by. I put the second shirt on my lap. I pulled my arms out of the first shirt and put them into the second shirt. I pulled the first shirt over my head and off and then quickly pulled the second shirt on. I was wearing a bra.
The next day, when I got off the bus at the Boston Public Health Commission shelter in Boston, otherwise known as the Woods Mullen shelter or “Intake,” I walked the first block up Mass. Ave.. The Caution barrel and cone combination that’s been there for weeks, signifying no construction at all, had something on the barrel that said “Flash.”
Either the woman who was sitting in the corner talking to herself isn’t as far gone as she seemed and is aware enough of her surroundings to gossip about something that a lot of other women in shelters do when they need to, or someone is always looking in the windows of any place that I ever stay.
Copyright L. Kochman, September 26, 2011 @ 8:38 a.m.
1. Newblog2011: 09/26/11 "Flash"
Two nights ago, I was at the Boston Public Health Commission shelter in Quincy. I had already been to the other side of the shelter, where the cafeteria is and where the restroom that has some privacy also is. It was later at night; the cafeteria closes at 7:45 p.m., so I had gone there as soon as I’d gotten to the shelter, after having gone to the office to be assigned my bed.
I was sitting in the TV room, and wanted to change the shirt that I’d been in for at least that day. One of my few, clean, clothing options left was a long-sleeved button-down shirt (no code in this sentence or anywhere on the page—I’m pretty sure I’ve said, many times “There’s no code in what I write unless I say there is,” and that’s what I’m going to try to go with from now on). The shirt I was in was also a long-sleeved shirt.
The women’s restroom in that area is both dirty and dilapidated. There are no doors on any of the stalls. There are benches in two of the shower stalls, benches which are less than a foot away from the showers and so are often wet. You never know what’s going to be in the shower stalls; tampons, clumps of toilet paper that have been used (not only on people’s noses) and left there.
There were only two other women in the TV room. One of them was on the wooden bench a few feet in front of me; she had her back to me and was watching TV. The other woman was in the corner of the room. She had her back to the window, was facing the room and had been talking to herself nonstop since she’d been in the room.
I felt too tired to take my backpack, which I haven’t tried to fit into my locker with my other, large bag at that shelter, into the restroom and balance it on my feet in the last shower stall, while trying to change my shirt. That’s what I would have had to try to do, assuming that the floor of that stall wasn’t wet from someone’s shower. I also didn’t want to take the time to go into the restroom, which might or might not have any toilet paper or paper towels, and use paper towels to wipe off and then cover one of the benches in one of the shower stalls so that I could put my backpack there for the few seconds it was going take me to put on a clean shirt.
I would have tried to do the “wear one shirt while you put the other one over your head, pull your arms out of the sleeves of the first one, put them through the sleeves of the second one, and then pull the first shirt out of the second shirt through the neck of the second shirt” routine that I imagine countless girls in countless locker rooms and on countless sports teams have perfected as a shirt-switching art throughout history. However, the second shirt was a button-down shirt, and the fabric of it couldn’t stretch for me to put it on over the other shirt, maneuver in it, and then take the first shirt out of the second shirt’s neck if the second shirt were buttoned up enough to make that scenario worthwhile from the standpoint of preserving every appearance of modesty.
I checked the door to the TV room to make sure that there were no men outside of it or passing by. I put the second shirt on my lap. I pulled my arms out of the first shirt and put them into the second shirt. I pulled the first shirt over my head and off and then quickly pulled the second shirt on. I was wearing a bra.
The next day, when I got off the bus at the Boston Public Health Commission shelter in Boston, otherwise known as the Woods Mullen shelter or “Intake,” I walked the first block up Mass. Ave.. The Caution barrel and cone combination that’s been there for weeks, signifying no construction at all, had something on the barrel that said “Flash.”
Either the woman who was sitting in the corner talking to herself isn’t as far gone as she seemed and is aware enough of her surroundings to gossip about something that a lot of other women in shelters do when they need to, or someone is always looking in the windows of any place that I ever stay.
Copyright L. Kochman, September 26, 2011 @ 8:38 a.m.