I'm listening to Joe Frank.

The asian boss of one of the crews tearing apart my building asked me if I didn't mind them installing the electrical conduits in the gutted apartments on a sunday. Maybe I misunderstood his broken english, but I thought he said it wouldn't be too loud. I said it was fine, and I just didn't want the building to collapse. He shook my hand with tremendous gratitude, like I was his favorite movie star, and I just gave him the only autograph he ever wanted.
8am sunday, the sounds of nails being pounded up into my floor from the apartment below disrupted some really strange, surreal dreaming. New York City flooded. Mainly just the subways were affected. Being stubborn, roll-with-the-punches New-Yorkers, commuters were still riding the submerged trains. They would hold their breath, get on the train, and hope they would make it to their destination before exhaling. I remember being in a station, and touching a wall of water, just shimmering there, taking up the area a passing train would rush through, and wondering how I could stand next to it in a dry waiting area. I remember thinking, knowing, that none of the hopeful, naive passengers I watched holding their breath as the doors closed between us would live to see their destination. "They're all gonna die," I said to someone on the damp street above. That asian boss was a liar.
By the afternoon, when I should have been leaving for Linda's studio (sorry Juline), I crashed out on my sun drenched couch. I felt like a cat, in some uncomfortable-looking position, half hanging, trying to keep my shoes off the cushions.
A few hours later, Alison called and came over to kill some time before having to meet the friend she's staying with. She forgot about my stairs.