It started on Tuesday. Aissata and I were in the kitchen. I was standing next the Keurig, daydreaming and drinking my coffee. Suddenly I heard an earth-shattering BANG! BANG! BANG! at my front door. Aissata was on her feet immediately, ran down the hallway, and shouted, “OI!”, like a lioness protecting her cub.
I was still in the kitchen, and thought I heard Willie, my super, inside my apartment. This was stranger than a unicorn sighting; it was a miracle if Willie showed up when I called him, let alone when I didn’t. Was I going mad?
The insanely loud banging was Willie violently shaking my front door because he thought we were trapped inside my apartment. (Only in New York can one become trapped in one’s own apartment. It happened to me once before, during the first few minutes of my first day in my first New York apartment on the Upper East Side. I had to call 911 and throw my keys out the window so the police officer could open my door. At this moment I met my super, who wore a dirty “wife-beater” undershirt, stunk to high heaven, and cursed at me in a foreign tongue. He asked, “Why didn’t you call me?” I said, “Call you? I just moved in. I don’t know you. I didn’t know you existed until now!”)
I digress. Back to the story at hand. . .
Willie had let himself in, and asked Aissata if I was okay. I came out of the kitchen, met Willie in the hall, and asked, “What the heck is going on?” Willie explained that he had gotten a call from the JCC, the Jewish Community Center located on the ground floor of my building, saying I was locked in my apartment and couldn’t get out. This was strange on so many levels, even by New York City standards. First, why would I call the JCC when I had Willie’s phone number? Why would I even think to call the JCC?
We were on the verge of figuring out that maybe someone else in the building was trapped, when we heard pounding coming from inside my next door neighbor’s apartment. She admitted that she had called the JCC, and nothing she said after that made any sense at all. My mom made more sense during her final stages of Alzheimer’s.
Willie effortlessly opened her door from the outside, with his pass key. I heard the conversation, but it might as well have been in Swahili. My neighbor explained that she’d been in the shower and her front door got stuck. Willie and I looked at each other. There was no explaining this. Her front door is nowhere near her bathroom. Apparently once she had called the JCC, someone from the JCC called Willie and said that my apartment was involved. After hearing my neighbor’s confusing story, I started to wonder how she ever found her way home. Our apartment numbers aren’t remotely similar. Someone had made an error somehow, and that was the closest we were ever going to get to solving that mystery. Willie apologized for the intrusion and walked away, shaking his head. My head also moved from side to side; Aissata was equally confused. Another “Only In New York” international incident had taken place, with the following cast of characters: my Latino super, my friend from Mali whose primary language is French, my elderly Russian neighbor, and me. If my neighbor had told her story in Russian, it would have made no difference; my lack of understanding would have been the same.
One bright note came out of the experience. The super I used to refer to as “Will.I.Ever see him again,” became “Will.I.Ever stop appreciating him,” and the answer is obvious. I knew now that Will.I.Ever was looking out for me, and if I ever had a problem, I could count on him. This past Christmas season, I was low on funds. I made Will.I.E a card, gave him what I could afford, and told him that next year I hoped it would be more. He could see my modest gift was coming from the heart, and I believe it made all the difference. During the January brown water crisis, which affected all of Washington Heights, Willie offered to bring me bottled water. He said, “Call me anytime.” I thought he was just saying it to be polite. Maybe he really meant it.
I also learned that the expression “Oi!” exists in West African French. I thought this exclamation was exclusively British, until Aissata, my protector, said it as she charged down the hall. Loosely translated, it seemed to mean, “What the fuck is going on, and why?” I’d always known Aissata had my back. It could have been a real intruder. She was willing to put herself in harm’s way for me; it was yet another thing to add to the ever growing list of reasons why I love her so much.
Just when things were getting back to my version of normal, on Wednesday morning Aissata announced that she’d be taking Friday off. It would not be a big deal; we would just switch her Friday duties to Thursday. Shortly thereafter, my phone rang. Gertie usually brings me matzah ball soup on Thursday afternoons, but this week she couldn’t make it, and asked if she could bring it over now (Wednesday morning).
By Wednesday afternoon, it felt like Thursday, because Thursday is the only day I have a real meal, thanks to Gertie. By Thursday, it felt like Friday, because Aissata was doing all of her normal Friday tasks. Today is Friday and it feels like Saturday, except I’m sitting on the “weekday chair,” where, for the first time, I’ll be getting up unassisted. I just walked for an hour and thirteen minutes without the cane. I walked for an hour and a half, with the cane, early this morning. I’m doing everything I normally do on Friday, but it still feels like Saturday to me.
This was also the week I discovered that Prilosec, an antacid, could lead to dementia, according to a study in Germany. That the study involved 75 year old Germans was of little consolation. I’ve been on this drug for the past four and a half years. The damage is done. I’m a goner. If my family history of Alzheimer’s doesn’t get me, the Prilosec induced dementia will. I have to finish my memoir this year, while I still know who I am and why I’m writing it! The clock is ticking. I have visions of Marisa Tomei stomping her foot in My Cousin Vinny, saying her biological clock is ticking.
If that wasn’t enough, I learned that all of my favorite drinks from Starbucks are loaded with sugar, and too much sugar can lead to dementia. So now, even if I escape my family history of Alzheimer’s and the Prilosec curse, I can still get dementia from too much sugar at Starbucks. I’ve been drinking these delicious drinks, in the biggest size, for years. I’m doomed!
Bur then I read another study that indicated drinking wine can prevent dementia. So if I keep drinking Starbucks and stay with the Prilosec, if I drink wine, will I be able to avoid dementia? What if I become a raging alcoholic? Then what? Should I have Prilosec and Starbucks with a white wine chaser?
“Oi” Vey! What a week!
