I head down to the basement with a gallon of canola oil but no clue how to dispose of it. I can’t throw it out, it’s in a plastic jug which needs to be recycled, and I can’t dump the contents into the sink or risk an oily slick forever lining the plumbing. Luckily, Willie is downstairs and tells me just to leave it on the floor, he’ll take care of it.
I leave the basement through the courtyard out back, taking Broadway instead of Bennett. Just outside, I bump into one of my neighbors, who wishes me a good morning. In front of Key Food, I see Anat C. who also wishes me a good morning.
Dunkin’ Donuts makes terrible coffee, and today the line is so long I really wonder why I didn’t just wait to get to midtown for some java. I suppose that after such a long week and such a short night I just need it now.
On 186th Street, at the corner of Bennett, Malka S. is crouching next to one of her children, while two other kids linger behind. The security guard, who works at the nearby elementary school, says to the child, "Ima [Hebrew for mother] will get mad if you go off the sidewalk.”
Aliza texts me about being late for an interview. Do I recommend waiting for the bus or hopping into a cab. I reach the station and run into Sarah F. “Twice in one week,” I say. She smiles and we both board the train.
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