Chapter Text
Greetings and such to Marmee, Dad, Beth, Meg, Amy, Laurie, and whatever FBI underling is assigned to reading the emails of trans guys who want to start schools teaching the queer agenda.
You'll all laugh at me for this, but after fifteen minutes on the subway I thought I was going to fall over because of how many books I shoved in my backpack last-minute. You know me—singlehandedly keeping independent bookstores afloat. And it's not my fault the latest and greatest alternative education volume is the weight of a brick, nor that I read queer romance so quickly that three of them last me less than a week. Okay, that last one might actually be my fault.
But literary transgressions aside, I did manage to survive the subway ride. A lady with four howling kids got on partway through it, and I amused myself by amusing them. A combination of gingerbread and a Slinky is a winner. It got them—well, quieter. I let them have the Slinky; those things are cheap.
After staggering off the subway at my stop, I found Ms. Kirke's preschool with not much trouble. It's near an old duplex with a mother-in-law, which is where I'll be staying while I'm here. It's tiny, but I'm just glad I didn't have to brave the wild world of New York apartments. Ms. Kirke had to dash out to pick her daughters up from a playdate right after she showed me the mother-in-law, but she promised that first thing tomorrow she'd come over and show me the preschool space and answer all my questions.
So given that, and given that my last cup of coffee had worn off an hour ago, I looked up local cafés on my phone and set out for one. When I got there, a person with a cardboard sign—Anything Helps, I think it said—was outside, so I took a detour from my latte quest and started talking to her.
I was hunting around in my pocket for that five-dollar bill I knew I had, when this guy came out of the café. He was maybe forty, had a coat with two buttons missing, and one of his shoes was patched. You know how most everyone just walks past unhoused people, but he didn't—he walked right up and handed her a wrapped-up sandwich and a cup of coffee. Then he gave her a smile, gave me a smile too, and strolled off.
Well, I gave the person my five-dollar bill and walked away. I think I'd have forgotten about it, except that I went grocery shopping that evening, for a couple of things I couldn't do without (like sticky notes for outlining—don't laugh, Amy, you feel the same way about pencils). And when I got out of the store, there was another person with a cardboard sign, talking to the same guy I'd seen earlier. I didn't hear a lot, but he was definitely making the person laugh. I had another five-dollar bill around, so I gave that away too and headed home.
Next day, Ms. Kirke came over and gave me a tour of the whole preschool, upside down and inside out. It's an adorable setup, and I'm psyched to see how much I can learn while I'm here, not to mention getting to interact with young kids at many hours of the day. At some point I mentioned the guy with the two buttons missing to Ms. Kirke, and she grinned. "Yeah, that's Friedrich Bhaer for you. Always trying to smooth the road for somebody."
Apparently this Mr. Bhaer actually lives in the other half of the duplex, so it makes sense I saw him twice in the same day in this area. According to Ms. Kirke, he's the guardian of his two nephews, one of whom goes to her preschool and the other of whom is in first grade. He immigrated here from Germany—I'd wondered about that, given his accent—to look after the kids after their mom died, so they wouldn't have to uproot. Which is pretty cool of him, I think. I wouldn't mind meeting him, unless he turns out to be a secret transphobe or some other stupid thing.
I'm pretty tired from the trip, so I'll end this here. Look for another in a few days.
Love,
Jo