Martine Bellen

Every afternoon at 3:30 a wee-wee woman who lives on the top floor of our tenement shrieks, “Fire, Fire,” and flinging her arms over her head, she tears down our five flight walkup. We console Our Lady Who Cries Wolf until she is assured she is safe, at which time we lovingly return her to her rent controlled apartment with barred windows. For who among us doesn’t fear the fragility of life and yearn to be rescued by an able-bodied emergency worker?