To protect the privacy of the individuals depicted, some names and identifying details have been changed. Part 1 of this story was published on May 31, 2026.

You Don’t Have to Be Crazy to Work Here …But It Helps

I meet with Richard – he wears a short length pearl necklace outside of a turtleneck sweater. He’s always harried – baldheaded and transitioning – his breasts look the size of mine in junior high school. The shelves in his office are lined with brown and black Barbie dolls – at least 40 that I can see. Richard makes all the clothes for his Barbies – and it reminds me of Project Runaway. Today the dolls are wearing black – I try to think of who they might be mourning. Jesse Jackson, whose funeral we recently watched in the lounge? I know better than to ask. We have a quick discussion about referral services. Before I leave, Richard asks me if I would watch a Tik Tok about DEI Barbies. I don’t watch Tik Tok, so it’s hard for me to say.

Self-Defense 

Today she wore a black wig—shoulder length with bangs, looked like a Latina Christina Ricci. I stared as she adjusted it and walked into class. Her underarms wore a 5-o’clock shadow. “I got jumped by three girls – well, 2½,” she tells us. Her right eye is bruised, and she had deep cuts on both cheeks and across her chest. It looks like fingernails tore into her face. “No not fingernails; I was beaten with a paperweight.” Two girls and a “trans” attacked her last night after they accused her of stealing. She says her wrist hurts from punching- she used one of the girls as a shield. Broke a girl’s nose. She is worried the girl might press charges – “I bet she won’t, lazy bitch!” The staff moved her to a different section of the shelter – the cops came – she still made it to class. She says her ex-husband kidnapped her – put her in his car – planned on driving them to Seattle. He took her home first and tied her to a radiator – she freed herself and ran into the projects – he chased after her and she pulled the fire alarm. He pulled out a knife and charged at her, so she grabbed a loose brick and whaled on his face – busted the left side of his jaw – watched his teeth fall out in a pool of blood. When the cops arrived, they had to restrain her. She was sent to Rikers for attempted murder, but she says it wasn’t attempted murder it was self-defense – which is why – she says – she wants to work with women who have been victims of domestic violence. In the bathroom she stares at her cuts and mutters, “I look like Harry f-ing Potter.” She’s wearing a long baby blue sundress and flip flops with cartoon characters on them. She tells me about a restaurant on Avenue D that gives out free food and shows me the chicken she brought for lunch. “I didn’t make it, the people at the shelter made it for me.” She says St. Ann’s and St. Mary’s will give you food too. There is some talk about whether state facilities should be gender fluid. She tells me about the angles in her room where a camera can’t see the residents. “That’s where you get beat.” When she found out that her ex-husband put his new girlfriend in the hospital, she spent forty dollars sending flowers with a note that read, “I told you…stupid bitch.” She scrolls through her phone to show me photos of her ex – husband. I am listening and watching like I paid a cover charge. 

Unhoused People

Melina first thing in the morning in the elevator, stinking of rotting perfume or body wash or hand soap or heavily scented deodorant. Melina has headphones on and is singing like she’s alone in the shower, but there are five of us surrounding her; it’s 90 degrees in the elevator. She’s wearing black jeans that lace up like lingerie – squeezing her mis-proportioned body into the denim, black rubber sandals, black tank top, and the same sweaty used bra as yesterday. Her  backpack says “Juicy” in glitter – her hair is twisted into different shapes on top of her head. She says, “I was born in the 90s but I like music from the 80s” and starts listing musicians to no-one in particular. I walk behind her and then sit in front of her. “I almost got kicked out of my shelter. I had a scissor and they are not allowed – but I was making t-shirts, I wasn’t gonna cut anyone.” She tells Dinetta about her ungrateful brother – he judges her for selling drugs but still took the car she bought him. “Shit, I took care of everyone.” When she stands up, she tells the class about her court hearing – she’s trying to get her son back and is her only advocate. The lawyers aren’t helping. Her head spins and flesh bounces trying to find a way out of her clothing – her upper arms are story boards – like road maps of misery and mistakes. She sits down at her desk, clearing her throat like she is afflicted. Her phone rings and she curses it out and  waddles from the classroom to take a call. I think about the word “shelter” – it sounds so delicate – a hut made if feathers – easily blown down.

Amputee

Vanessa is missing 1/4 of her index finger – it got infected while she was smoking crack and it ballooned up like a goiter in the E.R. They said she had MRSA – so now she’s an amputee – she holds up the finger and says she can still make a peace sign. She’s 61 and her son was just released from prison after doing a 6 year “bid.” We have to say “congratulations” and “good for you.” We cheer her skin, her weave, her vape – like these affirmations are the tight rope she will walk across to some kind of stability. Some of the group when they talk, look at me and say, “no offense” which I now know means someone white did something shitty  – “he’s sorry; he’s a criminal; he’s ruined.”…  “he’s short; he got no style; no biz: no hair”—  “no offense – he’s white!”  

Nat Geo

Tanesha is missing her front teeth and most of her hair – she wears a blue and black wig tight and cropped around her ears. She tells me, “Don’t think I’m crazy – but birds talk to me, the brown ones with black speckles- sparrows?” She tells me translucent jellyfish are not from “here” – “I mean EARTH.” Tanesha says one time someone passed her a stem, and it had fentanyl in it – she died for 5 minutes – points to a scar on her forehead – “that’s where I smashed my head.” She says she can’t remember things the way she used to – because of not getting oxygen to her brain. She loves animals and watches Natural Geographic videos on her phone during group – shows me monkeys flossing their teeth with the hair of tourists. She saw a dead squirrel in a park in Poughkeepsie – she got up to look at it and there was a baby squirrel worming around – she picked it up and rested it on her shoulder – it crawled into her hoodie – so she took it home and raised it until it attacked her youngest daughter. After that she set it free.

Mashed Potatoes

Stuart got his teeth. Finally. He seems self-conscious at first. Keeping his lips over them. Trying not to smile. At lunch I see him at the halal cart. I’m excited to see what he eats. He is sucking on a blow pop and talking about hot pretzel toppings. He says he’s going home to eat a steak. Tonight, he won’t be peeling potatoes in the sink tonight. Stuart licks his teeth and smiles.

Vlad 

In this job, we are not supposed to reach out to clients – not supposed to return calls or texts during the off hours – we are professional and we set firm boundaries – so last weekend when Vlad called and then texted me I did not respond. When I see him at The Center he tells me in a monotone voice that he had a rough weekend and his shoulders roll toward the floor in a way that makes you want to touch him and reset his posture – the kind of slouch that makes him look like a ten-year-old rather than a forty- year-old. He is wearing a t-shirt with a silk screen of his Abyssinian cat – the cat lives with Vlad and his mother in Chelsea and is allowed to play in the hall. Vlad is holding a paper coffee cup and stirring cream mate with a fork, and I tell him I will find him a spoon – but forget and never do. Vlad says his O.C.D is acting up and he can’t sleep and can’t stop blinking. I look at his eyes – he’s wearing tinted glasses today – and he goes outside for multiple cigarette breaks. Vlad tells me how hard it was to shower and that he couldn’t leave the apartment because of the blinking and he has to see his psychiatrist but cannot get an appointment until Wednesday. I listen and don’t mention his unreturned phone call or the unanswered text – this job makes me feel like an asshole sometimes – most rules make me feel like an asshole – the job makes me scared of Vlad – who I like to call “Vladi” – who has a Russian last name that is sonorous and I can’t say because of rules and boundaries and anonymity. Later, he sends a group email to the staff letting us know he will be late Wednesday because he has to go the psychiatrist – and no one writes back because of professional boundaries – but I find him by the coffee urn later in the day – the forks are wet with coffee. I tell him it’s hard for me to leave the apartment too and how difficult it can be for me to shower. I’m not sure if he smiles and I can’t see his eyes – he goes for another smoke break – I pick up a plastic fork and stick in it my mouth.

Barabra 

The woman seated across from me has rice white paper skin torn through with collapsed veins. She says she is from South America, and her grandmother was a Wiccan priestess who practiced white witchcraft and built her own altar. The woman says her skin is so thin that six people took over her body –  they were demons and she can’t remember their names; but once they left, she stopped practicing witchcraft and accepted the Lord as her savior; even though she will not enter a church – she says she gets goosebumps when speaking of God. She fondles a lose cigarette between her fingers and sits up straight like it’s a sign of redemption. Her teeth look like they were torn from a corpse – but that doesn’t stop her from smiling.

Wristwatch

Chris blamed the humidity for his tight crown of curls. Asked me for a sheet of paper, so I gave him three and he replied, “Oh wow! I will have some for tomorrow!” He told me he used to make 100K a year selling wristwatches on the corner- but no one knows how to tell time anymore.

Think Tank

Yesterday the group talked about gangrene – necrotic flesh and limbs falling off – so when I get home, I look up diseased feet – I wiggle my toes and felt grateful – ….

Office Wife

My office wife brushes his hair at his desk. “My Mom wants me to cut it.” When his phone rings, I see the word “Mommy” light up the screen. He is 32 and living in transitional housing and listens to Ye without headphones at his desk and asks me to help him get X-Mas gifts for his family. He opens his palm and shows me his trazodone. Says he won’t take it because it makes him groggy and he thinks he’s gaining weight. I don’t say anything, but after we have three or four fights I consider mentioning it to the staff. “You gotta take your meds, man,” I say. My office wife pulls out a pack of Newport’s, sneers, and says, “You gotta take yours!”

Potential Client 

I take the 1 train home and see God passed out on a mattress. Four years ago, he followed me down Hudson Street and introduced himself as God. He’s too tan, has a shaggy beard and the beginnings of a bald spot. He is thin and his jeans are falling from his hips. He could pass for a hipster wading through a mosh pit at an early 90s Lollapalooza festival. God said he would take care of my dog if I let him live with me. I told him my dog is sick and losing his eyesight. God put his hand on my dog meaningfully – looked up at me and said – “your dog will never go blind.” My dog goes blind. God is still homeless, sweaty, face down on the 1 train on a Friday night. 

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Abigail Frankfurt is a writer and artist. Her work has been published in The Yale Review, The Minneapolis Observer, The New York Times. Her artwork can be seen at the Ricco/Maresca Gallery in New York City.