At 14th Street, a guy grabbed at a woman’s neck; he quickly ran away as the doors closed. What he’d done was snatch three gold chains. The woman, a young West Indian, said she’d just bought the chains and still had the receipt for them. “I never usually sit next to the door,” she told me. As we made our way into Brooklyn, she kept saying “I just can’t believe it.”
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“Sorry,” said the surgeon. “We don’t do that here. We don’t have the equipment to monitor if your heart stops.” “I don’t care if my heart stops,” I said, glancing across the room. He laughed. I love when doctors find my panic funny. “So what do you use?” I asked. “Just regular Novacaine,” he said, and then shot me in the mouth from all angles.