I got lost on my way to meet the Navigator, kept taking wrong turns, huddling by buildings to shield myself from wind. By the time I made it inside, I couldn't feel my fingers. My hands were bright red and the splotches bled up like a dye. I hadn't been outside in so long I'd forgotten what winter felt like.

The office was fluorescent-lit and performed its governmental role with predictable sterility. I was told to wait in a chair by the door, and when she was ready for me, the Navigator called me over. I was still shaking when I took a seat in front of a monitor in her cubicle. See, I really need health care, I said, showcasing my red hands.

This is all very chill, she said. Check the info. If it's correct, click in that box at the bottom granting me permission.

I clicked.

OK, she said, and you have your official documents?

I nodded.

Then let's get you proofed.

She called the same number I'd been dialing for weeks and did the same things I'd done, but because she was a navigator, they let her skip steps and bypass the barriers I'd faced. The Navigator told the voice on the other end of the line that I had all the documents without even looking at them.

See? Easy, she said, hanging up. Now we can start the application.

You don't want to see my documents? I asked, recalling the work it had taken to obtain them.

You tell me you have them, and I trust you, she said. Are you applying for help to pay?

I nodded.

Do you wish to make an anatomical gift?

I hesitated.

Decide later? she asked. Does this number from your tax return match your anticipated income?

I described my situation as best I could. I'd already spent weeks trying to get in contact with a navigator, and weeks before that going through all the other steps that alerted me to needing one. How do you become a navigator, I asked, having already admitted how little money I made, ashamed of what I was there to pass off as a life.

It's a three-day state training, easy. I'm a senior navigator, she said. I'm here eight years.

Wow, I said, trying to estimate her salary.

She explained the exemption note I would write for her to upload to my file detailing why I couldn't prove anything related to my anticipated income.

I wrote on a piece of lined paper, wide ruled, like I'd last used in elementary school, asking the government to please accept this letter as evidence. It looked like some strange genre of ransom note. Do you think they'll take it? I asked, my voice cracking, my eyes growing full.

I was loud, I was wet and snot-covered. It took me so long to find you, to get here, I said. Can't see my therapist without this working. None of the other navigators I called answered the phone.

Really? she said. Most people just come here to schmooze with me. Anyway, I'll make sure you get taken care of. I care about my clients, she said. Write to me on Friday. We don't work on Saturday, we're Jewish.

This was, in fact, the main reason I'd gone there, to this neighborhood far from my own. I'd once had a first-rate experience getting a rushed passport from a Hasidic agency.

I'm here for my clients, she repeated, and I hated her for it. The way she kept referring to her clients. I excused myself.

The bathroom was a five-foot-by-four-foot box containing only a toilet. On the toilet I thought of debates in high school over the city's homeless population. Over whether there was intrinsic value in a life outside of its "contribution to society." It took me seventeen years to kill a mosquito, but we all get hard eventually. I thought about contributing my body to society in the form of making them deal with its clean up right here in this pristine office. I thought about the futility of that thought, and I wiped my ass. I think they want us all dead or in prison, I texted a friend while flushing.

I found the sinks grouped in an area farther down the hall where I continued smothering my face with a paper towel.


On my ride home, the elevated train passed by a giant pile of rubble. A ways down the car, a boy holding two hockey sticks asked his babysitter if he could remove the grip tape that distinguished one from the other. I want to see how it feels, he said.

But you know how it feels. It feels just like the other stick.

But I want to compare, he said.

Then hold it further down, she said.

No, but—I want to feel them at the same time, the boy said.

She tried to show him how to hold them both lower down at once, but it wasn't what he wanted. He had something particular in mind.

It can be hard to make a case for yourself, I thought. Even when you know what you want. Even when it seems within reach.

While the train was still above ground, I called the government's health care application line. I was so used to calling, it had become habit. I listened to the options, I held on hold. It can't always be raining, I thought. When a voice emerged, I could hardly believe it. My hand was still stiff, but I could feel it now, the assurance of its grip.

Hello? I can't hear you. Hello?

Liza St. James is a Senior Editor at NOON. She has stories in or coming from Tin House, The Collagist and others.

Read her postcard.

Detail of art on main page courtesy of Milena Mihaylova.

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