Bushwick Swap Meat

"Stand clear of the closing doors!" the PA announced sternly, impatiently, and pushy. The fat churro vendor lady with five giant plastic bags, that had churro tips sticking out of them, moved like a glacier. I was only a step away from the black chasm between the platform and the train. A wall of morning commuters was pressed inside, their backs flat against the window with a circle of body steam around them. "Fucking lady, move!" I hissed into her back, drowned out by the cacophony of train wheels singing from the passing express train. She barely budged. I slipped sideways to squeeze past her right side, squeezing my body against the fabric of people standing there, my black, slick leather Kendra Spade (not Kate Spade!) purse clutched tightly to my shoulder. I pulled my left arm with me as best as I could and the flowers. My left hand tightly squeezed the white Feline Goutin flower bouquet wrapping with the $200 flowers.

The door closed an inch away from my left fist. I pulled. The bouquet expanded to become lush and wide from my wrist, forming a conical shape that would not move inside any farther. I held on tight. The train started moving. A giant tweet jacket back lost balance and came towards my face. Being short meant that all I could see in front of me was the back of the man. Not even my black high heels - fancy Jimmy Choo pumps with skinny leather straps - could get my eyes up to shoulder level. I moved my right arm up to guard my makeup from being smudged by the man. The train gathered steam. There was a big whack on the bouquet outside the train. The door got leveraged open an inch and quickly snapped close again. There were three smaller whacks that I felt on my left wrist. Then there was stillness on the bouquet. I knew what that meant. Cold sweat formed on my forehead from standing without breakfast, the lack of air down here, and the general stress of dealing with life.

I got off at the next stop. The eager commuter bodies behind me were pushing me onto the platform, I looked at the healthy green stems in my left hand that had been violently shorn short, frayed at the ends like a cannon blast that split the cannon itself. I swam with the stream rushing up the stairs and tossed the green fodder into a garbage can on the way. I spilled onto the cobblestones of Wall Street. A few short paces away was the entrance to my office, a towering atrium, crowded with the morning onrush. Twenty security turnstiles, beeping with another office drone rushing past every second! We congregated in front of the elevator banks. A big display announced which elevator would open next and to which floors it would go. Whenever the display flashed an update, a rush of people would press with desperation and no regard for personal injury towards the elevator. Luckily, I got swept up by a big linebacker-type guy in a full-on suit with tie because his easiest way of getting on was to simply push myself in front of him. I felt the pressure on my knees as the elevator accelerated to super high speed. My empty stomach dropped and made me woozy. The good thing was that I couldn't faint, packed in so tightly between bodies.

"Did you get me anything for my birthday, Anna?" were the first words that greeted me entering the office. My boss beamed a smile from ear to ear, clearly full of joy and anticipation at a thoughtful gift from me. I gave her a big warm and fuzzy hug. If I weren't trying to get promoted, I would give a fuck about that lady. "Oh, be patient! I got you a wonderful surprise coming," I lied, quietly bemoaning how much I had already spent on her bouquet.

"Your presentation got moved forward to now. It's in the Viking Raid room," Silvia said friendly with a glow in her eyes like she deserved a big pat on the back for being so helpful to remind me. Oh fucking god! I had not prepared the slides for that. I quickened my steps to a gallop on my three-inch heels. Five minutes late was still sort of on time.

I entered the room. I grabbed the last remaining swivel chair at the oval table. Mark had his feet on the table and talked about how important this quarter was and how much the company depended on us to step it up. Everyone else was deeply immersed, typing on their laptops doing real work. I was glad that Mark went on one of his sanctimonious rants about how we were world-class and that we constantly had to push innovation. I started working on my slides for the presentation that I was supposed to hold. I made stuff up. The proposal was for a project code-named "Tiny Mouse." Quant research projected a $350 million market opportunity. Here is another slide about the difficulty of recruiting market research participants. I simply wrote, "Combatting Amgibuity With Selection Strategies" and copy-and-pasted a confused-looking guy from a Google image search. I'd be able to ramble for a while on that topic.

"Anna, are you ready to present our marque project for next quarter?" introduced me Mark to the group. Nobody looked up, except for Paul. He was already sending me a stinky eye.

"Yes, of course! Let me project my slides. We have an excellent high revenue and low effort opportunity," I cooed in front of them. Mark's face was glowing. Paul squinted at me.

I didn't get to talk for five minutes before Paul interrupted me: "Your numbers are complete shit! Show me the data! Where are the data tables for your studies?"

I took a deep inhale. Panic crawled over me. I had made up everything. I hadn't had time to even think about what the project should do. My research assistant was supposed to give me her first draft results in the afternoon, after the meeting. Was this the moment, I would get fired? I pulled myself together. I told myself to stay cool.

"Anna is the most solid researcher I know! I personally went through all her data tables. I couldn't find a single typo!" Mark defended me.

I realized what was going on. The "Mouse" in "Tiny Mouse" was an animal reference. Mark ran the projects coming out of animal experiments. Paul ran the experiments coming from supercomputer data simulations. My project was going to either funnel budget allotments to Mark or Paul. They weren't interested in the data. They were fighting over whose department would grow next quarter. If I hinted more at a pharmaceutical drug from our researchers that used animals and live cultures, Mark would back me more and more. I didn't need to answer about the numbers. I simply needed to back Mark. What was that fucking stupid bacteria that Mark had talked to me over happy hour last week? Oh, that was it! I chimed in, "From the first time, I heard about Helicobacter pylori, I had a hunch that there was a lot of potential."

That was it! Mark went for the bait. He started blabbering about Helicobacter pylori. Paul couldn't get a word in about where the data for that was. I quietly slipped into the background of my own meeting. When I'd get the real research results from my assistant, I'd simply send out an e-mail that the revised data surprised us all. Thank god! The people of the next meeting stormed into the conference room and demanded us to leave pronto.

At lunchtime, I sat down with a cup of coffee and a box of sugar packets. One of the next, I ripped it open and let it drizzle into the black. There are 16 calories in a packet. I needed about 300 calories to make up for a meal. That's about twenty packets. I kept at my task. It was a little reassuring to do something tactile and peaceful. My research assistant spotted me. She came rushing by. She gushed to tell me that the supercomputer simulation of microsome propagation, code name "Tokyo Nights," was projected to make $200 million next quarter with a confidence of 43%. I told her, "That's not better than a coin flip." She let her head drop down defeated, "Nothing else had a meaningful statistical correlation." She was a Chinese girl, fresh out of college with her jet-black hair shorn short like a woman who had been punished in medieval times for adultery. I had had a feeling that I would be stuck in the office not able to buy a meal outside. I swallowed the terribly sweet concoction down.

In the evening, when I was putting the finishing touches on a revised report that touted "Tokyo Nights" as a sure thing because of advanced analytical regression (I had run every algorithm on the data until one finally gave me the result I was looking for), Liz came by my desk with a pep in her step like something very happy had happened to her. I gave her a high-five like I knew what was going on. Then she cheered me, "Let's go! We are running late!"

I had to break my pretense and ask her what was running late. "Don't you remember, you are coming to the Rumble boxing class for the first time today! You've been wanting to get in shape for so long. This is when you finally put yourself first!" she cheered me on.

Oh, shit! I had forgotten that I had promised her. I didn't have a change of clothing, but I was going to make do somehow. I had her guide me by the elbow to the elevator so that I could finish typing the report on my phone. Gotta love Google Docs and how connected it is. Thankfully, the train was only normally crowded. We got to stand and talk about how we wanted to get promoted, save money, and retire early. That was the dream! Right? Raise a family. I had recently turned 35 and felt the pressure to get pregnant before I slipped down the fertility cliff too far. "Ten Rumble sessions and you'll look so hot that the guys in the street will be falling on their knees for you!" Liz promised me.

The Rumble studio used to be a small hole in the wall coffeeshop. There was a tiny front desk with a drop-dead gorgeous model - looking like a Gaisha, blood red lips with black hair styled for a museum exhibition - behind a touring counter that made her sit in darkness. The entrance room was crowded with women our age. We all waited for the door into the studio to open. There was no changing room, only a gender-neutral restroom that was already occupied. The other women simply changed into the open or came with their yoga pants under their clothing already. I had nothing, not even sneakers. I slipped out of my pumps and took off my blouse, pretending that my regular bra was a sports bra. I put my items in a cubby and stood ready: barefoot in my beige bra and with my belly showing. You gotta go with things. Nobody gives a shit in this city.

The trainer had us do jumping jacks, push-ups, running around, and anything to wind my lungs and soak every inch of my skin with sweat. Liz effortlessly bounced around, making me feel even more inadequate. She gave me a slap on the butt with excitement to make me stand up again after I collapsed flat on the ground on the third push-up. The forty-five minutes were a blur.

When I checked my messages, Andrew asked where I was. Fuck! I was supposed to meet Andrew for a first date. When I had turned 35, I had realized that I needed to stop being picky about men. Every guy who swiped on me on Hinge, I asked out on a date. It hadn't gone well yet. They loved looking at my tits throughout the date, but they ghosted me right after. I told myself that I needed to keep my spirits up and put in the work to find the one. I begged him to wait for me and that I was really close by. I couldn't even remember where I was supposed to meet him.

When I showed up, he was sitting in a leather chair, deeply immersed in his phone. "Sorry, I'm on a work call," he whispered to me, adjusting his earpiece. I took my first breath since stepping into the Rumble studio. I was slick sweat covered everywhere. My makeup had melted away. I had stolen a sanitary hand wipe towel from a pretzel cart on the way to clean my face. No makeup was better than all melted. I took a minute to compose myself. Was that the guy who wrote guitar songs and dreamt about having a pet penguin?

"Shall we move to the table?" he turned to me and put away his phone.

The restaurant had carved mahogany wood. The menu had gold lettering. They were very proud of their aged bourbon and Kentucky steaks. The guy was on another work call. His work calls involved discussing various golf club irons and then following up with: "Should I put the order in before the market opens tomorrow?" He had a full beard that was neatly trimmed to within a millimeter against his skin. His hair was puffed up to give him the impression of an aminal that blows itself up to look more impressive. I couldn't stand the simplicity with which he spoke. Everything he said had an intonation of "Hey buddy, what's up!!!"

When he insisted on splitting the check, I knew that he wasn't even trying to fuck me before ghosting me. So I asked him, "Why didn't you like me?"

Like a New Yorker, he went straight to the point: "I'm looking for someone more girly and feminine. And I definitely want to have a nice set of boobs. I'd do you just for the diversity reasons and changing things up. But you gotta throw in something fun, like anal!"

"I'll get the check," I told him. "Get out of here!"

He smiled and walked away. For a moment, he paused to turn back to me, "You seemed like a prude from the get-go. So I didn't even try."

I waved to the waiter with my black Amex card. The waiter was exquisitely dressed with a freshly dry-cleaned black and white vest and a towel over his arm. He gave me a little cutesy bow. I told him to bring me the card to the bar. I sauntered to the bar. I had made it through the day. It was about 10 o'clock. My work day would start tomorrow at 7 o'clock. I had a moment to unwind. I felt horrible. I slapped myself down on the bar stool. I ordered one of those aged bourbons. I poured it into my stomach. I didn't feel any better. By the third or was it the fourth, I started feeling something. Or maybe, it was that I started to feel nothing that gave me relief.

A tall black-haired lady in a blue jumpsuit sat down right next to me and started talking to me. Oh, it was Christine! We had studied in college together. She seemed happy. Her facial features seemed very balanced. There were no black rings at all under her eyes. I almost thought that she must have left the city to live a lifestyle that's much more slowed down. But I found out that she was raising two kids, which gave her so much pleasure. Being half drunk on the fifth bourbon by now, I blurted out that I was old and would die a barren woman. NYC dating was too hard. Guys had too many options.

She touched me on the arm, gently like a good nurse would console a distraught patient. "Fuck the guys! I'm raising my own kids. Trying to get a guy who is responsible enough to be a dad was a complete waste of time!"

I told her of the expense of fertility services and how competitive the best ones were. You had to be introduced by someone to even get on the waiting list. She calmed me down. She told me about this non-profit out in Bushwick that organized meetups for oocyte owners and sperm owners to make the exchange right there on the spot, the natural way - no expense involved, no treatments that have to be endlessly repeated. I told her that it was a bit sketch. She told me that it had worked out for her really well. She assured me how easy it was. Simply go and pick the type of sperm I wanted. I was too drunk to resist more or think it through. So she kept talking about the joy of mothership, how she felt the baby kicking in her belly, how miraculous the birth was, and how every day is a delight of her kids learning and growing up as people. There is so much love in holding them in her arms.

Well, and that's where the real story starts. Liz had told me to slip in to the DMs of the Instagram account @bunnydaycare. The account was full videos where cute bunnies hopped around, groomed themselves, and suckled on water feeders. The front was perfect. I asked in a generic way, "When and where is the next Wednesday meetup?" They sent me a time and address all the way out in Bushwick back.

There is a certain preparation that goes into getting ready for such an event. I meticulously shaved my coochie in the shower with a fresh new blade. I sprayed some rosewater down there to smell good. I put on a push-up bra with ample padding after the feedback from the guy. I left my white blouse unbuttoned below my bra so that one could peek at my bra. I put on black, heavily-rimmed round glasses that gave me a certain sexy nerd look. I left my hair open and flowing.

Most of the preparation was mental. Going on dates had always been with the goal of getting a kid, but the idea of a kid had been so distant. My real expectations had been stale beer, lukewarm conversation, and nothing more. Yet today on the way to the meetup, I could feel the finality in my bones. There was a chasm in time that would flip a switch that could not be switched back. The trajectory of my life would be irrevocably changed. I tried to picture a little one in my arms. I tried to picture her or him suckling milk out of me. I tried to picture having to send the little guy or girl to her room for making a mess. All of that stuff and it was a lot was going to come to me if I went through with it. I felt like buckling down under the weight and meaning of it all, but I pushed myself on, like I always have. "Anna! Shut the door, turn the key, and walk forward!"

The subway ride was long - way out in Brooklyn. When I finally got up the subway stairs to see where I was, I was in an abandoned industrial part of Bushwick with graffiti everywhere. Not even homeless people were around here. The place was so abandoned. A cold gust pushed a cracked, clear plastic cup down the street. I felt unsafe. I put my biggest struts out there to show that I walked purposefully. I throw my shoulders left and right with every step to not appear shy and mousy. I felt silly to puff my chest so much with nobody invisible, but maybe a dangerous guy was hiding behind a dumpster somewhere. Something pushed hard against my right ankle. I looked down. A big, fat rat had run straight into me and gotten thrown on its back by my stride. It quickly got onto its feet and ran away into a hole on the sidewalk. I shuddered to the bone and muffled my girlie shriek.

When I approached the building, it looked like a one-story light manufacturing building. There was an abandoned lot with weeds next to it. There were signs in front that it had been converted to a residential building because of the garbage cans. The mesh fence was rusted through and had holes in it. There were signs of gardening before someone dumped garbage onto the little patch of hard-baked dirt in front of it.

I saw a man stepping in. He was Indian, middle-aged, and lower middle class. I clearly knew that he was of the male gender, but I had never considered people like him as men. It's a bit weird to explain. When I think of a man, I think of a big chest. I think of someone that makes me swoon in my shoes a bit and sets my heart fluttering. I think of a man as someone who can open doors and carry me across doorsteps. When I think of a man, I think of someone who holds a bottle of beer, squatting around a campfire, and being very tight with his friends. When I think of people like that man who entered in front of me. I think of them as simply people - human beings. They exist and have feelings, but they are not relevant to me in the way that a man is - how a man draws my attention when he enters, how I can't help but check out his fingers to see if he has rough brawns like a motorbike mechanic or soft skin like a concert pianist, then I glance down to judge him by his boots, and then my eyes go up to check out the package he is carrying in his pants.

At that moment, I realized that I might not meet a lot of men at the meetup. I might meet a lot of people, who happen to be male and own sperm. I needed to adjust my expectations. My goal was to get sperm to make a beautiful baby boy or baby girl. I'd have to accept that I wasn't looking for the full package. It's like when you get gas in New Jersey. It doesn't matter what the gas station attendant looks like as long as he gets your tank full. Well, I guess my baby girl or baby boy will get his genes. I started feeling anxious about the choice of sperm donor. I anticipated a very warm environment where friendly female volunteers would make me feel comfortable and guide me through the process.