Googling in the morning, picking through job listings like a trash scavenger or an estate saler, seeing potential in what other people discard, that’s my job. I am calculating potential returns on application time invested, the likelihood of value. I hold handfuls of job listings in my palm like fistfulls of sand, shell, and plastic detritus. I am looking for work at the beach, probably the wrong place, but oh, well. I like it here.
I am here, jobless again, switching careers again. I got tired of my last gig at the three ring circus, holding off big cats with a stub leg stool while wearing clown shoes. I remember my first year doing that and how every noise the audience made sounded like a sob or a call for my immediate termination. Everyone said, “Stick it out for three years. Spend one in each circus ring. You need time to see if you like it.” But ultimately I couldn’t get past the chewed up gum, the harshly scribbled hate mail, and the smell of must.
I must be crazy. I can’t find out what my job is, but I still need work. Money to pay the bills. Something more solid than a sand foundation of temporary gigs and literary nonsense. Today my work was researching cosmetic surgery and puddle jumping around sandcastles filled with Instagram photos. A woman with breasts the size of beach balls could make a perfect interview subject, so I sent a direct message. I messaged a bus driver I found on Facebook, gathering commentary on the topic of erosion but applied to transit. I write this all down in an email using tidy, professional font. I print the email, and I put it in a glass bottle, blue glass, and I send it out tied to the leg of a seagull. He might never come back.
Seagulls are scavengers. They flock to dumps, startling inland ornithologists. They’re looking at birds all day, and I am looking at people, looking for work forever, making work, trying to find my job. I can only blame myself for being out here, out of a job. So I am sitting here thinking, slouched over in the sand, which is really just pieces of broken carousel horses, waiting for something. I search for statistics and insert hyperlinks to convey preparedness to discuss and describe one of several half-cogitated storylines. This storytelling profession is hard to break into, so many barriers present themselves like jetties and seafaring storms. I cross wires and bits of nets with dollar bills folded in, forming a braid that is some kind of symbol of value. Today I will catch something to pay the rent with, I hope.
In April, my partner and I, tired of arguing in our living room, opted to argue on foot while enjoying some fresh air in our Brooklyn neighborhood. A couple of miles from the house, I needed to use the restroom, so I stepped into a small grocery store, purchasing a seltzer as my ticket into the facilities. The toilet was closed as a safety precaution due to COVID, as was the gas station bathroom down the street, as were the public restrooms at parks we passed. I had to hold it.
Restaurants and coffee shops were still fully shuttered at that time, but even when they reopened later in the spring, many of them kept their bathrooms closed, handmade “For Employee Use ONLY,” signs stuck to their graffitied doors. The bathrooms at Strand are still closed, ditto Pret a Manger, ditto most public libraries. It was a chore to find a place to relieve oneself pre-COVID, and as the pandemic rolls on, it’s become increasingly impossible to find a public restroom.
For those of us who have housing, who have the privilege of complaining about being stuck inside our shelters, suffocated by partners, pets, and, if you’re like me, suicidal houseplants, the lack of such facilities is inconvenient. But for the 58,000 plus New Yorkers who live on the streets, it is something more akin to a crisis. All the old stand-by spots to take care of one’s basic digestive needs— including shelters, day-use centers, and even hospitals-- have closed or reduced their capacities, so our unsheltered neighbors have been forced to do their business outside. Business being living, breathing, eating, and, yes, defecating.
In an unfortunately banal show of bureaucratic brutality, the MTA spent time and money this September making official amendments to their code of conduct; specifically, they made it against the rules to defecate in the subway system. The offense carries a $100 fine. MTA’s governing body also took the time to add in provisions that impose time limits on “lingering” in stations, that require riders to exit trains at the end of the line, and that prohibit the presence of large carts. It is not difficult to discern who these rules are meant to manage.
“I don’t want to make broad generalizations here,” said Trevor Noah on the September 24th episode of The Daily Show, the place I first heard about this change, “but I’m willing to bet that if you’re taking a [expletive] on the subway, you don’t have $100.” Like Noah, I am confident that anyone “who has a toilet at home and who isn’t mentally ill” would prefer the privacy and convenience of an actual bathroom.
Most annoyingly, the MTA could already cite and fine riders for creating a “nuisance, hazard or unsanitary condition” before making these amendments. Rather than using precious administrative time and money to seek more abundant revenue streams— for example, by advocating for more equitable tax codes— or hiring more cleaning workers, or installing restrooms, or shoring up relationships with social services, they chose to futz around with their rule book. It seems the MTA made this meaningless change simply to create the illusion of meaningful action toward “cleaning up” the subways. This policy change is just one in a long series of attempts to scapegoat our admittedly stinky brethren, a public policy move that frankly bores me to death.
Or maybe it’s more truthful to say that I would be bored if I weren’t so brokenhearted. From slave-catchers to poll taxes to parking tickets, criminalizing BIPOC and the poor is a dear American tradition. When police murdered Michael Brown in 2014, the subsequent U.S. Justice Department’s investigation into the Ferguson Police Department rekindled dialogue about the age-old American practice of targeting minoritized communities with outlandish citations, fines, and fees. The movement to defund the police continues to beg the conversation. The end goal of these practices is to be rid of the underclasses, to banish them to jails, to fine them into oblivion. The profusion of means by which the state sanctions such cruelty makes me nauseous. If I throw up, will I get a ticket?
The MTA is just one of several American institutions that strip people of their power, money, and dignity by regulating their bodily functions specifically. For several years, I was a teacher in public high schools where I was charged with “managing” a classroom. This included lording over the bathroom pass, making and enforcing rules to regulate its use, an intolerable exercise that did nothing to advance the educational program.
Just like the teachers who are asked to hassle “problem” students by regulating their potty passes, it is the transit cops who are left to deal with people who are unwell by… writing them a ticket? As Noah pointed out, the MTA cannot possibly believe that they will collect on these fecal fees, not even after they tack on the maximum $50 delinquent payment penalty. What they can do, though, is banish folks in greater numbers from the subways, buses, and stations.
Aboveground, unsheltered New Yorkers will still be forced to live in the open, camped on sidewalks and in plazas. We will see more encampments. The homeless will pitch tents and build small shelters in neat rows next to the clear plastic bubbles that are supposed to save New York’s restaurant industry by enclosing diners in their own heated, rain-proof capsules this winter. These baubles are symbols of the tremendous will we have to preserve industry and luxury. If only we had the same will to protect the poor. But there are no bathrooms for the homeless this winter, and there will be no plastic bubbles.
Anyone who truly believes that more and better rules— about pooping on the subway or about police accountability-- will solve social problems is living in such a bubble. We have to stop acting as if rules and
those who enforce them will clean up our society. Until we do, we will keep stepping in it.
Rikers Island is one of the nation’s most notorious jails.
A lesser-known fact: It is also a landfill.
The original 87.5 acre slab of marshy land between North Queens and the South Bronx was purchased by New York City from a private owner in the late 1800s. The New York Commission of Charities and Corrections hoped to open a workhouse there to alleviate crowding on Welfare Island, now Roosevelt, another slice of waterlogged land just around the bend of the East River. Welfare Island hosted the city’s asylums, jails, and poorhouses at the time, and it was running out of room. The city needed another void into which it could flush all its forsaken souls. Rikers was it. The city used prison labor to build out the island with ash and other garbage until it spanned more than 400 acres. Landfilling continued until 1943, several years after the first inmates arrived.
In 1935, the first Rikers corrections facility opened amid a dozen mountains of flaming garbage. Frequent, sometimes spontaneous fires from coal ash and incineration practices sent filthy clouds of smoke and ash into the air. In order to save face for the 1939 World's Fair happening just across the water in Queens, the island was cleaned up a little. Most of NYC's garbage was subsequently rerouted to Fresh Kills landfill on Staten Island, but all that trash still lurks under its buckling brick buildings and grassy lawns.
Today, something like 11,000 people are incarcerated on Rikers. They’ve been thrown out of society, tossed onto the scrap heap in the middle of the water a dozen miles upstream from the Statue of Liberty.
The ground underneath Rikers is unstable. The trash rots and shifts, imperiling foundations and cracking water pipes. Water outages related to this shaky infrastructure can last a full day or longer during which time toilets and showers become inaccessible and drinking water is cut off. Sometimes sewage and draining backups flood bathrooms and cells.
So it stinks on Rikers. As the island’s waste layer decomposes, it emits noxious methane, which doesn’t just smell bad and ruin air quality. It is also a super-powerful greenhouse gas. Few of the facilities on Rikers are air-conditioned, and the extreme temperatures coupled with the gnarly air exacerbate chronic health issues like asthma that are common among the prison population.
“Rikers Island is a symbol of brutality and inhumanity and it is time for us to once and for all close Rikers Island,” said New York city council speaker, Corey Johnson, who led the successful campaign to close the Rikers jail complex. Rikers is slated to close by 2026, its residents shuttled around to four other jails scattered throughout the boroughs. That’s nice, but it isn’t a panacea. Rikers is not the only prison built on wasteland.
Pennsylvania’s maximum-security SCI Fayette prison abuts a dump site for toxic coal-ash from a nearby mine. Wind carries the dust into the prison’s structures and rain washes it into the groundwater. Richard Mosley was incarcerated at SCI Fayette for twelve years, and he spent the whole time sick with respiratory and gastrointestinal problems. Everyone around him was sick, too, with everything from runny noses to rashes. He blamed the coal ash. Scientists support him.
Mosley made a big fuss about the conditions and continued to do resistance work around the prison’s environmental problems long after his release. He explains how society’s garbage people end up sick and dying on its waste land with shimmering simplicity. “This is something that’s going on throughout the country,” he said in an interview with The Outline. Industries “extract all the good stuff from the land, then they sell it to waste companies that contaminate the land, and then they sell it to prisons. Then they start shipping inmates there, and people start getting sick.”
Paige Williams, a cartographer, mapped prisons’ proximity to EPA Superfund sites when she was a student at Humboldt State University. The Superfund designation denotes an area of land that is so contaminated by hazardous materials, it threatens public health. She found that 589 of the 1,821 federal and state prisons in the U.S. are within three miles of a Superfund site; 134 lie within one mile. Several of these same prisons and jails are used by Immigration and Customs Enforcement to detain immigrants, including so-called “unaccompanied minors.” While cleanup efforts are underway at many of these sites, the important part of this equation is the correlation coefficient between wastepeople and wastelands, a cartography of cruelty that looks like bullet holes on a map, grouped effectively for a kill.
People who die in prison— as a result of homicide, suicide, illness or old age— are often buried in pauper’s graves, also known as potter’s fields. New York City’s largest potter’s field is also on an island and until recently, inmate laborers dug its graves and buried its dead.
Taking all this into consideration, prisons are among the most remarkable sites of waste on the planet. If we continue to waste people this way, we will also continue to waste land, air, and water.
To be in Las Vegas is to be insane.
Juketown, USA. Land of the fake-out. Where a Roman bust wears red lipstick and carries a stretch limo cocktail, a neon green cistern that holds liters of liquid animus. Land of free spirits. Spirited away by the sheer volume of alcohol and opaque reasoning. Each boozy tornado is a secret sauce, a maker of faded consciousness that expands to cartoon acid trip proportions. A place where Paris lurks out across a patchwork of cultural wonders reproduced in uncanny versions.
Welcome to Las Vegas, where enormous bath tubs fill with blue tinted water. Where they jet, where swirling stimulants shudder through the upper crust of inhibitions and result in shivering pleasure. Where water pushes people to do crazy things. Where a telephone leans out from the wall next to the toilet, offering plastic communication. Crunchy carpet, unknown meaning, sticky floors. Soft sheets with hospital corners and a sudden urge to take sleeping pills and then fall into a bacchanal-themed dream sequence that unleashes a flood of silver quarters. A dream that bolds the seven deadlies and attaches blinking lights. A dream that includes fountains, pools. Rivers of plastic discs. Reservoirs of liberties taken, pressing and thrusting.
Welcome to Las Vegas, where Greek architecture is recreated using plaster that chalks away in the desert wind. The artifice of American splendor peels up at the corners and smells of disinfectant, lemons and chemicals, false scents, false improvements. Welcome to varnish and worn edges, to illusion made real by decades of touching. Welcome to pixelated walls and laser ceilings that shift the landscape around. Come upon black screens and hollow lamps, screaming holes. Empty shelves that held porn videos, now liquidated. The underlayer reveals the hackjob of half assed artifice. Refreshing bursts of tender reveals, the humans and elements underneath.
Welcome to Las Vegas, where people come to believe that the rules- of money, of sex, of risk- are atomized by the lightwaves from a million of flashing lights and humongous television screens. Red means sin but it also means a mega church of Floridian splendor. Tropical opulence.
Welcome to excess everything. More steak, more hatred, more particleboard. More boxer shorts emblazoned with loud prints of hotel signage. More angles and plate-glass faces to refract light shows.
Welcome to Las Vegas, where everything is an advertisement. Land of Hell’s Kitchen and white tigers who maul their trainers. Land of bad converts, bad moods, and bad men acting badly on a strip of false logic on a flat, scorched plane.
Welcome to Las Vegas, where a dim rag wipes up the residue left by hotel maids, small women paid so little for so much work that they cannot stop to change the mop water. Maids with peeling cuticles, soft hands, dirty noses, carved backs. Where reception desk attendants are carnival workers, clowns of commerce and gambling. Valet guys who swoop and slide between a spray of cars like a wind or a soapy strip of textile scrubber. People in synthetic blazers with soft shoulders and sweat circles on a satin interior. Interiority is obliterated in a swell of all this mania.
Lines, lines, and more lines. Green felted tables. Highball glasses with olives speared by toothpicks. Crowds of dissociated gamblers rambling around a room filled with opportunities to score. Drunk people. People who are really wasted, I mean plowed. Dull eyes, orange heads, screaming spittle messages.
Welcome to Las Vegas, where viruses, bankruptcies, and bad marriages do not exist. The place that bears down hard and asks how far you are willing to go.
Welcome to unbridled catcalls, throaty and jawed. Welcome to seas of people thrashing through corridors and lobbies, pulled by mechanized currents, pulled by anticipation, pushed by psychological warfare.
Welcome to the place where I am just as bad as everybody else. Where I hide in my hotel room and contemplate the dusty atmosphere over the eight lane freeway. Where I look out on a bright day of green palm fronds and false-fronted compounds and feel sick.
Welcome to loss. Loss of orientation, morals, ethics, and hotel rooms. Loss of money. Loss of the ability to choose. Wandering lost on a geometric floor pattern that stays the same no matter the direction. Where loss becomes a religion, a calling, an attitude. Where a rare big win might scald the caution right out of you, turning your pupils into stars or metallic coins.
Las Vegas is a lost paradise, a place to lose.
“I feel like a lot of the Corrections Officers go above and beyond their duty to make your life miserable,” my brother says on one of our weekend phone calls. He’s feeling especially annoyed today, trying his best to stay positive during a weeks-long lockdown. Wildfires rage across the West. Bad air quality makes it dangerous to spend too much time outside, and prisons are shuffling their populations to areas of the state that are less actively burning. Women usually incarcerated at Coffee Creek moved into another part of my brother's home facility last week, and there are extra restrictions on movement to prevent mixing. The men are allowed an hour and a half of yard time every day, but the rest of the time they spend in a large, communal dorm room filled with bunks and dozens of guys hanging around, shooting the shit.
“They don’t just do their job description,” he says about the COs. In the background, I can hear the din of the guys waiting behind him in line and the rest, behind them, hanging around the dorm. There is a constant murmur of conversation, the sounds of shuffling sneakers, the rustle of bodies in motion. At his current residence, Columbia River Correctional Institution, the unit’s 80 guys share three phones and four shower stalls. Sometimes my brother waits an hour and a half to make a phone call.
“They go out of their way to nitpick little things that really have no threat to the safety and security of the facility, or to them personally, even,” he continues.
I am always shocked at his careful and formal vocabulary. He said the COs’ small methods of torture “have no threat the safety and security of the facility.” He says that twice, “the safety and security of the facility,” and it makes me want to protect him by correcting his language. Correcting. You are someone who is wrong at your core, so we are sending you away to be corrected. It is sometimes painful to peel words back, to reveal the cruelty that lurks at their centers.
I want to correct him. I want to say “Don’t say things like that when you get out of prison. You’ll sound institutionalized.” I know the tells from working with so-called youth offenders. Some things the kids said revealed their intimacy with convoluted legal systems and bureaucratic processes. They’d have a mouth full of slang and then say something like “reintegrate into the community,” and I’d want to wash their mouths out with soap. Nobody says facility out here. Nobody says rehabilitation. Instead people say place or building. They say rehab. They say get better. Certain words betray us to our listeners.
In the last aisle of my local discount store, I searched for an item that would help me across the threshold of the $10 minimum required to use a debit card. I looked for something useful and durable, something I actually needed, not wanting to add anything to the mountains of trash already piled on the streets. Passing the lint rollers and belts, I stopped in front of the men’s underclothes and stared. I looked at the packs of A-shirts, commonly known as wife beaters. A red arrow pointing to a hole in the plastic packaging invited me to feel the softness of the fabric. I picked up a pack and stuck my finger in the hole. The shirts were soft. The shirts were three for $5.99. Having just returned from a run around the neighborhood, I knew I really did need some more shirts to work out in. I flipped the package over and scooted closer to the edge of the aisle so I could take my time agonizing over the shirts.
I read the measurements on the back and imagined how tight they would be stretched across my body, the way the cotton ribs would flatten on my tits and crinkle back up at my waist. Usually I wear loose-fitting workout clothes so as not to direct too much attention to my figure. This is ironic because while I do work out to be healthy, I mostly do it because I am vain. I want a body that people crave, a body like buttery pound cake, a body with parts off of which you’d like to bounce a quarter. I want to look good and feel like a firecracker in my plaid pants, my red heeled boots, my silk shirts, even the Raider’s tee and socks I wear around the house at night. But while looking good is its own reward, it is not without its consequences.
I remembered how just an hour before, while I was out jogging, a man turned toward me, assumed a wide stance, and lifted his fingers to his mouth, the index and middle finger separating into a perfect V. His young son, directly in front of him, pushed a skateboard back and forth with his left foot, looking up at his dad for the signal to cross the street. The man locked eyes with me and, for a full three seconds, stuck his tongue out and licked the air. That is, he mimed licking my pussy. I was wearing a nearly knee-length pair of bike shorts, a baggy cut-off Misfits tee shirt, and sneakers. My face was an unflattering red and my hair was wet with sweat and rain. I had done my best to look average. I grimaced at the man. I made a face like, “Are you serious?” but said nothing. His son looked down at his skateboard.
According to a 2018 online survey by a nonprofit group called Stop Street Harassment, 81% of women have experienced sexual harassment during their lifetime. It's fair to say that most women are used to this type of treatment in public and private spaces, and we monitor and censor ourselves to various degrees hoping to minimize the chances of harassment. Sometimes, for instance while jogging around the neighborhood, we throw on baggy gear, eschew makeup, and avoid eye contact. Other times we are feeling ourselves, feeling like a ripe peach, citizens of our bodies and wanting to peel out into the street in some kind of loud glory. We might as well do the latter all the time because it seems that women can actually do little to avoid this harassment. It’s unlikely that any face paint, hair-do, or carefully selected ensemble can so much as incite a nose bleed in a fight against the pernicious narrative that women are for using, grabbing, cawing at, sexing, ogling, and slaking male thirst for lust and attention.
Sometimes I like to think that by covering my body, I can prevent my own objectification. But really, I know that moves like cat-calling and the cunnilingus gesture don’t actually have much to do with how attractive the caller finds his target. It’s more about power. It’s more about masculine power and the way it has grown and atrophied over time to mean carelessness, entitlement, and catch-as-catch-can sexuality. Could the man have caught me if he gave chase? What did I catch from looking into his eyes while he licked the idea of my lips like a steak dinner?
This is my dinner, motherfucker, I thought. Get your salivating snout out of it.
But do I really believe all that? Are men really that horny, dogged, and drunk on masculine power? I actually don’t think so. Most men probably feel as trapped as women do by the game, by having to act out some psycho script of that prototypical hyper-sexed Vin Diesel ding dong. I mean, what was the guy who gave me the cunnilingus gesture really thinking? I doubt he expected anything but what he got. Interesting, too, is the fact that of the men participating in the above survey, 34% had been verbally harassed and almost a quarter had been sexually harassed online. There seems to be no easy way to get us humans to play nicer with each other, not without some kind of revolution.
So I put the wife beaters back on the shelf, remembering my place, remembering how uncomfortable I was the other day when I went to the gym with the wrong clothes and my visible panty lines made me feel gaudy and ruttish. I knew I wouldn’t ultimately want to wear the wife beaters in public lest I garner the attention that everyone would later agree, if something happened, god forbid, that I had asked for.
I am breaking out every last prisoner, I said as I lowered my welding hood. I am tired of bloodblue brightness and blacklights snuffed out by the pig patrol. Murk and mudslide sag my chest in and stop me from breathing. In a bank vault built on a landfill, I lunge out and try to bite off the tongue of a business executive. We all sing happy birthday at a guillotine lunch counter while eating rhubarb pie. Bitter celebration with a syrupy finish.
Brick the windshield to break out the center of the money-soiled web. It is as delicate as bulletproof glass. Ignite a glass bottle full of brown oil and parchment paper scribbled with the names of the top ten most dangerous artists. Yell like a heat-cat, a hungry rat in need of his garbage dinner.
Fight like a man through waves of atomized razor spray that cuts all soft parts like asbestos gemstones. Fight for your right to die like a dog gunned down by some guy in a navy blue outfit. Otherwise, you can work yourself to death or get ruptured by an atom bomb under that name or any number of pseudonyms. The electric bill weighs as much as the bunion on my foot that I got from trying to stand up for myself and kick the teeth out of a senator's head.
Fuck the wage-slave system and these carceral kitchen windows. The vortex welcomes this whole fucking failed experiment, and all the billionaires claw at the walls of the wind tunnel. What if we could clean them all out with a giant vacuum like that and start over? The crowds running to plant seeds in the earth would create an earthquake strong enough to shake the stars like Yahtzee dice in a blackblue cup.
No, I do not believe that people are too selfish and ignoble. I do not think that we are all beasts beyond redeem. No more redeye. No more rope loop. No more exoskeletal shotgun shells filled with feverdream pellets. No more deadletter currency printed in green blood bearing a message that reads like last rites. We ain’t dead yet, mother fuckers. Joy drainers. Buzz killers. Bullets scuttling away like scarab beetles. Beetles dancing on the graves of all the past tense cops and already rotting business tycoons.
Outside the graveyard gates, we spin and spin a children’s game, circle around, revolution.
A Brooklyn summer street smells like far-off ocean. The vast Atlantic across which millions of people came dragging their family rugs, cook pots, broiled meat recipes. Their hard spices and flaky dried herbs, singular brittle photos, coins, religious icons stamped on charms hanging from cheap nylon cord. Boiling pasta water with a few crawdads thrown in. Mop water scented purple by concentrated cleaner dumped by the bucketful onto the filthy sidewalk. Sweat. More saltwater and the fetid juice accumulating in all the garbage cans. Garbage. Car exhaust. Dry tree bark. A hot dog sweating in a white wax paper wrapper. Hot bricks, hot brownstone, hot pavement. Sorry, steaming little grass patches. Sticky paint flaking off of the round, steel railings. Dirty melting gum. A woman’s own animal scent, thick around her body like Pig Pen’s dirt cloud. Smelling like an animal even just 5 minutes out of the shower. Dry concrete. Fried food. Metallic water spurting out of park-center sprinklers and street-side hydrants. Hose water smell. School drinking fountain smell. Hot vegetable oil smell, pounded meat, putrefying fish heads. Sharp smells and round ones. Some so round they surround the smeller like a scent tornado. Some smells are like how cows are commercially slaughtered- a fast iron rod to the forehead. WD-40. Other lubricants. Greases. So much oil to help so much movement amid searing friction. Indoors it is cold and disturbingly scentless with the air conditioners running. Walking outside is like walking into the climax of birth- all that heat, body, breath, and odor.
The train is howling like a banshee in a tomb of broken tile and greasy metallic beams. It sounds like dirty socks and garbage water slicked over with a slurry of clonking plastic beverage bottles. Thick puddle slopping against the dusty shores of this underground metallic canal. Hear the scurry of a small, felted animal. Hear the shirr, the stacks of clanging bars, and the shake of iron coins in a cotton pocket. The slide of metal on metal like an industrial deli meat slicer. A full body vibration that moves the water molecules in your blood around. Making your eyeballs bob in their juice. The tinking fried wire sound of a flutter-out fluorescent. Wheeze and wind purr whirring in time with the velocity of the steel stallion. Stand clear of the closing doors and become deafened by the blown-out intercom system. Sound like an ice pick to the skull. Sound like being born in reverse, like the snowbound atom bomb avalanche of the tin can train hurtling in a corrugated underground tunnel. Sound of subway train, take everybody home.