The International Ladies Garment Workers Union is familiar to me by its acronym: ILGWU, which is printed in navy blue beside the image of a small orange wheel on the tag of some of my favorite clothes. These clothes, of course, come from thrift stores: the union is now decades defunct. I gaze up at the eighth floor windows and think of an account of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire I read in which the witness said the bodies fell with such force that they cracked the pavement on the streets below.

It is not two weeks since the Savar building in Dhaka, Bangladesh collapsed, seeing the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory’s paltry 146 female corpses and raising it 1000. The newspapers, naturally are making the requisite comparisons. I think about the story of the Bangladeshi firemen who lowered water and food down to a woman trapped beneath the rubble for three days, and then cried when the ruins caught fire and burned her alive.

However, because there is only so long you can reflect on the thought of women plummeting from buildings and buried in rubble, I walk a few blocks and wander into the Argot teashop. It is full of NYU students and elevators. I wander around the space trying to find a bathroom when I hear somebody saying, “Ma’am, ma’am, can I HELP you?” in the most ominous tone with which those words can be uttered. I tell the guard who is speaking to me that I am looking for the bathroom. “This has NOTHING to do with NYU,” he says. It seems like he is responding to someone else’s question, a question that makes sense, but that I personally did not ask.

“I’m looking for a bathroom.” I say.

“This has NOTHING to do with NYU,” he says again. 

I retreat back behind the imaginary line that he guards and wander off to stare dazedly into canisters of loose-leaf tea.

I want to record this moment because although it was unpleasant, I am obviously somewhat gratified to have been stopped by a beadle.