2009 FRQ #2

         There was a cold November wind blowing through 

     116th Street. It rattled the tops of garbage cans, 

     sucked window shades out through the top of opened 

     windows and set them flapping back against the 

5   windows; and it drove most of the people off the 

     street in the block between Seventh and Eighth 

     Avenues except for a few hurried pedestrians who 

     bent double in an effort to offer the least possible 

     exposed surface to its violent assault. 

10     It found every scrap of paper along the street—

     theater throwaways, announcements of dances and 

     lodge meetings, the heavy waxed paper that loaves 

     of bread had been wrapped in, the thinner waxed 

     paper that had enclosed sandwiches, old envelopes, 

15 newspapers. Fingering its way along the curb, the 

     wind set the bits of paper to dancing high in the air, 

     so that a barrage of paper swirled into the faces of the 

     people on the street. It even took time to rush into 

     doorways and areaways and find chicken bones and 

20 pork-chop bones and pushed them along the curb. 

         It did everything it could to discourage the people 

     walking along the street. It found all the dirt and dust 

     and grime on the sidewalk and lifted it up so that the 

     dirt got into their noses, making it difficult to breathe; 

25 the dust got into their eyes and blinded them; and the 

     grit stung their skins. It wrapped newspaper around 

     their feet entangling them until the people cursed 

     deep in their throats, stamped their feet, kicked at the 

     paper. The wind blew it back again and again until 

30 they were forced to stoop and dislodge the paper with 

     their hands. And then the wind grabbed their hats,

     pried their scarves from around their necks, stuck its 

     fingers inside their coat collars, blew their coats away 

     from their bodies. 

35     The wind lifted Lutie Johnson’s hair away from the 

     back of her neck so that she felt suddenly naked and 

     bald, for her hair had been resting softly and warmly 

     against her skin. She shivered as the cold fingers of 

     the wind touched the back of her neck, explored the 

40 sides of her head. It even blew her eyelashes away 

     from her eyes so that her eyeballs were bathed in a 

     rush of coldness and she had to blink in order to read 

     the words on the sign swaying back and forth over her 

     head. 

45     Each time she thought she had the sign in focus, 

     the wind pushed it away from her so that she wasn’t 

     certain whether it said three rooms or two rooms. If 

     it was three, why, she would go in and ask to see it, 

     but if it said two—why, there wasn’t any point. Even 

50 with the wind twisting the sign away from her, she 

     could see that it had been there for a long time 

     because its original coat of white paint was streaked 

     with rust where years of rain and snow had finally 

     eaten the paint off down to the metal and the metal 

55 had slowly rusted, making a dark red stain like blood. 

         It was three rooms. The wind held it still for an 

     instant in front of her and then swooped it away until 

     it was standing at an impossible angle on the rod that 

     suspended it from the building. She read it rapidly. 

60 Three rooms, steam heat, parquet floors, respectable 

     tenants. Reasonable.