Stories from the Second Floor: 3

I spent most of the day today doing one of my least favorite jobs -- cleaning out the meat incubator. One thing I have still not gotten used to is eating in vitro meat. Sure it's great to be able to have meat at every meal. The unit my employer has produces so much, she always sends me home with extras. I usually cook it up in a stew, and it tastes fine, but the idea of it is still strange to me. Beggars can't be choosers, I guess.

My employer and her family usually eat in vitro meat. I hear that they're starting to serve the fake stuff even at fancy restaurants. Everyone says how wonderful the incubators are, energy efficient, sustainable, healthy, but they've never had to clean the things. Once a month my employer gets a delivery of fresh animal flesh, Wagu Beef, Grain Fed Chicken, Wild Salmon. I guess there's nothing like the real thing.

I rely on my employer for so many things. She gives me her old clothes, and shoes, and even takes me with her sometimes when she travels. Many might envy my position, getting to spend so much time on the higher floors. My employers are kind, but they always know how to remind you where your place is.

Stories from the Second Floor: 2

I'm writing to you now on my mid-day break. Most workers use this time to get in touch with their families off the Islands, on mainland New York, or in other parts of the country. They give the workers access to video chat, but a lot of the families outside don't have that luxury, so it's not used that much.

I said last time that I would tell you about my own family. I'll try to give as much detail as I can. I came to the United States in 1995 under some difficult circumstances. I met a man who lured me away from home with promises of the 'good life'. I soon learned that I wasn't the only girl he had made promises to. The man ran an import-export business, trafficking girls and boys to fuel the growing sex trade. After two years I worked my way out of the underground brothels into the private service of a wealthy young couple. Their interest in me was not purely sexual, they had bigger plans in mind.

They offered me a deal - They wanted me to be a surrogate mother to their child, in exchange for legal status. I was only 17. I had never had full control over my body, so this was just more of the same to me, so I agreed to the deal. A year later I gave birth to a child. I don't know if it's a boy or girl. I don't know what she looks like. All I know is that he or she lives the good life I dreamed about before I came here.

Stories from the Second Floor: 1

My name is Irena Fonseca. I am a domestic worker at new Islands at Manhattan building. The New Times hired me to write about my experiences on 'living wage.' They tell me that the best way to report on the working class in New York is for people like me to be honest and write about our experiences. I will do the best I can, but I am not convinced that truth alone will set us free.

As a domestic worker, I live on the second floor of building 1 of the Islands complex. Under my contract, I receive room and board to save me the timely and expensive commute back and forth to the island. The bridge and tunnel tolls increase almost every week, and it's really impossible for someone on a living wage to commute. Residency in building 1 was offered to us as a perk, but now after nearly a year there I know better. The air circulation is poor, and housing is over crowded. Our quarters are close to the buildings waste-management and composting facilities. To make ends meet, I sometimes pick up extra shifts in composting, processing the kitchen and bathroom waste that comes from the floors above into fertilizer to be used in the flower beds and vegetable gardens of the top floors. To them, sustainability is freshly picked micro greens, to us sustainability smells like shit.

My regular work is to do domestic service for a number of families on the top floors. Sometimes it feels like I'm living a double life, between the dank air of the second floor and breezy sunlight on the seventy-second floor. My employers all treat me well, almost like family... which only reminds me of my own family, but that story will have to wait for next time.