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“I’m not,” I say.
“You sure?” he asks. “I got a real sweet place you can stay, real nice place, hot shower and pretty clothes. Let me help you with that bag, honey, that looks real heavy—”
“I have a place to stay. Thank you.” He shrugs and walks away with a rolling gait.
“Hey! Hey,” someone yells impatiently. “You want a taxi or not? I don’t have all day here—”
“Yes, please,” I say breathlessly, hauling my suitcase across the sidewalk to a yellow cab. I plunk the suitcase onto the curb, place my Carrie handbag on top of it, and lean into the open window.
“How much?” I ask.
“Where you going?”
I turn around to pick up my bag so I can give him the address.
Huh?
“Just a minute, sir—”
“What’s the problem?”
“Nothing.” I scramble around my suitcase, looking for my bag. It must have fallen. My heart pounds as I flush in embarrassment and dread.
It’s gone.
“Where to?” the cabdriver snaps again.
“Are you going to take this cab or not?” demands a man in a gray suit.
“No—I—er—” He brushes past me, gets in the taxi, and slams the door.
I’ve been robbed.
I stare into the open maw of Penn Station. No. I cannot go back. Will not.
But I have no money. I don’t even have the address of the place I’m staying. I could call George, but I don’t have his number either.
Two men walk by, carrying an enormous boom box. A disco song blares from the speakers—“Macho Man.”
I pick up my suitcase. A tide of people carries me across Seventh Avenue where I’m deposited in front of a bank of phone booths.
“Excuse me,” I call out to various passersby. “Do you have a dime? A dime for a phone call?” I would never do this back in Castlebury—beg—but I figure I’m not in Castlebury anymore.
And I’m desperate.
“I’ll give you fifty cents for your hat.” A guy with arched eyebrows regards me in amusement.
“My hat?”
“That feather,” he says. “It’s too much.”
“It belonged to my grandmother.”
“Of course it did. Fifty cents. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.”
He places five dimes in my hand.
