I reach a supermarket corner—a one-way aisle with two-way traffic—and encounter a suited man. When on a collision course with a stranger, you choreograph a little dance ending with a nod and a smile. One of us will have to do the back steps of the supermarket cha-cha. He barrels through, declaring “I don’t negotiate.”
He won’t dance; don’t ask him.
*
I make my way to exit through the rear door of the 104 bus, dreading the walk up the hill against the bitter wind. I feel a sting on the back of my head and turn to see a deranged stranger eyeing me with disdain. I process the sensation and realize I have just been whacked upside the head. I stare him down and back him up a step, then smile crazily and say, “What took you so long?”
*
On the corner of 72nd Street and Broadway in July, a stranger in a long black coat comes running to me, desperation in his eyes. “Do you know what happened?” he implores.
“Where?” I ask.
“Anywhere!” he shrieks and runs off.
I am making a list, should I run into him again.