I passed by the old man in Times Square. I knew he would be there; that’s why I went. I dropped my scarf into his instrument case as I walked by. I thought it was funny. When I came back for my scarf a few minutes later, there was money in the case. My scarf brought him good luck, he said.
...read more hereSo out it came, jealousy like a toppled-over bitter stew, garnished with leaves of the desperate loneliness of an old man with no girlfriend, somehow propelled at me in accusations of enjoying my time spent away from him, while I sat stiff as a board with my right hand clenched around my purse’s handles. I have a metrocard. I have my father’s railroad ticket. I don’t have to be here. I don’t have to take this…
...read more hereIt’s a silk scarf. It was my friend from Harlem’s insistence that made me get a silk scarf. I would have gone for something cheaper. Actually, to be perfectly accurate, it’s not a scarf at all. We picked up a couple yards of silk from a fabric store in the garment district. It was my idea to do it that way. I figured it would be more original and more fun.
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