In short, that's what makes the world go round.
Time to get cleaned up, almost…
I needed two things first. I stopped in a little bodega down the street from the Antique Emporium. Picked up a pre-paid cell phone for fifty dollars plus tax.
One more block down I found an Old Navy. Ran through the store; selected a blue t-shirt, a pair of jeans, white socks and a dungaree jacket. Paid the overly pieced and tattooed, but very cute blond at the counter and was on my way.
I went over to Lexington Avenue, turned right and went up about a dozen blocks. In case you have never noticed, the blocks in Manhattan are very long.
There it was, the 92nd Street Y. I stood on the steps for a couple of minutes considering my options. I now had a phone and a couple of bucks in cash. What I should do is make some phone calls, try to make some sense of how-and-why I got here and head back to Philly. Or, I could finish what I started and continue working.
Screw it…
I walked in the front door and was greeted with a toothy "Hi" from a young man wearing a bright red shirt. Just a kid really. Still had his pimples.
I went over, reached into my pocket and took out a fifty.
"Kid, how long you going to be here?"
He looks at the fifty, and looked at me with confusion. "At least an hour."
"Good." I took the phone and the rest of my cash and stuck them in the little brown bag. I ripped the fifty in half and handed one half to the kid along with the brown bag.
"I need a shower. Watch my stuff, I’ll be back in twenty minutes". Didn't say anything about the other half of the fifty, didn't need to.
A big smile. "Yes, sir. No problem, sir."
I took the bag with my new clothes, found the showers, purloined a towel and opened an empty locker. Stripped, threw everything in the locker including the remaining fifty half. Took a hot shower, toweled off and put on the threads. Threw the old clothes in the trash. Felt like a new man.
Strolling back out front, the kid saw me and reached under the counter to retrieve my bag. As he passed it to me I palmed off the other half of the bill.
"Thanks mister"
"Have a good one", and I was out the door. Clean and fresh as a daisy. Hailed a cab and raced down 5th Avenue to The Antique Showplace on West 25th Street. The Showplace is a convenient collection of dozens of antique dealers located under one roof.
I walked in and quickly consulted the legend on the wall to the right. Found the dealer that specialized in vintage dolls and walked up the stairs. Found the doll lady and entered her shop.
It turns out that her name was Leticia, an elderly and very pleasant African-American lady. Her shop was stuffed from front to back, top to bottom with every variety of collectable doll imaginable. I had come to the right place. I introduced myself and placed the little brown bag on her counter.
"Well, Mr. Picker, how may I help you this beautiful spring day?"
I didn't know that people spoke like that anymore. Pleasant surprise.
"No mister, just Picker. I have something that I think you may like. Help yourself."
Leticia opened the bag, reached in and removed the doll. She unwrapped the white tissue paper and held the Kewpie up, turning her this way and that. She grew a huge smile and said, "Isn't she lovely. Haven't seen one of these little girls in quite sometime. How much?"
"One time offer, three grand, cash." Our business is a funny one. Everyone, no matter what side you are on, buyer or seller, is expected to haggle. I, on the other hand, can be a bit quirky now and then. I get it in my mind that I want a certain price for something and that is my bottom line. My phrasing and tone told her that this was one of those times.
Leticia took a moment to consider my proposition. A doll like this doesn't come along everyday and I certainly left her plenty of room to make a profit. Now what she had to think about was whether I was serious or just blowing smoke up her skirt. She came to a quick decision and concluded that I was serious.
She stuck out her hand to shake on it and said, "Deal, but it will take me five minutes to put the money together."
"No problem, I'll grab a cup of coffee."
I went down to the lower level where they had a food concession. Bought a cup of black coffee and settled in to wait for the money. You quickly learn that five minutes is never just five minutes.
Sipping the coffee I started to think. First, I was having a decent day. Don't get the wrong idea, not every day is this lucrative. I was on something of a hot streak. On top of that, if I kept up this pace I would burn out in less than a month. The other things that crossed my mind were how did I end up in a dumpster in New York and where in the name of God was Uncle Moe. I hadn't seen him all day.
Leticia showed up twenty minutes later, handed me a white, #10 envelope and said it was a pleasure doing business with me.
I put the envelope into my inner pocket and said, "The pleasure has been all mine. It was delightful meeting you and I hope we'll cross paths in the future."
Her left eyebrow arched up and she asked, "Aren't you going to count it?"
"Not necessary. Thanks." Once again, I was on my way.
Stepped outside, strongly felt the passage of time at this point but had one more thing to do before heading home. Two, actually.
Grabbed another cab and told the driver two stops, the first at 5th Avenue and 46th Street.
There are two stops that I always try to make when in the Apple. One is JR Cigars. For the longest time I considered smoking, any type of smoking, to be a filthy habit. Then, several years back, I discovered that I had a long lost brother that I not only had not met but didn't even know existed. Actually, he's a half brother. Believe it or not, he's British. More about that another time. The reason that I even mention him is that it was Connor that initiated me into the joys of cigar smoking.
I had the driver pull down 46th Street about a hundred feet and told him to wait. He gave me a skeptical look. I ran into JR's, found what I was looking for and grabbed three Gran Habanos, 6 X 6 °Corojo. Paid the cashier, stuffed the cigars into my pocket and found the cabbie still waiting.
Next stop, The Village. We're rolling down 5th… I pull the phone out and check the train schedule. Once again, I can't help wondering what is going on and even how I'm involved. Doesn't matter, I'll find out soon enough.
The driver drops me at 119 MacDougal Street. It's nice enough that people are eating outside. I, on the other hand, have always enjoyed the cafe’s interior. It's already late afternoon and I'm anxious to get on with the rest of the day.
I sit down. A very cute young woman, dressed entirely in black with long black hair down to her waist, asks how she can help me. I order a black coffee and pull out the menu.
The Caffe Reggio has been in business since 1927. The interior is decorated in antiques and art, which is probably why I enjoy it so much. Even though they were the first cafe in the states to serve cappuccino, I think they have the best black coffee that I have ever tasted.
The waitress returns with my coffee. I order a Panini with fresh mozzarella, basil and sundried tomatoes along with a mint iced tea. Someone has left today's copy of the New York Times on the bench next to me.
Let's see… "Rising Gas Prices Give G.O.P. Issue to Attack Obama, Santorum Mocks Romney Over Olympics, Tax Cut Extension Passes, In Maryland, House Passes Bill to Let Gays Wed". Same shit, different day. Politicians, the biggest whores in the world. Biggest thieves, for that matter!
The sandwich is delicious. I finish, pay my tab and step outside. Pull a 6 x 60 from my pocket, start to chew on it and head uptown on foot to Penn Station. It's finally time to play catch up. I pull the cell out and dial a number that I know from heart.