“Hey you,” a man calls to me, unfolding his body from beneath a cardboard box in an alley which happens to be next to a very posh shoe store. “I told you. I told YOU.”
I feel a little ashamed when realization dawns: this is a homeless person. I turn over a few phrases in my mind, trying to figure out what to say to diffuse his apparent anger, but Sterling reaches across my body and pulls me along after him. “Back off, buddy.”
The man grumbles under his breath, and we’re maybe another 40 yards down the street when I hear him yell the same thing at a different passer-by.
“Told you what?” I ask when we’re well past, confused. “Did you know him before or something?”
He takes a moment to consider his response.
“We used to be best friends. But that was before she came between us,” Sterling says wistfully as a grin twitches at the corners of his mouth.
“I guess not.” I stick my tongue out at him.
“Don’t be like that, Lucky. Your innocence is adorable.” He pauses to pull me close, enjoying being with me. “It is a little surprising. I didn’t think you had any innocence left.”
Sterling stops in front of a modest brown-brick building more or less like every other one on the block. “Wait out here while I drop the bags off.”
“Can’t I come up and look? I know you said Francie is at work, but do you really think she’d mind?” I am almost as curious to see the inside of Francie’s place as I am to see everything in New York.
“Better not. We can’t be trusted alone behind closed doors,” Sterling says. He grabs our bags and heads in.
He’s gone maybe two minutes, which gives me a little time to work out how to handle the money situation. I have plenty. My father and brother insisted I take my own weight in traveller’s checks, as well as a credit card, and a taser. I left the taser under my bed, of course—there was no way I would get one on a plane.
My father wasn’t happy when I told him I was going. He raged for five straight minutes about ruining Christmas before I told him I would go even if he didn’t give permission. I expected him to give in at that point, as we both knew he didn’t want me—or anyone else—around this year. And sure enough, after a moment’s consideration he said ‘fine’ and walked away. I hadn’t been completely honest about who I was going with or where I was staying. That’s probably why Malcolm suggested I check into The Plaza.
I’ve never stayed anywhere like this before. All my travel has involved five-star resorts and chauffeurs. I want to experience Sterling’s city, though. Still, I can’t help worrying that Sterling will try to impress me. I know Sterling’s pride won’t permit me to pay for him. In fact, I suspect it won’t allow me to pay for myself.
“Ready?” he asks, adjusting my Burberry scarf against the wind.
“I am.” I’ve managed to figure out exactly how to work the money situation. It’s the oldest trick in the arsenal: play dumb. After our run-in with the homeless man, it shouldn’t be a hard sell.
I deploy my plan for the first time at the metro station not far from his apartment. It’s easy enough to pretend I don’t know what I’m doing at the automated terminal selling MetroCards, switching the setting from one to two unlimited level cards while Sterling isn’t looking.
“I got you one,” I say proudly. “Is it enough?”
“Lucky, this is an unlimited card—for a month. We’re only here for a week,” he says with a laugh. “Let me help you next time.”
Maybe my plan is working a little too well.
We board the subway in Queens and take the purple line over to Manhattan. From there, we walk a few blocks to Rockefeller Square. We watch the ice skaters—mostly tourists in bright, puffy coats—attempt to stay upright. It’s particularly fun to watch parents get pulled down by their children, both collapsing with laughter on the ice. My stomach grumbles, and I’m reminded of his plan to eat everything. “Didn’t you say something about food?”
“Yeah, I did. It’s a couple blocks away. I just thought we’d take a minute here. I’ve actually never bothered coming here before,” Sterling says, his brow furrowing sheepishly.
“I can cross Rockefeller off my list now. But I want Sterling Ford’s New York. Not everyone else’s. Now take me to food!” I tug on his coat, ready to leave the tourist side of the city behind.
We hold hands as we walk, and after another few blocks arrive at a park lined on one side with food carts. “You ever had Dosa?”
“Dough-what?”
“Do-sa. It’s a stuffed savory pancake from southern India. I come here just for these,” he explains.
I sniff the air. One aroma, blooming warm and spicy, rises above the others. “Is that what I’m smelling? It smells incredible.”
That’s actually understating it. The scent of chilies and cinnamon wafts toward us, and I can feel my stomach start doing flips. I am pretty sure the length of the line we’re in means the food will be worth it—but not if I die of hunger first. Luckily, the line moves more quickly than I would have guessed, and within ten minutes the man behind the counter barks, “Order?”
“Two Special Pondicherry,” Sterling says.
We stand to the side, watching the cook make our dosa. He scoops a bubbly white paste from a chilled vat in his cart, then uses the flat bottom of the scoop to distribute the gloppy batter in a large circle on his griddle, before repeating the whole process. Next, he grabs a bottle and squirts bright yellow liquid on top
