Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk(82)

Tall Keith and short Darrell are squaring off, looking at me, then at each other, then back to me. Darrell tosses my wallet over his shoulder. It hits the ground with a slap. A decision is about to be made.

“Let’s think for a second,” I say, “about where to go from here. Your friend”—I nod to the distant third, the shortsighted chorister—“wants to let me go. Darrell here wants to pursue the assault-and-battery route and take my coat by force. But these are not our only two options. Let’s keep this conversation going.”

“We don’t need this hassle,” says the nervous one. “Let’s just go. That coat ain’t even real.”

“I beg your pardon,” I say. “It most certainly is real. I paid four thousand dollars for it in 1942.”

“What’s it worth today?” says Keith.

“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” I say. “I’ve never thought about selling it. Look, I’ll give you the coat. But it’s cold out here, and I’m old, and I still need to walk to R.H. Macy’s tonight before I go home. I can’t do that without a coat.”

“That ain’t our problem,” says Darrell.

“I think we ought to swap,” I continue. “You get my mink, and I make it home without freezing to death. That’s the offer on the table.”

Darrell is still ready to rush me—legs wide, knees bent, shoulders low—but Keith softens, rocks back on his heels. His flood of anger has drained away, showing what’s underneath, which looks like sadness. “Okay,” says Keith. “We’ll swap.”

“Keith, are you fucking serious?”

“Shut up, Darrell,” says Keith. “Give her your jacket.”

“What?” says Darrell. “She ain’t getting nothing from me, fool. What you giving away my coat for?”

“Because it’s the shittiest one we got,” says Keith.

“Hold your horses,” I say. “No offense to your coat, Darrell—which actually looks both elegant and comfortable—but that deal doesn’t work for me. This is a fur coat. In addition to being very expensive, it’s extremely warm. As you’ve noticed, it’s gotten cold tonight. Based on the fact that Darrell, who is in the prime of his life, is visibly shivering, I must conclude that a track jacket is not warm enough for an elderly person like myself. Plus the arms are too short. I want the flight jacket.”

“Aw, fuck you, lady,” Keith says.

I open my arms wide, feeling vulnerable, trying to seem confident. “Come on, Keith,” I say. “This is your lucky day. A full-length mink coat in perfect condition? Free and clear, with no trouble from the law? You can sell it and buy jackets for the whole neighborhood.”

Keith looks at me, shakes his head. “You’re crazy, lady” he says.

But he takes off his jacket.

I do the same with my coat. The cold air rushes in around my armpits; I hadn’t realized how much I’ve been sweating. It feels good for a second. Then my teeth start to chatter.

Keith puts out a hand to give me his coat, another to take mine. We swap. He drapes my mink over his shoulder, steps away. “Let’s not be too hasty,” I say. “We’d better try them on.”

“Come on, man,” says Darrell. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“What are you scared of?” I say. “This is an honest swap. Nobody’s in trouble.”

Just as Keith puts on my mink coat and I put on his jacket, the clock must strike midnight and the ball must drop, because we can hear, all the way over here, all the people in Time Square roaring.

It’s 1985.

The coat looks stunning on Keith, like it was tailored for him.

“You look like a pimp,” says his formerly nervous, now visibly relieved friend.

“Thanks,” says Keith.

“And you look hilarious,” his friend says, using his chin to point at me. I am sure that he’s right.

“Well,” I say, closing the jacket’s most functional zipper, “Happy New Year, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“No doubt it has,” Keith says. “You’re gonna run for a cop as soon as you get your ass round that corner, ain’t you?”

“Why would I? There’s nothing to call a cop about.”

“Oh, right. This shit here was just a routine midnight street-corner business transaction between a fur-coat-wearing old white lady and three black dudes from the South Bronx. They’re gonna have no problem believing that.”

“Hmm,” I say. “I see your point. You want a bill of sale?”

“Yes I do, actually.”

“Fuck,” says Darrell. “Can we go?”

I take a moment to search the dark pavement for my notebook and a pen. The third boy finds them before I do, hands them to me, and then gathers the rest of my things as I write up the bill, returning them to my purse, returning my purse to me. The bag doesn’t match my new coat, but that’s all right.

“You know,” I say, “I have a question for you boys, if you can spare another minute.”

“Y’all are killing me,” Darrell says, hugging himself, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“As I’ve been walking around the city,” I say, “I keep hearing this song. A rap, I think it’s called. I’m wondering if you know it. It’s not easy to describe. There’s no chorus, per se. It involves a great deal of hipping and hopping.”