March 12, 2006
I was sitting in the café minding my own business, as usual reading the newspaper and eating a croissant. It was an ordinary morning, sitting there at the table and occasionally staring out the window at the wooden bench. Nothing seemed amiss. I saw a woman sitting at the counter, looking around here and there. She was young, maybe 25, Asian-American, somewhat attractive. She kept looking around, as though she'd dropped something. Then she started staring at me. I could tell; I was pretending to read the newspaper, but surreptitiously watching out of the corner of my eye. Was she going to hit on me? And then it happened: she came over. She seemed nervous. Really nervous. It took her a minute to compose herself, and then she said something like, "Uhhh, I'm really sorry to bother you. I hope you don't mind. I was just wondering..." and kept up this awkward prattling until I just replied with a smile, "It's no problem. Just go ahead and ask." She then blurted out, "I was just wondering if I could read that part of the paper you're not reading." So that was it. All the drama for just that. "Sure," I said. "Help yourself." And she did.
Three minutes later she was back. She hadn't really looked at the newspaper at all—I was keeping up the discreet surveillance. She came back without the newspaper, and squatted down next to me. "I was wondering if I could ask you something?" she said in a sweet but naïve voice. Did I look that available? Was I actively trying to snag a date? "Of course," said I. "Go right ahead."
And she did: "I was wondering what you would do if you knew like they — well — if you knew that — I mean — what you would do if an editor you were working for — I mean if you were working for an editor — and he was sexually harassing you." OK, that was totally random, I thought. I asked if she wanted to sit down. Did I look sympathetic? I knew right away this meant there wasn't going to be a date; I knew instead this was a tortured soul. She sat down. She was deeply distressed, declaring, "I mean, he's maligned my character. He wants everyone to hate me. He's destroyed my reputation." This was serious stuff! Very serious for so early in the morning, when my intent had been what it always was—just to eat that bloody croissant and read a few tedious articles about international affairs without upsetting my digestion.
Well, I thought, where to begin when your discussion partner has begun in the midst of things? I had no need to ask questions though, because the information just kept flowing. After a few minutes, however, I decided to start asking. The details were sketchy. It could have been any company, really, any one of the many dens of computer serfs to be found in Manhattan. Then things got weirder. The plot twisted and turned. Details didn't add up. I smiled a lot, and nodded my head. It was clear at this point: this woman is schizophrenic and hasn't taken her medicine. And then the proverbial little light bulb above my tiny head lit up: This is the woman who accosted and started screaming at my lawyer pal here at the café the previous week. Even uglier, he was with his young daughter, who at the tender age of four could not fathom why this woman they had never seen before was yelling at her daddy.
I wanted to get out, leave, disappear, and above all, avoid any controversy. But it was too late already: "You're working with them! You know all about me! He's in league with you! This whole thing is a set-up!" Now professionally, I'd had the unfortunate opportunity to deal with someone in this situation some years past, but fortunately I was surrounded by law-enforcement officers, so extricating myself from that situation was less sticky. Instead, I made it clear: "I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't know any of these people you're bringing up." My voice rose ever so slightly. "I feel really bad about your situation, but there's nothing I can do for you. It was nice to meet you, and now I have to go to work." I felt a mix of pity, empathy and rage. After all, I clearly could not go on eating my breakfast. The owner had been watching, I would later find out, because he'd thrown her out of the café once already that week. He wanted to see how I'd handle it. Gee, lucky me. Tears started rolling down her face. "I'm really sorry," she said. "Sometimes I just can't control myself." I reassured her there was no need to apologize; we all have days like that. As I walked away down the avenue, I was reminded then as I was again this morning by a story about the homeless collecting their mail General Delivery at the main post office. There really are eight million stories in this city, possibly infinite points of tangency, and sometimes when these points intersect you are quickly led into the unknown and back in a very brief period of time.
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Posted on 3/12/2006
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