Because I walk quickly, while wearing sunglasses and headphones, I’m often stopped by tourists in Times Square who need directions. It’s as if my visible, unmistakable barriers to social interaction reveal me to be just the sort of New Yorker who can point you toward Crumbs. To be fair, part of me enjoys being the helpful stranger who can set a vacation right. Also, I love cupcakes.
One night last week, I was clipping down 42nd when three young women, maybe in their early 20s, waved their arms at me. I took Thom Yorke out of my ears.
“Excuse me! Can I ask you a question?”
Shit. People never say this when they need directions. “Um, sure.”
One of the women, who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, tipped her head back and gazed at me. “Do you believe the Bible reveals the perfect understanding of motherly love?”
It would have been easy to walk away, except that the woman was beaming. Her eyes were sparkling and her teeth were disastrously crooked.
“Do you, uh, mean the Gnostic Gospels?” What was I talking about?
“No, I mean the perfect love of a heavenly mother,” she said, enthusiastically, gently, as if to a kindergarten class. The other two women looked at the sidewalk, embarrassed for me or for her, I couldn’t tell.
“I have to go…I’m late to meet someone.”
“Can we just give you our number? In case you have some questions?”
Her teeth were such a mess. I said yes, and she introduced the other women as she wrote their names on the card that one of them had pulled from her wallet. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Sally.”
“Sally, can you give us a number? To contact you?”
“No, I’m sorry. If I have questions, I’ll be in touch.”
She looked up at me, and her face suddenly was sad enough to explain why she was here, why her teeth were crooked, why she wanted to keep talking, why she wanted to understand perfect love. “OK. But thanks for stopping.”
I tucked the card in my bag, and didn’t throw it away until I reached Brooklyn.