In the Apple

Chapter 9

Walking out into the bright New York August day was like walking into a tumble dryer full of heavy, wet towels. I wobbled briefly from the weight of the humidity's assault, and Smithy grabbed my elbow. "Whoa!" he said, steadying me. He looked down at my legs. "What you thinkin', wearin' stockings on a day like this?" he exclaimed, in what appeared to be a shocked tone.

I frowned, unaccustomed to such personal observations from total strangers. Perhaps I should try and get away from him. He persisted. "You should take those off, right now!" he opined, arms crossed.

"I get blisters if I don't wear socks or stockings," I mumbled defensively.

"Well, girl, let's us buy you some ankle socks, then."

I stood silently, staring resentfully down at the sidewalk. Smithy shook his head, linked his arm with mine, and said, "Never mind. Greenwich Village, here we come. If you don't faint, that is," he added archly. "Think you can make it?"

Thus challenged, I squared my shoulders and said, "Of course I can!"

Smithy smiled like a man with a secret, and began to lead me along the street. It occurred to me that if I wanted to give him the slip later, I should pay attention to the street signs. We were coming to an intersection, and I looked up at the street signs. "Wow," I inadvertently blurted out loud, "42nd Street! Park Avenue!" Even in my sheltered small-town life, I'd heard these famous street names. Smithy's lips twitched in amusement as I began to gape at the awnings, doormen, and shop windows of Park Avenue, and gaze around, no doubt embarrassingly open-mouthed, at the confident, smart-looking people marching along in both directions. I was distracted by the sights from my resolution to lose Smithy as soon as possible, and trotted along unquestioningly beside him.