Two women try to hail a cab: one in her early twenties, the other in her sixties; one open and friendly, the other closed and sour; both wearing haunt couture; both with the same nose, chin and eyes: granddaughter and grandmother.
It's rush hour and there's a major convention in town. They're standing in front of Vidal Sassoon but the cabs racing by are all full. The women are becoming desperate.
I'm not working but I decide to help. I feel that improving our image is my personal duty, besides the older woman's nearing hysteria. I walk over to them, give them a friendly smile and say, "relax -I'll get one for you."
I walk down a block. An empty taxi is rolling toward the curb. Two New Yorker guys are stepping in front of a couple from Iowa to steal it. As it stops, I step in front of them and grab it.
"Hey!" one of them says.
"Thanks for holding it," I say with a smile.
"Your mudder!" he responds, flipping me off.
I tell the driver the situation and he's cool with it so we go down to hand over the taxi.
I get out and open the door for the women with a magnanimous gesture.
The granddaughter smiles with gratitude. Grandmother looks me over with a cold eye. I'm wearing the designer sweater, shirt and slacks that a friend chose for me at Goodwill. But the old woman isn't fooled. Maybe it's the Reboks.
She holds a dollar bill out toward me.
I give her a friendly wave and a gesture of refusal.
She thrusts the bill out again, this time with an expression of hostility and distain.
Who am I to think I can be friends with her?
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