“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.”
“Aw, man,” the third boy says. “I bet I know what that is.”
“That could be anything,” Keith says.
“At certain points,” I say, “one of the gentlemen, one of the rappers, refers to a Holiday Inn. Does that ring any bells?”
This doubles all three of them over, even Keith. “This shit ain’t real,” Darrell says. “It ain’t really happening.”
“Could be anything,” Keith says again.
“Damn, y’all,” the third boy says. “She’s talking about Sugarhill Gang! ‘Rapper’s Delight’!”
“I know what the fuck she’s talking about, Winston,” Keith snaps. His mirth is gone. He turns to me, plucks the bill of sale from my fingers. “You heard what the man said. ‘Rapper’s Delight.’ Sugarhill Gang. It’s from, like, six years ago. What you want to know for?”
“As I said, I keep hearing it. I like it.”
“Ain’t you got your own music?” Keith says. “Barbra Streisand, or the Carpenters, or some shit like that? How come white folks always feel the need to tell us how good our music is, like we don’t know?”
“Just curious, Keith.”
“Yeah?” Keith says. “Go be curious about something else. I bet there’s real good Japanese music and Mexican music that nobody’s listening to. C’mon, y’all. Let’s go.”
He takes a few long backward steps away from me, then spins—the mink flaring—and marches off. His friends follow a beat behind him. “You crazy, lady,” Darrell shouts as he goes.
“I’m actually not,” I say. “I have been. But I’m not anymore.”
Just as the other two catch up with him, Keith stops, turns, walks back to me. He lifts an index finger in front of my nose. I flinch.
“You gonna go home and brag about this?” he says.