The bag is buzzing

Centered object.

Pulling into Stilwell Ave. at Coney Island, I looked down and saw this Duane Reade bag. Curiosity quickly overpowers the merest shiver of a fear of a terrorist gotcha.

Bag contents: cell phone, sunglasses, ear plugs, an orange spray bottle with some kind of cleaner, aspirin, a flyer from Barnes and Noble on upcoming readings.

I starting building a mental picture of who this person could be. The phone starts ringing, “Arick” appears as the caller. I don’t answer though, due to a weird form of politeness—what if it’s just a friend of the phone owner? How would I explain the situation?

It rings again a minute later. The train stops, now at the end of the line. Simultaneously I answer the phone and step off the train.

“Hi! Is this your phone?”
“It is!” (good-natured relief in the woman’s voice), “Who are you?”

Her name is Mary Beaty. She’s a minister! Good thing I found her phone b/c she’s marring a couple on Friday and otherwise she couldn’t get in touch with them! Her husband’s name is Arick, hence the caller ID!

She works at New York Cares in Chelsea (the ones who collect coats, with the brilliant print ads of the statue of liberty shivering in an old coat for warmth) and she’ll stop by my office at 11:00 the next morning to pick up her stuff.

She notes, and it’s true, that we’re having a real New York moment. She seems tickled that I publish books. And before she gets off the phone, “I’m a little blonde grandmother from Minnesota.”

Very nice.