It was twelve weekends earlier that I'd gone to visit Abe Black in Coney Island.

It was twelve weekends earlier that I'd gone to visit Abe Black in Coney Island. I'm very idealistic, but I knew I couldn't alk that far, so I took a cab. Even before we were out of Manhattan, I realized that the $7.68 in my wallet wasn't going o be enough. I don't know if you'd count it as a lie or not that I didn't say anything. It's just that I knew I had to get there, nd there was no alternative. When the cab driver pulled over in front of the building, the meter said $76.50. I said, "Mr. ahaltra, are you an optimist or a pessimist?" He said, "What?" I said, "Because unfortunately I only have seven dollars nd sixty-eight cents." "Seven dollars?" "And sixty-eight cents." "This is not happening." "Unfortunately, it is. But if you give me your address, I promise I'll send you the rest." He put his head down on the steering wheel. I asked if he was OK. He said, "Keep your seven dollars and sixty-eight cents." I said, "I promise I'll send you the money. I promise." He handed me his card, which was actually the card of a dentist, but he had written his address on the other side. Then he said something in some other language that wasn't French. "Are you mad at me?" Obviously I'm incredibly panicky about roller coasters, but Abe convinced me to ride one with him. "It would be a shame to die without riding the Cyclone," he told me. "It would be a shame to die," I told him. "Yeah," he said, "but with the Cyclone you can choose." We sat in the front car, and Abe lifted his hands in the air on the downhill parts. I kept wondering if what I was feeling was at all like falling. In my head, I tried to calculate all of the forces that kept the car on the tracks and me in the car. There was gravity, bviously. And centrifugal force. And momentum. And the friction between the wheels and the tracks. And wind esistance, I think, or something. Dad used to teach me physics with crayons on paper tablecloths while we waited for our ancakes. He would have been able to explain everything. he ocean smelled weird, and so did the food they were selling on the boardwalk, like funnel cakes and cotton candy and hot dogs. It was an almost perfect day, except that Abe didn't now anything about the key or about Dad. He said he was driving into Manhattan and could give me a ride if I wanted ne. I told him, "I don't get in cars with strangers, and how did you know I was going to Manhattan?" He said, "We're not strangers, and I don't know how I knew." "Do you have an SUV?" "No." "Good. Do you have a gas-electric hybrid car?" No." "Bad." hile we were in the car I told him all about how I was going to meet everyone in New York with the last name Black. He aid, "I can relate, in my own way, because I had a dog run away once. She was the best dog in the world. I couldn't have loved her more or treated her better. She didn't want to run away. She just got confused, and followed one thing and hen another." "But my dad didn't run away," I said. "He was killed in a terrorist attack." Abe said, "I was thinking of you." He went up with me to the door of Ada Black's apartment, even though I told him I could do it myself. "I'll feel better knowing you made it here safely," he said, which sounded like Mom. Ada Black owned two Picasso paintings. She didn't know anything about the key, so the paintings meant nothing to me, even if I knew they were famous. She said I could have a seat on the couch if I wanted to, but I told her I didn't believe in leather, so I stood. Her apartment was the most amazing apartment I'd ever been in. The floors were like marble chessboards, and the ceilings were like cakes. Everything seemed like it belonged in a museum, so I took some pictures with Grandpa's camera. "This might be a rude question, but are you the richest person in the world?" She touched a lampshade and said, "I'm the 467th-rich-est person in the world." I asked her how it made her feel to know that there were homeless people and millionaires living in the same city. She said, "I give a lot to charity, if that's what you're getting at." I told her that I wasn't getting at anything, and that I just wanted to know how she felt. "I feel fine," she said, and she asked me if I wanted something to drink. I asked her for a coffee, and she asked someone in another room for a coffee, and then I asked her if she thought that maybe no one should have more than a certain amount of money until everyone had that amount of money. That was an idea Dad had once suggested to me. She said, "The Upper West Side isn't free, you know." I asked her how she knew that I lived on the Upper West Side. "Do you have things that you don't need?" "Not really." "You collect coins?" "How did you know I collect coins?" "Lots of young people collect coins." I told her, "I need them." "Do you need them as much as a homeless person needs food?" The conversation was beginning to make me feel self-conscious. She said, "Do you have more things that you need, or more that you don't need?" I said, "It depends on what it means to need." She said, "Believe it or not, I used to be idealistic." I asked her what "idealistic" meant. "It means you live by what you think is right." "You don't do that anymore?" "There are questions I don't ask anymore." An African-American woman brought me coffee on a silver tray. I told her, "Your uniform is incredibly beautiful." She looked at Ada. "Really," I said. "I think light blue is a very, very beautiful color on you." She was still looking at Ada, who said, "Thanks, Gail." As she walked back to the kitchen I told her, "Gail is a beautiful name." When it was just the two of us again, Ada told me, "Oskar, I think you made Gail feel quite uncomfortable." "What do you mean?" "I could tell that she felt embarrassed." "I was just trying to be nice." "You might have tried too hard." "How can you try too hard to be nice?" "You were being condescending." "What's that?" "You were talking to her like she was a child." "No I wasn't." "There's no shame in being a maid. She does a serious job, and I pay her well." I said, "I was just trying to be nice." And then I wondered, Did I tell her my name was Oskar? We sat there for a while. She stared out the window, like she was waiting for something to happen in Central Park. I sked, "Would it be OK if I snooped around your apartment?" She laughed and said, "Finally someone says what he's hinking." I looked around a bit, and there were so many rooms that I wondered if the apartment's inside was bigger than ts outside. But I didn't find any clues. When I came back she asked if I wanted a finger sandwich, which freaked me out, ut I was very polite and just said, "Jose." "Pardon?" "Jose." "I'm sorry. I don't understand what that means." "Jose. As in, 'No way...'" She said, "I know what I am." I nodded my head, even though I didn't know what she was talking about or what it had to do with anything. "Even if I don't like what I am, I know what I am. My children like what they are, but they don't know what they are. So tell me which is worse." "What are the options again?" She cracked up and said, "I like you." I showed her the key, but she had never seen it, and couldn't tell me anything about it. ven though I told her I didn't need any help, she made the doorman promise to put me in a cab. I told her I couldn't afford a cab. She said, "I can." I gave her my card. She said, "Good luck," and put her hands on my cheeks, and kissed the op of my head. hat was Saturday, and it was depressing. Dear Oskar Schell, Thank you for your contribution to the merican Diabetes Foundation. Every ollar--or, in your case, fifty cents--counts. have enclosed some additional literature bout the Foundation, including our mission tatement, a brochure featuring past activities nd successes, as well as some information about ur future goals, both short- and long-term. hank you, once more, for contributing to this urgent cause. You are saving lives. With gratitude, Patricia Roxbury President, New York Chapter