#42 The Smell Of Money

I am getting my annual breast MRI at a new location near Columbus Circle. I’m nervous because I think there will be no tiny peek-a-boo mirror for me, as there was at Park Avenue Radiology, to remedy any pangs of claustrophobia. But after I gown up and talk to my technician Cesar about my fear in my chatty over-doing it nervous way, I have the IV contrast injection set up and belly down on the awkward boob holes and see that, indeed, the mirror awaits me. What a joy! As I fall almost asleep during the procedure, I open my eyes every so often, getting a view of not only Cesar in the next room, but a window letting in cloudy light on a rainy day. I love my new radiology location. I leave refreshed knowing that this screening is vital to my health and I’ve done good.

To celebrate, I decide to walk to the east side along Central Park South. I stop into a wine store I have passed dozens of times over the years but never bothered to go in because I assumed the prices would be inflated and ridiculous. It is a hot, humid day between downpours and I see the sections; Loire, Burgundy, Spain, Chile, Argentina, New York, California. I stop near the register and see that a few wines are discounted and pick up four French selections: 2 bottles of rose, 1 chardonnay and another white. As I stand at the register a large man enters wearing a few layers of dashikis and his hair is twisted in Africa cloth. He is also wearing 3 plastic hospital bracelets and he is holding a crisp, but wrinkled, $10 bill.

He says, “I want another bottle of that stuff!” and the cashier, who clearly knows this man, politely and firmly asks him to wait until he is finished with me. I pull back because I assume the man who looks homeless, smells. He walks past me and starts talking to another employee and tries to press the bill into his hand.

This is when New York collides with itself, and I love it.

I cradle the bag in my arms as I walk east on Central Park South. Passing doormen, tourists, delivery people of all types, clusters of well dressed guests under hotel awnings and I love the corner of 59^th & Fifth where the Plaza stands. The walk smells like money to me. The sidewalks don’t have a crack that isn’t intended, the buildings are perfectly groomed and the number of dentists, and plastic surgeons are plentiful and I think for a moment that maybe I could walk right in, pull out my credit card and get a little work done.

Smelling money makes me think I can get anything I want.