Having no idea what her name is I sigh a muted "Hello" then very quickly mumble something that resembles a woman's name and then I just stare at her, stumped, drained, trying to control my viciousness, the Chinese woman still screeching behind me. Finally I clap my hands together and say, "Well."

She stands there, confused, until nervously moving toward the counter, ticket in hand. "Isn't it ridiculous? Coming all the way up here, but you know they really are the best."

'Then why can't they get these stains out?" I ask patiently, still smiling, both eyes closed until the Chinese woman has finally shut up and then I open them. "I mean can you talk to these people or some thing?" I delicately propose. "I'm not getting any where."

She moves toward the sheet the old man holds up. "Oh my, I see," she murmurs. The moment she tentatively touches the sheet the old lady starts jabbering away, and ignoring her, the girl asks me, "What are those?" She looks at the stains again and says, "Oh my."

"Um, well..." I look over at the sheets, which are really quite a mess. "It's, um, cranberry juice, cranapple juice."

She looks at me and nods, as if unsure, then timidly ventures, "It doesn't look like cranberry, I mean cranapple, to me."

I stare at the sheets for a long time before stammering, "Well, I mean, um, it's really... Bosco. You know, like..." I pause. "Like a Dove Bar. It's a Dove Bar... Hershey's Syrup?"

"Oh yeah." She nods, understanding, maybe a hint of skepticism. "Oh my."

"Listen, if you could talk to them" - I reach over, yanking the sheet out of the old man's hand - "I would really appreciate it." I fold the sheet and lay it gently on the counter, then, checking my Rolex again, explain, "I'm really late. I have a lunch appointment at Hubert's in fifteen minutes." I move toward the door of the dry cleaners and the Chinese woman starts yapping again, desperately, shaking a finger at me. I glare at her, forcing myself not to mimic the hand gestures.

"Hubert's? Oh really?" the girl asks, impressed. "It moved uptown, right?"

"Yeah, well, oh boy, listen, I've got to go." I pretend to spot an oncoming cab across the street through the glass door and, faking gratitude, tell her, "Thank you, uh... Samantha."

"It's Victoria."

"Oh right, Victoria." I pause. "Didn't I say that?"

"No. You said Samantha."

"'Well, I'm sorry." I smile. "I'm having problems."

"Maybe we could have lunch one day next week?" she suggests hopefully, moving toward me while I'm backing out of the store. "You know, I'm downtown near Wall Street quite often."

"Oh, I don't know, Victoria." I force an apologetic grin, avert my gaze from her thighs. "I'm at work all the time."

"Well, what about, oh, you know, maybe a Saturday?" Victoria asks, afraid she'll offend.

"Next Saturday?" I ask, checking my Rolex again.

"Yeah." She shrugs timidly.

"Oh. Can't, I'm afraid. Matinee of Les Miserables," I lie. "Listen. I've really got to go. I'll..." I run a hand over my hair and mutter "Oh Christ" before forcing myself to add, "I'll call you."

"Okay." She smiles, relieved. "Do."

I glare at the Chinese woman once more and rush the hell out of there, dashing after a nonexistent cab, and then I slow down a block or two up past the cleaners and-

. suddenly I find myself eyeing a very pretty homeless girl sitting on the steps of a brownstone on Amsterdam, a Styrofoam coffee cup resting on the step below her feet, and as if guided by radar I move toward her, smiling, fishing around in my pocket for change. Her face seems too young and fresh and tan for a homeless person's; it makes her plight all the more heartbreaking. I examine her carefully in the seconds it takes to move from the edge of the sidewalk to the steps leading up to the brownstone where she sits, her head bowed down, staring dumbly into her empty lap. She looks up, unsmiling, after she notices me standing over her. My nastiness vanishes and, wanting to offer something kind, something simple, I lean in, still staring, eyes radiating sympathy into her blank, grave face, and dropping a dollar into the Styrofoam cup I say, "Good luck."

Her expression changes and because of this I notice the book - Sartre - in her lap and then the Columbia book bag by her side and finally the tan-colored coffee in the cup and my dollar bill floating in it and though this all happens in a matter of seconds it's played out in slow motion and she looks at me, then at the cup, and shouts, "Hey, what's your goddamn problem?" and frozen, hunched over the cup, cringing, I stutter, "I didn't... I didn't know it was... full," and shaken, I walk away, hailing a taxi, and heading toward Hubert's in it I hallucinate the buildings into mountains, into volcanoes, the streets become jungles, the sky freezes into a backdrop, and before stepping out of the cab I have to cross my eyes in order to clear my vision. Lunch at Hubert's becomes a permanent hallucination in which I find myself dreaming while still awake.