May 5, 2016--ABC Carpet & Home

We're always on the lookout for cloth table napkins. Using them at breakfast and dinner is one of our small luxuries. And thus we like to have a large supply from which to choose.

So, when we found ourselves the other day at the Union Square Green Market, just two streets south of ABC Carpet & Home, after rounding up cremini mushrooms and fresh spinach for the next day's breakfast omelet, Rona said, "Why don't we walk up to ABC. We haven't been there in eons. Maybe we'll see something for the apartment or Maine cottage. We'll be there in ten days and maybe we'll find something decorative to put on the dining room table."

"Good idea," I said, "We've been looking for a ceramic bowl or a piece of folk art for it feels like years. Maybe we'll get lucky."

We didn't. There were very few things that caught our eye and the two pieces that had possibilities were $3,500 and $6,000.

"You mean that pathetic stone sculpture of a sea bass is $6,000? I'm incredulous."

"In general it looks a if they're out of control with their pricing. Picking numbers out of the air. When we bought furniture here 25 years ago we found a lot of things and the prices felt fair. Now, like everything else involving downtown living--from the cost of food in restaurants to the price of apartments--is off the charts."

"We're living in the world of the one percent," I said.

"Five percent," Rona said. "Don't make it worse than it is."

"Fair point," I acknowledged. "Five percent is bad enough."

"Let's get out of here," Rona sighed. "I used to love this place. Now it's aggravating me. Everything feels like a rip off."

"We can always look at napkins," I said, winking, hoping to make both of us feel better about the new New York.

"I think we pass by them on our way out," Rona said. "I don't want to spend any more time here than I have to."

"I just remembered," I said, perking up. "The one time we ever saw Donald Trump in the flesh was here 22 years ago."

"I remember that too," Rona said, enjoying the recollection. "He and Marla Maples got off the elevator just as we were getting on. They had their new baby with them."

"Tiffany. She's 22 now. That's how I know when it was.

"Well named. After a jewelry store."

"She was amazing looking. Marla, I mean.

"Perfect skin and totally radiant."

"How appropriate that we're here the day after he became the presumptive nominee."

"Remember how we changed our minds about getting in the elevator and followed them around as they shopped for bed linens?"

"I do. It was a lot of fun."

"Not like today," Rona muttered.

"Here are the napkins. Maybe we'll fine something we like."

And quickly Rona did. "I like these," she said, holding up a couple of what looked like blue vegetable-dyed embroidered Indian napkins. "These could work in the city or Maine. Maybe better in Maine as we have a lot of blue things there."

"For old times sake maybe we should get them."

"Sounds like a nice idea. Let me see how much they are."

Rona squinted at the price tag and more to herself than to me, said, "This you won't believe."

"What's that?"

"They cost $75."

"For a set of six?"

"No. Apiece."

"Your kidding. Let me take a look."

Rona passed them to me. "You're right," I said. "It's either that they're a ridiculous price, since these aren't fancy napkins or especially well made, or they're mislabeled. They're probably $7.50. Let's ask a salesperson."

"This is making me cranky. I'm OK to forget about these. Let's just go."

"Now I really want to know. First there was that stupid fish and now this."

Just as I was saying that a salesman approached and asked if he could help with anything. I asked him to check the price of the napkins. "I think they're not priced correctly."

"Let me check," he said. "I can do it over there at the cash register. I'll be back in a flash."

And he was. Thankfully since Rona was about to bolt.

"Sorry, but the are priced correctly. I mean maybe not the price itself. They do feel a little expense to me," he whispered.

"A little? Seventy-five dollars for one napkin made in India for maybe a quarter?" Rona shushed me and was tugging on my arm to get me to stop and leave. "You mean, if we bought four it would be $300?"

"Plus tax," Rona said, getting into it.

"Well, that means we can get the napkins delivered."

The salesman stared at me not understanding.

"It says there on that sign that if you spend at least $300 you get so-called free, same day delivery anywhere in Manhattan."

"Be we live only ten blocks from here," Rona said, "and it would be only four messily napkins. Even without the tax . . ."

"For free delivery it has to total at least $300 before sales tax." He said, smiling broadly.

"Not a problem," Rona said. "If we bought four . . ."

I knew she was being ironic. It was my turn to pull on her arm. It was past time to leave.

At the door, Rona looked back nostalgically at the glittering displays, "I suspect this is the last time we'll ever come to this store."

"And I doubt, with The Donald on his way to the White House, that we'd ever see him here."

January 8, 2016--Snowbirding: Checkout at Walmart

"Them sons-of-bitches they cut me this year."

We were on the checkout line at Walmart in Boynton Beach with a cart full of staples for our place in Delray.

"Can't trust a one of 'em." Muttering to himself was a bent-in-half old man--at least 90 by the looks of him--just ahead of us with a half-filled shopping cart.

Ours contained gallon jugs of bottled water, beer, soda and juice, various paper goods, and other essentials that would help get us started during our three months in Florida. His, a few comestibles, some shirtsleeved shirts, underwear, and two six-packs of Bud.

"Sons of bitches," he said again. "Wish there'd be somethin' I could do 'bout it," he spit through missing teeth, this time in our direction.

"Like I said, they cut me."

"Cut you?" I said, with Rona signaling behind his back that I should mind my own business.

"Them bastards in Washington. My social."

"Your social?" Tired from the drive of more than seven hours from Beaufort, SC, it took me awhile to figure out what had got him so riled up.  "I get it. That is I think I do. You're talking about . . ."

Rona continued to be annoyed with me.

"Like I said, my social." He turned away from us, to Rona's relief, as by then he was first in line.

"Help me out here, would you?" he said to the cashier.

"Anything I can do," she smiled.

"How much is this one here?" He was holding up a blue plaid shirt.

"Let me scan it for you." She did. "It's on sale. It says," she pointed to the screen. "only $9.95."

"OK," he said, "You can ring that one up. Now what about this one?" This time he showed her a seven-pack of jockey shorts.

"They're on sale too. Just $4.95."

"Easy for you to say," he snapped.

"Sorry, sir. I'm just trying to be helpful." She continued to smile at him.

I could hear him grumbling, not appreciating her cheery spirit.

"Maybe we should change lines," Rona whispered to me.

"All the other lines are filled with even older people," I exaggerated. "Let's stay where we are. He's almost through."

"How much are the beers goin' for these days?" he asked, "On sale too?"

"Sorry, no. I think those are $6.95," she said. "Want me to scan 'em?"

"I'd rather you total up what I owe you this far. I mean for the shirt, the shorts, and this here beer."

"I can tell you that. It says $21.85. Not including tax. Want me to calculate that?"

"Not necessary, though what they do with the tax is beyond me. Don't do me no good. But that adds up already to more'an I got," he again spat. "Let me put the shirt back. I'll take the shorts. I'm runnin' out of underwear. That way I can get them and pay for the two six-packs." He again looked over toward me, shaking his head.

I nodded back at him. Directly to me he once more said, they cut my social, them sons-of-bitches."

"I think I know what you mean," I said. "They also cut my Social Security this year. I used to get . . ."

Rona jabbed me in the back and I shut up.

"Tell the truth, you don't look like you'll miss it. You got that cart all loaded up and she's quite a looker, your niece or whatever she is."

"My wife," I said softly.

"They're making me pay more for my Medicare and won't even pay to have these choppers fixed." He opened his mouth wide and pointed to all his missing teeth. "Can't any more eat a goddamn apple. Worked all my life and this is what they do to me. I should say, what's left of me." He paused, sighed again, and said, "Not much. Not much is left of me."

"A lot of people feel the same way you do," Rona said, breaking her silence.

"Tell the truth that's no comfort to me. Only makes things worse."

"What do you mean?" Rona asked, even more empathetically.

"Everythin's gottin' worse. For everyone. Tell the truth I don't see much hope. Maybe 'cause I'm so old and bent like a pretzel that I can't see anything good coming along. A good day for me is if I don't fall down flat on my face in the parking lot."

"I wish I could . . . ," Rona stammered.

"That's awfully nice of you ma'am.  Sorry to have upset you. It's a nice day, the sun's out, you're here to have a good time. Don't let the likes of me upset you."

"That's OK," Rona tried to assure him.

"But as I said," I thought he winked, "Them sons-of-bitches. . ."

December 11, 2015--Social Insecurity

There was a big envelope waiting in the mail from the Social Security Administration.

Rona looked at me seemingly concerned.

"Nothing to worry about," I said, "Must be my annual benefits letter. You know, the COLA amount for next year. The cost of living adjustment. How much more I'll be getting."

"Good, since we just got our COLA for the apartment. Maintenance is going up three percent beginning in January so it would be good if the Social Security increase will offset it."

Upstairs I opened the envelope. The letter was five pages long. "Let me get to the money shot," I said, thumbing through them. "Here it is. It says, 'We review Social Security benefits each year to make sure they keep up with the cost of living.'"

"That's good," Rona said, "That's what I was waiting to hear. To see how they are making sure we keep up with the cost of living."

"You're not going to like this then," I said, avoiding eye contact.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it looks as if I'll be receiving less come January than I am now."

"That can't be," Rona said, snatching the letter out of my hands. "How much have you been getting?"

"Let me look." I thumbed through my checkbook. "$2,200 a month."

"And in January?"

"If I'm looking in the right place, "$2,186. Fourteen dollars a month less. That comes to . . . let me see . . . $168 a year."

"This is their version of helping you keep up with inflation?"

"I seem to remember hearing something a few months ago that the Social Security people determined there is no inflation and so there will be no COLA."

"In the meantime they came up with a negative COLA--they adjusted you down?"

"Unless they made a mistake, it looks that way."

"Let me talk to them," Rona snapped. There was a service number to call. "No surprise, the recording says there's a 35 minute wait time."

"There are about 50 million seniors receiving Social Security and probably half of them right now are calling because they got versions of the same letter. I wonder how many very old folks will die on line while waiting for someone to pick up."

"You're so cynical," Rona said. "But I bet I know what happened."

"What's that?"

"The only other thing listed is the deduction for Medicare. They say come January they'll deduct $202.30 a month. I'll bet that's more than this year. Do you know how much they currently withhold?"

"Not really," I confessed. "You know I don't pay that much attention to money matters. You do it for both of us. And in fact very well," I blew Rona a kiss.

She didn't respond.

In the meantime, on hold for half an hour, we listened to Social Security Muzak.

Impressively, someone picked up at the end of exactly 35 minutes. For some reason that made me feel optimistic that there had been a mistake in my calculation. How could they send me less while saying they review my benefits each year to make sure they are keeping up with inflation?

I needed to identify myself and provide authorization for Rona to ask about my account.

After doing that, Rona asked if there was an error. There wasn't. She then inquired if the new, reduced monthly benefit was in fact less than at present. It was confirmed.

"Why would that be?" As we suspected because they increased the Medicare deduction.

"How does that help us keep up with inflation?" Rona asked with a hint of attitude. It doesn't, she heard back.

"Let me see if I have this right--you determined there's no inflation and so there was no COLA." Correct. "But at the same time you're withholding $168 a year more, which is a form of increasing our cost of living--we have to come up with that amount." Silence.

"Right?" More silence.

"No wonder everyone is going crazy about the government," Rona said, "I know it not your fault, but really? This is the kind of letter you send? To people struggling to live on Social Security?" Again no response.

The SS representative had probably been fielding calls of this kind all day. Likely mainly from people less fortunate than we for whom $168 less a year will present real problems.

"More votes for Donald TRUMP," I said. "You know, Mad As Hell. Blah, blah, blah."

December 6, 2013--Breakfast

For 30 years Rona and I, almost every morning, have gone out for breakfast. Let me correct that--not almost every morning but every morning.

It was less about the coffee and food than the people. At Balthazar, in Manhattan's SoHo, for nearly 15 of those 30 years, until last year, every day, at table 85 in the bar area, we would join friends who, like us, were seeking community and companionship.

Some days those friends could number more than a dozen and we would push tables together to accommodate all of us. Since the group included people from a variety of backgrounds, interests, and professional life--filmmakers, interior designers, book publishers, performance artists, Wall Street lawyers, anthropologists, novelists, chefs, actors, carpenters, opera directors--with breakfasters from such a wide range of callings, discussions ranged from the serious (what to do in the Middle East and the results of friends' colonoscopies) to the sly (gossip about who else was in the room--"Is that Yoko?").

It was sweet and stimulating, which, like other evanescent realities, succumbed to time and changing circumstances. For one, Balthazar became a go-to place for breakfast and brunch and it was no longer possible to hold so many tables because Jonathan Miller or Nigella Lawson had just arrived from London and might pop in to join us.

Then also, as with Rona and me, work realities shifted, schedules needed to be adjusted, and some of us were no longer so much in town. In our case, we essentially moved to Maine and Florida and retained just a loving, periodic connection to Manhattan and Balth.

In Maine there is the Bristol Diner, a perfect place for a simple breakfast and a gathering place, like Balthazar in its own way, for an even more diverse group of local and seasonable residents--from lobstermen to orthopedic surgeons to federal judges to telephone linemen. So, when there, we can be found almost every morning in one of  the Bristol's five booths, sometimes ensconced for two or three hours as friends drift in and out.

And in Delray Beach, we have a similar reality at the Green Owl. Breakfast in both places for us is an ideal way to emerge to full morning consciousness among people we care about and with whom each day we eagerly look forward to spending time and exchanging stories--some real, much made up.

But then, in New York, all of this has suddenly changed--we are having breakfast at home.

And loving it.

The other morning Rona said, "After nearly 30 years of going out for breakfast, which is very luxurious, having breakfast in my pajamas with the newspaper delivered to our door, feels really luxurious."

"And," I agreed, "we're saving a lot of money."

"That's true, but not really what's important to me. We're doing what we want to do. No pressure to get up and out. That's what's important."

"True. But still I like the idea that we're saving at least $15 a day. That really adds up."

Rona turned her attention to the Style section.

"Really," I said, "Add it up. What did we have this morning? You had an egg (which since it was organic cost about 30 cents and was cooked in maybe a nickel's worth of butter) and pumpkin bread toast (about 50 cents worth) and English breakfast tea (say, 25 cents for the teabag). And I had a--"

"Do we really have to do this? I was having such a sweet time and all you can think about is how much butter I used."

"We don't have to do this, but I'm only trying to make a point."

"Go on then. But please, make it brief."

"I had a croissant with jam (I think we paid $2.75 for that at Dean and Deluca) and a mug of Medaglia D'Oro instant espresso (which cost maybe 20 cents, plus about a dime's worth of warmed half-and-half)." Smiling at Rona, I said, "I'm done."

"How much was the jam and what about the gas and electricity we used to defrost the croissant and cook the egg? Did you figure that in?"

Not realizing she was making fun of me, I thought, "Maybe 15 cents for the jam--it's from France--and we'll see about the gas and electric when we get the next Con Ed bill. But don't forget we don't have to pay tax at home--what is it, about 9 percent?--or leave a tip. I think you leave at least $5.00 every morning." Rona nodded.

"So let me do a quick calculation." I went to get paper and a pen. "At Balth my double espresso is, what, seven dollars and the croissant $4.50. And your egg and toast would be at least $5.00, plus your tea would be $2.00 more."

"Two-fifty. And half a grapefruit, if you're crazy enough to order it, is $10. Ten freaking dollars!" Rona said under her breath.

"So at Balth the same breakfasts plus tax and tip would go for about $25; whereas here it cost us only about $4.00, not including utilities." Self-satsified, I smiled toward Rona who by then was buried in the crossword puzzle.

"I mean, in addition to being delicious and nice and so schmoozy to have breakfast in pajamas, we saved at least $20, which means, if we did this only five days a week (and at the moment we're pretty much eating in every day) we'd save more than $100 a week. Which adds up to real money."

"Agreed," Rona admitted without looking up.

"So what about tomorrow? What are you in the mood for?

"Must we? I'm just trying to enjoy this morning."

"Let's see, we have eggs of course and can make wonderful French toast from Agata & Valentina's pumpkin bread. Or have some of those terrific Bay's English muffins; or waffles--we have Eggos for old-times sake but also the ones we bought the other day at Fairway in Red Hook that are made in France; and we also have various kinds of bagels--you like bagels sometimes; and your McCann's steel cut oatmeal, which you've been serving with brown sugar and sliced up dried figs; and granola; even oat scones from the Balthazar bakery and--"

"Enough! I just ate and already you're talking about eating."

"I only . . ."

November 21, 2013--NYC: The Shoe Lady

The only thing I have from my father--in addition to his DNA--is a pair of black leather gloves. When I wear them I feel as if I am in his hands, a place I occasionally want or need to be.

Like last week.

The transition from small-town Maine to very-big-city New York was traumatic. We have done this many times before but each year it becomes more difficult. Perhaps because any change at a certain time in life is disorienting and frequently upsetting.

And upsetting this time it was.

I have less motivation and stamina to negotiate the teeming life of the streets. People, cars, buses, careening taxis, and now more and more people on municipally-provided bicycles--Citibikes named for their sponsor Citibank.

Everything feels even more commodified than in the past; and though we are fortunately financially comfortable, reentering the world of the one-percenters is a vivid reminder of the other 99 percent. Of both what people have and do not have. Reality here ranges from $100 million condos to rent-controlled walkups in the outer boroughs. And the palpable frustration nearly everyone appears to evince, particularly those blessed with so much who ironically, in that state of being, are aware of what they do not have and which will always be out of reach.

It's a tough town.

My father's gloves needed some repair. I am careful with them, as you might imagine, but during the 15 years he has been gone one of the finger tips frayed and needed to be expertly stitched.

Rona knows a place where the work will be carefully done. Shops of this sort have become uncommon in the city where even modest retail space ranges upwards from $5,000 a month.

As we were heading toward the shop Rona had in mind, she said, "I hope it's still there and hasn't been converted into a cafe or bank."

"Unlikely," I said, "As I remember it, it's too small for a bank or--"

"But not for a coffee shop. We've already passed three new ones that opened while we were up in Maine. I'm beginning to think New Yorkers have become coffee addicts."

It in fact the shoe and leather shop was still there on Sixth Avenue.

The glove required a simple repair and we were told that if we had the time we could wait while they stitched it. So we plopped down in comfortable chairs and read through Curve magazine, which says that it is, "The nation's best-selling lesbian magazine [and] spotlights all that is fresh, funny, exciting, controversial, and cutting-edge in our community."

"We are for sure back in New York," I said, for the first time since returning feeling good about my town.

In came a woman who looked frazzled. On the counter there was a bell to ring for service. Sweating though it was chilly outside as well as in the store, she began pounding on it.

From the back, someone said, "Hold on a moment. Please. I'm fixing someone's glove. I'll be out in a minute."

The woman seemed so agitated that I feared she would have a thrombosis. "It's OK," I called out, trying to help, "We're in no hurry. Please take care of your other customer."

The repairman appeared and the woman thrust a claim ticket at him. He squinted at it. "Am I right?" he asked, "This is for 14 pairs of shoes?"

"I'm in a hurry."

"That's a lot of shoes. Give me a moment, if you will, to round them up." She began to tap her foot as he disappeared behind the counter.

"Yes, fourteen. Make sure you find them all. I don't have forever."

"I'm doing the best I can," he said from floor level. "From the ticket I can see you brought them in ten days ago. There are so many and space here is so limited that I'll have to look carefully to be sure I find them all."

In separate brown paper bags they began to be tossed up onto the counter."

She was tapping her toe even faster. "Be careful with them, will you. Most are Pradas. I only brought them in to be polished," she sounded overwhelmed and exasperated.

"Are they all yours?" I couldn't help myself from asking. She glared at me. "I mean, I thought you might be--" I don't know where I was going with this.

"They're mine," she snapped, not looking in my direction. "Count them, would you." The shoemaker had reemerged, smiling at the heap of shoes he had tossed up on top of each other."I want to see what's in each of the bags. I don't want someone else's shoes."

He bagan to take the shoes out of the bags. "I think there are fourteen."

"I can count, thank you." She was sorting through the shoes. "As I said, I want to be sure they're mine. The last thing I want is to have to come back later and fight with you about giving me the wrong shoes."

"Whatever," he said, shrugging in my direction.

"I think these are all mine. You put new heals on these, right?" She showed him his handiwork. He nodded. "And tips on these?" He nodded again, smiling. "And what about these? Weren't you supposed to replace the full soles?"

"Not those," he said, taking the shoes from her. "But these. As you can see, these have new soles."

"How much?"

"Please?"

"How much do I owe you? For everything?"

"I think I have the bill in one of these." He began again to look into each of the bags in the pile. "Here it is. All together, it comes to, let me see, $276. Tax included."

"You charge tax for polishing shoes?"

"Just for the materials. For the heels and soles."

She snorted and muttered with some disgust, "Taxes, taxes. What'll they think to tax next? The air?"

"In some cases it wouldn't be such a bad idea," I said under my breath.

"You take checks?"

"Cash is preferred, but a check from you is OK."

"All these people love cash," she said to no one in particular.

She flipped the check in his direction, scooped up the shoes--which he had consolidated into three large shopping bags--and stomped toward the door, allowing one of the overstuffed bags to bang into a woman and small child who were trying to negotiate the tight space and approach the counter.

"Excuse me too," the childcare woman said to the back of the departing customer. "I guess time is money."

"Not to her," I couldn't help myself from saying. "In her case money is money."

"I get yuh," the new woman said with a knowing smile. Rona in the meantime was attempting to engage the little boy who appeared to be about three years old.

"Can you fix the chain on this pocketbook?" she asked the repairman.

"Let me take a look." He bent to get a closer look. "No problem. None at all."

The boy was fiddling with a stack of innersoles. Rona asked, "Do you know what they're for?" He smiled shyly. "You're too young to need them. When you get to be his age," she gestured toward me, "then maybe you'll need them." He continued to take the foam inserts out of the packages and stole a quick glance in my direction.

"How much you say this costs?" The caregiver seemed outraged.

"Twenty dollars," he said.

"I paid only twenty-five for that old thing."

He shrugged apologetically. "What you gonna do," she sighed, resigned. "Everything here costs so much. It's a wonder anybody can live in this place. Mercy." I thought about the woman with the 14 pairs of shoes.

"Now leave that nice lady alone," she said to the child. "Don't you see she's reading her magazine?" At its mention, Rona slipped Curves out of sight, not wanting the child to see any of the pictures.

"It's OK," she said, "He's not bothering me. Are you?" she turned to him. "He's adorable. How old are you?" Not looking at her he held up three fingers. "My, you're big for three."

"You should see the mother," the nanny said under her breath, to illustrate, raising her arm to at least six inches over her head. He moved toward her and hugged her leg, burying his face in her coat. "He gets like that sometimes. Clingy. Whenever I mention his m-o-t-h-e-r. To tell you the truth, he misses her. 'Specially mornings."

"I can understand that," Rona said. "It isn't easy juggling so many things."

"To tell you the truth, though it's what I do, it wouldn't be my choice."

"Choice?"

"This." She pointed down at him. He continued to cling to her thigh. "Is this really the best way? I mean."

"Wouldn't be the way I'd do it," Rona said. "But I can understand. As you said about your pocketbook, things here are really expensive."

"I know I'm talking myself out of a job I need, but . . . ," she trailed off.

She left after leaving her bag, saying she'd be back in an hour to pick it up. "Glory be, twenty dollars."

Even though the weather was unseasonably mild, all the way home I wore my father's gloves.

April 30, 2013--Holland Tunnel

I worried that we were headed toward sticker-shock territory when we approached the Hudson River and the toll for the Holland Tunnel was $13.

"That's a lot to enter Manhattan," I said, concerned, as usual, about the cost of things in the Big Apple after months of lower-cost living in Florida. "I remember when it was 50 cents."

"That was 100 years ago," Rona shot back, eager as she aways is to get to the sanctuary of our apartment.

"I know I'm old, but not that old. And I don't think the Holland Tunnel existed that long ago."

"I wasn't being literal. I was just making a point. We've talked about this for weeks. If we want a base in New York City we have to stop thinking about the cost of things. Fortunately we can afford to spend time there."

"Even if it costs $13 dollars for the tunnel?"

"Yes, and even if your yogurt casts two dollars."

Thats been one of my litmus tests--to compare how much a cup of Dannon costs in Gristedes in New York versus Publix in Florida.

So after unloading the car and stashing it in the garage (where the monthly rate had risen to more than $400), we went to Gristedes to do some stocking up.

First stop for me was the dairy chest where yogurt was $1.50 a cup. "The last time we bought any in Florida," I said, "it was only 79 cents. So you see what I mean?" Rona ignored me.

"And Pellegrino water is $1.99. What was it in Florida? $1.25?" Rona ignored me. "And look, a small jar of Hellmann's is $2.50. I don't know what we're going to do. I can eat my tuna fish dry. I actually like it that way. With a splash of olive oil."

While opining, I noticed Rona over by the ice cream chest. "Wait, what are you doing?"

She was putting my favorite, some Edy's Slow Churned chocolate into our shopping cart. I raced over. "How much is it? I could lose a few pounds so why don't we forget it until we get to Maine, where it's only . . ."

"For your information, it's about the same price here as it was in Publix." Rona distinctly was not looking in my direction.

"Really, I could lose five pounds. It would be good not to have anything fattening around for the next few weeks.

"I know you. Tonight, after Japanese food you'll be looking for your ice cream."

"You may be right," I confessed. "But I have an idea. Look. The bananas are only 79 cents a pound. How about getting a few and I can have a banana with just a little ice cream. Sort of like using it as a topping for the banana. It's healthier that way and a quart will last a whole month. And so . . ."

"You're impossible. Maybe we should stay in Florida all year so you can wind up the richest person in the cemetery."

"I just want to be smart about things," I said. "I know you're right. I'm being ridiculous. Though, look at that," I pointed at a stack of lemons. "Two for $1.99."

"I'll grant you they're much cheaper in Florida. After all, they grow them there."

"So maybe no fresh lemonade? I don't really like it."

"You think you'll be OK going out to breakfast tomorrow? If you plan to make a scene, let's buy some English muffins and instant coffee."

"That's one thing I refuse to do--drink instant coffee. If coffee is $10 a cup, to pay for it, we can always get a reverse mortgage on our apartment."

At this, finally, Rona smiled.

At the Smile the next morning I was pleased to see that my scone was still $3.00 and cortados $3.50. That brought a smile to my face. And it didn't hurt that at the next table, also having a cortado, was Katie Holmes.

Back on the street, Rona asked, "So are you still thinking $13 dollars is too much to charge to get from New Jersey to New York City?"

"I'm even willing to pay $15. The price of a movie ticket. Speaking of that, what's the new movie Katie is in town promoting."

"You've been in New York less than 48 hours and already she's Katie?"