Mom liked to say, “Mistakes are meant for learning, not repeating.” So, what had I learned? That I missed the hell out of performing. That I’d lost myself somewhere between my senior showcase and the moment the feds practically kicked down our front door. And that it was time I got out of the damn passenger seat and back behind the wheel of my own life.
Chapter Twenty-One
After close to another forty-five minutes of waiting, we were beyond ravenous and certain we wouldn’t see any falafel before we collapsed from hunger, so we begrudgingly abandoned our places in line and went in search of a classic New York hot dog cart. Although they could usually be found on every street corner, for some reason we were having a hard time locating a single stand and found ourselves wandering aimlessly in pursuit of one.
“If I pass out right here, just make sure to take care of Hank II for me,” Lyla said with her hand dramatically on her forehead.
I took her by the arm and dragged her up the sidewalk. “Come on, I see something at the end of the block.”
“It’s probably just one of those guys selling knockoff purses,” she whined.
“No, there’s an umbrella. It has to be food.”
We hurried up the sidewalk, and just as we rounded the corner, a voice called out to us, “I got your Gucci, Chanel, Prada, YSL, Bottega, and Hermès right here, ladies. If you don’t see what you like on the table, I got more in the truck.”
Lyla threw her head back. “I told you!”
“Okay, okay, but look over there,” I said, pointing across the street. “Either I’m hallucinating from hunger or there’s a wiener on that umbrella.”
“Yes, it is!” Lyla said gleefully. “Oh,” she sighed. “I’ve never been so happy to see a wiener in all my life! C’mon, let’s go.” She barely finished her sentence before grabbing a fistful of my sleeve and hauling me in the direction of the iconic blue-and-yellow awning.
After practically shouting our order at the hot dog vendor, we finally stood on the corner, a frank covered in onions, mustard, and steaming sauerkraut in each hand. Shoveling them in at record speed, we didn’t speak—just focused on not choking.
As we chewed in silence, the hunger pangs dissipated with each glorious bite, and I finally had a chance to survey my surroundings. We had been on such a tear tracking down a food cart that we wove and turned through the streets of the West Village without even paying attention to signs or landmarks.
By the time we stopped walking, I actually had no idea where we’d ended up. After inhaling the two hot dogs in record time, I excused myself to grab a few Cokes from the vendor. I waited behind a businessman who was ranting into his earpiece about a failing deal. He tossed a few bills in the man’s direction and snatched the frankfurter from him without so much as a thank-you. I helped the vendor collect the bills threatening to blow away in the wind, organized them into a neat pile, and handed them over to him.
“Sheesh, glad it wasn’t windier today, right?” I joked and smiled warmly.
“Some people are always in a rush. Rush rush rush. I wonder if they even notice how much of their life they’re missing.” He seemed to be speaking aloud to the universe, more so than to me.
“Probably not,” I answered, to his surprise.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Oh, never mind. I was just agreeing with you. So, um . . . can I get two Diet Cokes, please?” I extended my arm in his direction to make sure he had a good grip on my ten-dollar bill before letting go.
“You got it,” he said, leaning down to a cooler fastened to the side of his cart. He dug through the ice chips and pulled out two frosted soda bottles, fresh with drips of cold condensation rolling down their curves. He handed them over along with a pile of napkins.
“Thanks,” I said, adjusting my grip so they wouldn’t slip from my fingers.
“Sure thing,” he responded, closing the lid of the cooler tightly and brushing his wet hands off on his pants. “Have a nice day, young lady. And remember, no space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused.”
As soon as his comment hit the air, my blood turned colder than the fresh sodas in my hand. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I managed, certain my ears were playing tricks on me.
Before he could answer, I spotted the flash of a shiny silver bell pinned to the lapel of his jacket—the same exact one I spotted on the ghost guard at the jail on Christmas Day. I opened my mouth to ask him about it but was interrupted by a forceful female voice from behind me.
“Sir, you aren’t a regular on this street,” the uniformed policewoman stated firmly to the hot dog vendor. “Where are your permits to work at this location?” she pressed, the man now flustered by her line of questioning.
“Yes, of course, just leaving now, ma’am,” he announced, and hustled away with his cart.
“No! Wait! Please! That thing you just said to me, where did you hear that from? And your pin! Where did you get that pin?” I shouted in his direction, the crowds of people swallowing him up as he rolled his rickety cart down the street. Like Alice chasing the White Rabbit, I jogged to catch up, dodging the pedestrians, getting stuck at a crosswalk, and attempting to weave around two moms pushing strollers side by side. By the time I made it around the hordes of people, the hot dog man was gone, along with whatever answers he may have had pertaining to the broach and quote.
“Dammit!” I shouted out loud, startling the crap out of a mother walking hand in hand with her young daughter. “Oh, sorry!” I offered with a small wave, but my chest felt like an agitated swarm of hornets had been released from their hive, generating a buzz of restlessness I couldn’t seem to quiet.
From behind me, Lyla approached huffing and puffing as she made her way to me. She snagged a Diet Coke from my hand, cracked it open, and downed a few long gulps before exclaiming, “Avery, what happened? Are you all right? One second you were getting sodas, and the next you took off like a bat outta hell. I thought you got mugged or something, like someone snagged your phone from your hand or your purse and you took off after them. All I knew was that you started running like a girl on fire, and I had no idea where you were going!” She bent in half to catch her breath, her hands on her knees as she sucked air into her lungs.
“I’m sorry! It’s just . . . well, I needed to . . .” Needed to what? Chase down a hot dog vendor to ask him about a silver-bell pin he was wearing all because I thought it was the same one worn by a guard, who may or may not have been dead? Oh my God. Am I cracking up? Am I totally losing my mind?
I surveyed the street. Benny’s Bagels and Bialys （ooh, catchy and alliterative） stood on the corner, a short line weaving out the door and out of sight. A few other nondescript small businesses—an old camera store, a nail salon, a lighting boutique, and a typical New York City bodega—bespeckled the block. Stretching my neck in the direction from where I’d run, I tried to figure out how far I’d run during my mad pursuit of the hot dog vendor, and that’s when I saw it, standing there in all its well-worn and dilapidated glory.
“Oh. My. God,” I exclaimed.