driver had said about downtown shopping, she quickly waved down a cab and asked him to take her to the famous Fifth Avenue.
Dior bounced around in the backseat as the taxi driver zipped in and out of traffic like a bat out of hell. Clutching the passenger seat’s headrest, she stared out the window, taking in the sights.
Stores lined the sidewalks for miles and there was indeed something for everyone. You had your small wholesale shops, your high-end boutiques, your big chain stores, and a host of independent retailers selling merchandise right on the streets.
Everything seemed to be fast-forwarding—the people, the sounds, and especially the traffic. There were hundreds of cars sharing the street, 90 percent of which were other taxis. Cars were double parked and other cars were weaving around them swiftly. Horns and screeching brakes acted as a sound track to the motion picture of Dior’s new hometown—New York City.
Suddenly, traffic was brought to a standstill, causing the taxi driver to slam on the brakes.
“Oh, good grief,” the taxi driver sighed.
After being jerked forward and then back, Dior sat up in her seat to get a glimpse out of the front window.
“What’s going on?” she asked, staring at the crowds of people standing on the corner up ahead.
“It must be someone famous,” the driver responded, pointing to the double-parked Maybach about four cars in front of him.
Dior’s eyes widened as she anticipated seeing which celebrity would hop out of the much respected, luxury vehicle.
The taxi driver tried to maneuver the cab into another lane, but it was no use. People were holding up traffic waiting to see who was causing such a parade.
“I wonder what’s going on,” Dior mumbled as she watched photographers and news cameras emerge from the crowd.
Then Dior’s question was answered when she saw an older man holding up a Scarface poster that read HEY, AL, SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND.
“Oh my God,” Dior blurted out. “I think it’s Al Pacino! He must be going into that restaurant!”
“Ohhh, today is the day that he is opening his new restaurant, that’s right,” the driver said. “I read it in the newspaper this morning.”
“How much do I owe you?” Dior asked in a hurry. “I have to see Al Pacino! He is my favorite actor! And I’m not just saying that because he’s out there, either! I’m serious. Since I was little, I’ve loved Al Pacino. I never thought I would meet him, and now that I have the chance to, I can’t let it pass! I would kill myself first!” Dior exclaimed.
“Oh my. Well, just give me eight dollars. Don’t worry about—”
“Here, keep the change.” Dior cut the driver off, shoving a ten-dollar bill in his palm. She quickly got out of the cab.
“Thank you,” she called out, speed-walking toward the crowd, lugging the garment bag with her new clothes over her shoulder.
“Excuse me, wardrobe. Excuse me, wardrobe,” she said repeatedly until she found herself at the front of the red rope.
As if it were planned, the minute Dior got into position, a middle-aged white man wearing a tuxedo opened the back door of the Maybach. First an unknown female got out and then Al Pacino followed. Unable to help herself, Dior screamed. Her idol was just a couple of feet away from her in arm’s reach. It was unreal. She didn’t have a camera, but she figured she could get a few pictures with her phone. While he stopped to sign autographs, she took her phone out of her purse and started snapping. As he started to walk her way, she realized she didn’t have anything for him to sign. Other people in the crowd had posters of him or memorabilia. She had nothing—nothing she could get to easily and quickly. Her nerves were out of control as he signed an autograph right next to her. She could have reached out and rubbed his face he was so close. As he finished up and started to walk past her to the next person with something he could sign, Dior quickly lifted up her shirt and asked him to sign her chest. He chuckled, but he didn’t say no.
“I love you so much!” Dior shouted out as Al Pacino signed his name right above her bra.
“I love you, too,” he said, moving on to the next fan.
Dior was in heaven. She had just gotten to New York and already had one of her lifelong fantasies fulfilled. She was sure that she would love every ounce of her new life and was more eager than ever to get it started. The flashes from the various cameras, the screaming fans, the news reporters, and the presence of Al Pacino made her feel like she was in Hollywood at the premiere of a blockbuster. But she was just on a regular corner in New York City. This was what she had to look forward to, getting that kind of action on a regular day on a regular street.
She threw her garment bag over her shoulder and walked back through the crowd.
Three hours swiftly passed by and Dior felt like a million bucks, perusing Manhattan’s most luxurious strip carrying countless shopping bags and sipping a Starbucks latte. She had spent just about up to her limit when she decided to run across the street to Gucci just to see what new things they had. She promised herself that she wouldn’t buy impulsively, but then she spotted the most beautiful handbag she’d seen since in Vegas two years earlier. The oversized signature brown and gold leather hobo seemed to be calling out to her. She tried to ignore it, but to no avail. It screamed classic, and if there was one thing in the world Dior could never pass up, it was a classic purse. Pocketbooks were her weakness, but a classic pocketbook would be the death of her.
After trying the bag on and talking to the sales rep about its material, its style, and its price-to-use ratio, Dior convinced herself that the bag was worth its eleven-hundred-dollar retail value. She counted out seven hundred dollars in cash and then put the balance on her Visa.
Dior flagged down a cab and gave the driver her address. As he pulled away from the curb, she peeked down her shirt just to see that the autograph was still in place. She got a warm feeling just looking at it. Sitting back in the seat, Dior smiled. New York, New York, she thought. Imagine what the summer’s going to be like. I need to go bra shopping. She had wanted to shop for a few household items, but that was out of the question as Dior had spent all of her money on attire and accessories. She had about one hundred dollars left on her Visa, but she would need that for food to last her until her first weeks of pay ahead. She was a little doubtful that she had made the right decision by buying the Gucci bag over the important things on her list, but what the hell, you only live once, she thought. She got comfortable in the backseat of the cab and zoned out for the rest of the ride home.
Twenty minutes later the taxi driver pulled up to Dior’s house and double-parked. Dior dug in her wallet to collect the $16.22 that she owed for cab fare. To her surprise, she only had two dollars and forty cents to her name. She looked up at the cab driver, who was eyeing her suspiciously in the rearview mirror. Then she looked down at her bags that were laid out beside her on the backseat. She looked back at the driver and in a single moment she gripped her bags, opened the door, and jumped out of the cab.
“Hey, what are you doing?” the driver asked as he jumped out after her.
“Here,” Dior said, handing him the two dollars. “I have to go inside and get the rest of the money.”
The driver reached out and took the money with one hand and then gripped Dior’s bags with the other.
“Well,
