The day was hot and bright. I was making my way to LaGuardia airport. After I walked down the stairs from the subway platform, I headed towards a tree stump near the statue in Columbus Triangle.

Thick roots flowed out from its base. I noticed a man reading a newspaper on a bench to my left. His shoes were sitting on the concrete next to his bare feet. They seemed swollen, and to be free from their confines must have brought him relief.

I put my hand on the trunk’s mossy surface to commiserate with it. I wondered how long the tree had grown here and what it might have seen. I was in Astoria, NY. Since Will’s mother told me his father had lived here in his youth, I associated this city with him. We’d never met, but I’d often reflected on what it migt have been like to get to know him. And as I had the last time I was here, I wondered if he had ever traveled this street.

I returned to my book. Engaged as I was, I didn’t immediately notice the old man sit next to me until he started talking on the phone. He was speaking Spanish, and not for the first time did I think about learning the language. Dropping back into my book, I didn’t realize he was off the phone until he spoke to me.

He asked me what was my profession, and then immediately told me not to answer. He could guess. With a flourish, he said I was a school teacher. I found this amusing and answered in the affirmative. Why not, it was one of the hats I wore.

I asked him how he knew, and he informed me that gypsies could guess these sorts of things by a person’s face.

He said I should be careful, being a young woman by myself. He had moved from the bench because the man who’d sat next to him made him feel uncomfortable. I glanced over. I’d seen the man too when he was pacing earlier. He was shirtless. And while it was true that I could see more of his pubic hair than I ‘d prefer, I didn’t read any threat in him.

My lack of concern was evident and the gypsy said, “When you go somewhere, if you don’t feel comfortable, you move. Better to trust your feelings than get stabbed.” I laughed, it seemed a reasonable suggestion. Finding a willing audience, he gave me the following advice: “If you are walking some where by yourself, and some people approach you, you look across the street and shot, “Hey Johnnie!’”

He demonstrated by calling across the street with a variation, “Hey Johnnie! Where’s my money?”

He told me he was an actor and pulled out his card. Then asked if I’d ever hear of American Gangsters. I looked down at the card. There were three different squares, each of a much younger man from a different scene. I got the feeling these movies were decades old. The card was careworn and dirty around the edges. I’d turned the card over, but did not commit his name to memory, thinking I’d have time to google it later. He plucked it back out of my hands and quickly put it away. Perhaps it was the last relic from a time gone by.

He asked me to show him my palm and I obliged him. He lightly touched the fleshly part near my thumb. He asked me what I had in my hand, I said nothing. He told me I was wrong, I had power.

“What else do you want to know?”

Somehow it had turned into a palm reading, though I’d not requested one. He asked me, if someone asked for my number, what should I say?

I replied that I would tell them no.

“No, no! You say YES! Then you ask them, ‘do you have a pen? Let me give it to you!’ Then you give them the number of the FBI. If you say no, some men will get angry and you could get hurt.” Again I laughed, liking his spunk.

The bus had been delayed and now the stop was filling up with evident travelers also in route to the airport. As the bus finally pulled up, he suggested I wait for the next one since this one will be crowded. I agreed and decided to wait with him.

He asked if I was married and I said yes, then he asked how long.

“Is he a good man?” I said yes, and he quickly followed up with: “How do you know?”

I did not feel the need to go into all we had been through and how I knew well that my husband was a good man.

“I will tell you how you know. In winter, tell him you want to vacation in the woods where there is snow. Then at night, tell him you need aspirin and if he goes and gets it, then you know you have a good man. If he doesn’t, he’s no good.” I thought that was a bit of an unfair scheme, but I understood his point.

“So many marry a man and don’t find out for twenty years he is no good.”

“What else you want to know?” Again I smiled and did not answer.

He told me I should take a belly dancing class for my husband so he doesn’t go to clubs. And let him buy me nice things, so his money is spent on me. I wasn’t willing to discuss intimate details of my marriage with him and thought about shouting, “Hey Johnnie!”

We could see the next bus stopped one light over, he asked if I would be taking it. I said yes and waved good-bye to him as I stood up.

On the bus I thought about everything he’d said. I tried googling American Gangsters and couldn’t find anything older than a 2007 TV series. While writing this post, I found the stump on Google street view when it was still whole. It’s the one in the middle.

When I finally got home, I told Will and Fish about the encounter. I especially wanted to share with her the safety advice, feeling it was pretty solid. I told Will how this man had somewhat resembled his father. Perhaps, in a way, the spirit of his father was there, reminding me to keep safe while in the city.