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walking up Broadway. All right, Sally and I are walking. Frieda is rolling. It’s up because the numbers of the cross streets are getting bigger. 50 … 51. Norbert is explaining how he got here to New York from Los Angeles, where k.d. lang was staying.
    –
“But I like my nose,” she told the doctor. “I don’t want to look like someone else.” “Good for you,” I said. And the doctor frowned, and made a note
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    “You were talking to a therapist,” says Frieda. She’s leading the way. She turns her head to face Sally. “Weren’t you?”
    –
A therapist, that’s right, k.d. got the name from a friend, shortly after I arrived
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    I laugh. “A therapist? Like a crazy doctor? A shrink? Poor k.d. lang.”
    “I see a therapist sometimes,” says Frieda.
    “Oh.” Smart, Dingwall. Very smart. “Sorry,” I say.
    We come to an intersection. The light turns yellow. The DON’T WALK sign appears. I slow down, but Frieda keeps going. I reach out to grab the wheelchair so that she can stop in plenty of time. “What are you doing?” she snaps over her shoulder. No one else stops. In fact, they speed up. A man runs into us from behind, bangs his knee pretty good, and hobbles out onto the street anyway. A lady hurries past us. “What’s with you?” she says. A car turns the corner, just missing the hobbling man. The car behind it just misses the hurrying lady. The light changes from yellow to red. Horns blow. Traffic shoots ahead, as if from a catapult.
    “Hayseed!” says Frieda. “In New York, you have to move fast.”
    “I can move faster than you!” Of course it’s a bad thing to say, but when I’m talking to Frieda I keep forgetting she’s in a wheelchair. The light is still red for us. Sally is sniffing something on the sidewalk, which upsets Norbert.
    –
Leave it alone! It’s dirty. You don’t know what that is, Sally. What do you mean, you do know what that is? What is it? Oh, great galaxies, NO! Come on, Sally. How many times do I have to tell you….
    Poor Norbert. The light turns green. The WALK sign appears. We move forward. A car turns the corner,slams on its brakes, just missing us. Frieda ignores it.
    “But Norbert, what procedure was k.d. lang’s therapist talking about?” she asks.
    –
I didn’t understand it either, at first. I tried to ask, but the doctor wouldn’t answer my questions. “You can control your own nose, Ms. lang,” she said. “You don’t have to listen to it. I think a simple rhinoplasty – even if it doesn’t change the shape – would be very therapeutic.”
    Frieda laughs. “They were talking about a nose job, weren’t they?”
    –
1 gave them a piece of my mind, I can tell you. I packed last night, and left this morning. Poor Nerissa was upset when I told her. She’s a big fan
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    “Who’s Nerissa?” asks Frieda.
    “A … friend,” I explain. “Back home on Jupiter.” I think she’s more than just a friend, but I don’t feel like getting into that with Frieda.
    “Can you talk to Jupiter by telephone, Norbert?”
    –
Well, it’s a long distance call
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    No one says anything for a moment.
    –
She asked for help, you know
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    “Who?” asks Frieda, “k.d. lang?”
    –
That’s why I went to L.A. Do you know what it’s like to realize you’re not wanted?
    Frieda doesn’t say anything. Her face is shut again.
    New York is full of people who live and work on the street. Homeless people, of course, in boxes and doorways. Any big city has them. But New York streets offermore possibilities than most. I see people selling and eating stuff I’ve never seen before. I don’t even recognize the writing on the side of the carts. We pass a woman whose office is on the sidewalk. There’s a desk, a lamp, a wastebasket, a chair for clients, and a sign offering advice about income tax. Further along, a well-dressed man promises to find you an acceptable parking solution. I didn’t realize there was a parking problem, but Frieda assures me there is.
    It