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me with my camera as I hammer at the wall. It’s for my mother.”)
    Once back home, rushing, I put each chip of wall in its own plastic sandwich bag. The coveted pieces were the ones with graffiti paint on them. I got lots. Also in each bag, I slipped a photocopy of a pathetically short description of the Cold War and its apparent demise (all those years as a Poli Sci major had finally paid off). I headed to New York, dragging my boyfriend with me. We drove the five hours to the city, pulled off the highway, and illegally parked in a loading zone five feet from Macy’s front door. I set up shop. My boyfriend stayed in the car and watched my back as I unfolded my tiny portable table. It was rush hour, December 22. Oy, were those Christians in a frenzy, eager to buy the hottest gift that year (was it Cabbage Patch dolls?), or anything at all, since there were only (ready to panic?)
two shopping days left before Christmas.
    I unfolded the cardboard display I’d made. It included my airline tickets and the photos of me at the wall, pick in hand. Suddenly I was surrounded. Everyone wanted a piece of me, or at least the wall.
    “How much? How much?” they shouted at once.
    “Look, she was really there,” others cried, pointing to my display.
    “Great stocking stuffers!” I heard someone say.
    My prices were reasonable: $5 to $25, depending on the size. It was a tad chaotic, but in ten minutes I made over $350—the cost of my airline ticket. I was elated, and I still had eighty-six pounds of wall left. From the car, my boyfriend beeped and pointed behind him. I saw a truck on his butt and knew he had to go. I nodded, sure he would zip ’round the block and be back in a flash.
    Then a man asked me how much for a certain piece. “Ten,” I told him without looking up. And why should I? I was busy taking money from some lady buying three bags.
    “Wow. They’re real, too,” the man continued. “I see that from the plane ticket. That’s great. I’ll take one. Say, do you have a permit to sell on the street?”
    “Huh? Uh, no,” I said, glancing up for the first time. He appeared to be a harmless if disheveled working guy.
    “Oh, well then …” and with that, he flashed a police badge, swept my entire display, pieces of wall, and folding table into a huge garbage bag, handcuffed me, and whistled for a blue van to pick me up—all in about two seconds flat. I was inside that van with five other offenders before you could say
’Tis the season to be jolly.
    I had to work to keep from crying. “When my boyfriend comes back,” I sniffled out the window to the vendor who’d been legally hawking Jesus bookmarks right next to me, “tell him I was arrested.”
    He offered me a sympathetic look and said, “You need a permit.”
    No kidding.
    I sat with my handcuffed wrists behind my back for the next hour as we picked up a half dozen other permitless vendors and their wares. Sunglasses, teddy bears, pocketbooks, watches—all now in police-sealed garbage bags lying at our feet. Evidence. We were brought to a huge gymlike room, lined up with others, and fingerprinted. I became a bit of a celebrity. They’d never confiscated the Berlin Wall before. “It’s real! I saw the photos,” the excited arresting officer told his colleagues.
    I was separated from the other vendors and brought to my own cage; after all, I was the only woman in the bunch. Before I could sit on the floor to ponder what to do next (like I had a choice), a plainclothed cop advanced toward me, screaming, “Don’t I know you? Aren’t you the punk bitch who ran away last week when I tried to arrest you?”
    “No,” I squeaked, backing up, though my cage would only let me go so far.
    Satisfied he’d sufficiently shaken me up (and he had), the pitbull cop withdrew and I was left alone in my six-by-six.
    Then, a few hours later, at about 10:00 P.M., just as suddenly as I had been taken in, I heard “Get outta here.” In what appeared to be a