Tuesday, September 11th

It was Jill’s idea.

She lives downstairs in our building, a city kid like me. She said she was a real Harriet the Spy.  I never read it,  so I’ll take her word. I like books about war.

Last night there was a building party and all the kids went to Mrs. Massey’s on the fifth floor. Jill and I were the oldest by a long ways. Most of the kids still ate their boogers and a few were in diapers. Jill and I went into The Late Mr. Massey’s study and sat down in front of his big RCA console to watch the Movie of the Week, The French Connection.  

It was about this cop named Popeye who goes crazy trying to catch this one drug dealer. There’s a scene where they’re on the subway and the dealer gets on and off the car, Popeye trying to keep up.

It’s real exciting. One steps in, the other follows, then he steps out. The dealer steps in just as the doors close and Popeye is locked out.  The train leaves and Popeye runs down the platform. The dealer waves at him.

Jill said that we should try it the next day, go down to the 59th Street station at rush hour.

I could be Popeye.

It was the first day of school, so we could be late.

She got on just as the doors closed. She waved, like the guy in the movie.

We didn’t know it was an express to the World Trade Center station.

No stops.

I  bet she won’t get back here until  9:30 at the earliest.