Chance Encounters

Chance Encounters

Inspired by Chop Suey by Edward Hopper (1929)

By Mary Anne Simpson

The early afternoon sun shone bright filtered by the high rise buildings as I walked several blocks for the luncheon special at the Chinese café. Monday through Friday the café special offered a twofer chop suey fare. I spotted a girl about my age waiting in line for a table. She wore a teal blue knitted cloche exactly like my brown hat. “Do you like chop suey”, I said.

She laughed and introduced herself as Betty. “Sure do, girlfriend, I like your hat, what’s your name?”

My name is Joanna Metcalf, but my friends call me Jo.

I looked around the café taking in the charm of ten small rectangular tables covered with Asian silk screen tablecloths.. At each table two people were seated either reading the menu or partaking in the chop suey luncheon special. Everyone was counting pennies since the rumors of financial ruination grasped the life out of the city. The window coverings around our table were made of rice paper with painted designs which let in some sunlight and a dash of color from the orange diagonal sign affixed to the outside of the building.

The smell of ginger, soy sauce and garlic waffled through the café. It was late November and the café was warm and inviting as the hint of winter made its way to the city. Working in Manhattan was a life long dream. As a child growing up in Hastings, Nebraska I recall spending hours in our local library reading about the Big Apple.

I hung my camel coat on the coat tree next to the table. The brisk walk to the café left me starving for a heaping bowl of chop suey and a cup of tea. Betty grasped my hand and it felt like a frozen bag of peas. “I forgot my gloves”, Betty said. .

 It occurred to me that I had left my gloves on the hostess table while waiting in line. “Thanks for reminding me Betty.” I left my handbag on our table and scurried to the front of the café.  Thankfully the hostess located my gloves and I returned to lunch with my new best friend Betty.

“Where do you work Betty”, I asked.

I am a bookkeeper for Sloan & Frogmen on Eighth Avenue”, Betty said. 

What a peculiar coincidence. “Gee whiz Betty; we have more in common than just a hat preference.  I work as a bookkeeper for the transit system on Eighth Avenue.”

 “Now isn’t that the limit” Betty giggled. We will have to make this café a regular pay day event. 

“Are you kidding, did you just get paid as I did today?”

“Good grief, maybe we were sisters in another life.” Betty replied.

We ordered the chop suey special and within minutes the waiter brought our tea and chop suey in brightly painted bowls. I used a small amount of soy sauce on my dish and as you might guess, Betty did the same.  We chatted about the possible collapse of the financial markets and agreed it was just a fluke that would be over lickety-split.

Betty mentioned her mother had recently retired in North Carolina. Oddly, my mother and dad had recently retired in Orlando, Florida. We laughed at the unique similarities in our background and personal taste. She said her mother wanted to move to Florida but her sister insisted she move closer to her in North Carolina. Our chance encounter was a welcome break in my tedious week of spreadsheets and numbers.

Abruptly, Betty excused herself from the table, saying she needed to use the girl’s room. I waited for some ten minutes, but she never returned.  I was a little miffed, but getting back to work on time was primary on my mind. Jobs in the city are hard to come by and I was lucky to chalk up five years seniority. I grabbed my coat, paid for lunch out of my coin purse and literally ran back to work.

My boss, Mr. Shivers was waiting for me at my desk when I got back to the office. “What’s going on with you?”

 I am so sorry I am late, Mr. Shivers, was all I could say.

“No dear, I am not worried about you being late”, he said.

I looked at him quizzically, “then what is it Mr. Shivers?”  

“If you plan on quitting, just tell me,” he said.

I am not quitting, I tried to interject.  

 Your sister Betty called and said that you are moving to Florida,” said Mr. Shivers. She wanted to verify your address where your final check could be sent. Funny, she had the address all wrong so I straightened that out and she thanked me for being so kind to her sister.

“That’s ridiculous, I had lunch with a stranger named Betty and she skipped out on the lunch bill and I have no intention of quitting my job,” I replied.

After these strange sets of encounters I could hardly wait for 5 o’clock. On my way home on the F train, a gentleman in a dark gray hat and gray suit offered me a seat next to him. He moved over to the window and made room for me to comfortably spread out on the seat with my purse in my lap.

“Boy, oh boy, you had a rough day,” the gentleman said.

“What do you mean?” I quizzed him.

 “Well, little lady I am a detective with the Pinkerton Agency and you have been bamboozled,” he said.

“Look in your wallet,” the Pinkerton man said.

 I was taken off guard, but I complied with his request. “Oh, my God, all of my money is gone,” I squealed.

“Yep, he said. I will be coming home with you because if Betty is still as good as her record, your apartment is bare.”  I have been tailing Betty a.k.a. Myrna Fox and her partner Jeb Dempsey for a jewelry heist. I was hired by the insurance company that insured the jewelry. The gruesome twosome must be running short of pocket money.

 My head was spinning; I was sick to my stomach and felt like throwing up. Where had I gone wrong?  I thought back on my meeting with Betty. Meeting her was like meeting my twin—a doppelganger. My studies in college literature should have forewarned me. Doppelgangers are a bad omen or a symbol of bad events to follow.

I realized that I told Betty way too much personal information without even knowing her. I gave her plenty of opportunity to steal my folding money from my wallet when I went to look for my gloves. I paid for lunch out of my coin purse. Betty had the upper hand from the minute I saw her waiting in line. She stood out like an image of me looking to save some money for lunch.  Of course I would try to befriend her.

We arrived in Brooklyn around 5:40 pm as the street lights illuminated Church Street. I nearly flew out of my pumps as the long-legged Pinkerton man guided me in a fast gait. In my mind, I tried to reassure myself that no one could be that insidious and Betty was merely playing a practical joke on me.

Out of breath, we arrived at my apartment and the door was wide open, revealing a stark emptied out living space. The super was at the door.

“I am so sorry to hear you are leaving for Florida to take care of your ailing mother,” the building superintendent said.

I grabbed the Pinkerton man’s arm to keep me steady.

“Your lovely sister Betty got everything all packed up for the movers, and they had everything in the van by 5’oclock.” 

I looked at the Pinkerton man and all I could think to say was, “Chance encounters or fool’s folly.” 

The Pinkerton man said, let’s go to dinner on my expense account and sort this out.

We walked to the Italian bistro on the corner and sat at a small table in the back. The Italian place is one of my favorite spots in Brooklyn. The tables are covered in red and white check gingham tablecloths with Chianti wine bottles wrapped in straw serving as candleholders. The smells of oregano, simmering meatball sauce and garlic bread filled the air.

Where did I go wrong?

The long and the short of it are--you are too trusting. Where are your from—Iowa?

Ah no, Hastings, Nebraska.

It probably wouldn’t have mattered too much because your new best friend Betty spotted you as easy prey weeks ago in all likelihood.

From this day forward you need to be constantly aware of your surroundings in the city.  You are not in Kansas anymore Dorothy and there are no red slippers for fast escapes. You need to change your route to and from work every so often. Lastly, if there are too many coincidences in your chance meetings with new people—be on alert. By, the way my name is John Gray.

We had a great dinner and as we walked back to my apartment around 9 pm I noticed a moving van in front of my apartment.

I’ll walk you to the door, John said.             

We reached my apartment and I noticed John had a funny smirk on his face. Several men were in my apartment arranging my stolen furniture.

“Hey John, where did you want the sofa?” said a tall and lanky man.

John turned to me and said, a little surprise courtesy of the Pinkerton Agency. These are my boys. Where do you want the sofa?

I stammered and then through the tears said, under the bay window—thank you.