I am suspicious of your kindness.

I've been sick for a week. Not just a little sick, mind you. Not "I have the snuffles" sick. I mean the down-and-out kind where my body made an executive choice without me and decided to shut down. Right in the middle of the job hunt. And so instead of scurrying to find a steady source of income with the little time I have left before my internship starts, I've been pacing morosely around the house, trying to figure out whether it'd be more miserable to lay down and try to sleep or watch more daytime TV. One day, while I was feeling like I was maybe one step ahead of death, I decided to venture out into my neighborhood to gather ingredients for chicken soup.

Naturally, not feeling like a goddess that day, I slipped into some beat up clothes and a pair of sneakers and decided to forgo the makeup entirely. And so I went out. After getting all of my ingredients (which included a slew of get-better sick foods), I was sitting at the bus stop, way up 30th Avenue, waiting for the bus and sucking on a raspberry popsicle (which was practically a slushie at that point but I thought, "Hey. If they're not going to make it to the freezer, I better eat at least one. They're Breyers." Some guy who was also waiting for the bus kept looking at me eating it and smiling this peculiar smile. Great.) when some little old man next to me, who was probably in his early-mid 80s, extended his hand with an offering. Balancing on his palm was a little 25-cent machine bubble with a plastic jewel ring inside.

"Here," he said , raspily. "It's for little girls."
When I hesitated, he added, "It's not dirty! I didn't even open it!"
I then noticed that he was steadily taking nips off a little bottle of Smirnoff vodka. Deciding he was old and crazy, I laughed and took the ring.
"Thank you, sir," I said, smiling. "That makes my day. I'm as sick as a dog. Though I fancy a shot of something hard would help more. It'd probably kill everything on the way down."
He looked horrified and clutched his vodka against him.
"You don't really want a drink, do you?" he asked, aghast. "Little girls shouldn't drink!"
"I am 24 years old," I said, laughing.
He leaned in close and peered at me through eyes the color of faded denim. He looked like he was developing cataracts. "You look like you're 12," he replied, quietly.

Joy of joys. When I told this story to Jen and her friends later, they told me the moment was ripe for him to yell, "Well, give me back my ring, you bitch!" When the bus finally arrived, the little old man stayed at the station. Normally, being the kind of person I am, I'd think, "Oh, what a kindly little old man I met at the bus station!" But now I'm thinking, "What kind of little old man waits at the bus station and hands out trinkets to unsupervised little girls?"

I felt like bait on To Catch a Predator.
And that chicken soup has been sitting in a huge pot in the refridgerator for four days, waiting to be eaten. Thing is, I really wanted it until I made it. Now I need to freeze it or throw it away.

Yesterday was the first time since I've fallen ill where I genuinely felt with it enough to go out and get something done. I got a heinously late start, though. I was shamefully held up by America's Next Top Model, which they seem to only play in marathons, to drag in poor saps like me. Damn it, Tyra. Sam and I didn't have cable in our apartment. It was a good thing. Anyway, my adventuring brought me out to Union Square, where I decided to buy shoes for my upcoming internship, because I just didn't think my ratty shoes or disintegrating flipflops would cut it. So did I buy shoes? No. I engaged in a stupid - but delightful - round of retail therapy at Forever 21. However, they had basic camisole/tank tops for $2.50 each, which was pretty amazing. When I got to the front counter and the cashier asked me how I was, I said,

"Cute clothes are leading to bad shopping decisions. How are you?"
She looked tired.

I also finally bought a pair of rainboots. So now I don't have to freeze when it's pouring out by splashing around in flipflops. I guess that was a practical decision. Just not the one I intended to make yesterday. I ultimately held off on the work shoes in order to find out whether the company has any policies on open toed vs. close toed. Some companies do. So I'm thinking I'll hold onto that $40 until I know for sure.

At the point, it was about 10 p.m. and time for me to go home. I go down into the subway at Union Square where I decide to catch an N, W, or R back. The N and the W go to 30th Avenue, which is always full of lights and people, but is roughly a 10-block walk back to my street. The R train takes me to 46th street - which is my street - but I have to walk approximately three avenues (longer than regular blocks) to my apartment through a residential area where there's not many people out at night and not a lot of noise. Generally, I prefer to stick to where there's people at night, just to be on the safe side. But at this point last night, I was starting to hack up a lung, my head was starting to hurt, and I just wanted to be where it was quiet. So I wanted the R. However, anyone who knows the subways can attest to the fact that they run a lot less at night, and sometimes it's best just to take whatever comes first. And so I took the W... which seemed fine until I looked up at the map and realized we were 13 stops away from mine. But then I realized I was only two stops away from a station where I could switch to the V, which would take me to the same stop as the R I originally desired. This was a gamble, because after 10 p.m., subways tend to lapse into night construction, which often leads to confusing and elongated trips home with lots of transfers. But as I was coughing more frequently and starting to feel self-concious, I decided to get off the train.

So there I was, staring at the subway map on the platform, trying to decide whether I wanted to go find the V or sit where I was and wait for the N (the express version of the W), when suddenly a man with a thick accdent said,

"Excuse me, does the R stop here?"
 Frazzled, I told him I don't know. But then I looked at the subway map and saw that the R did stop there (oh glory be! I wouldn't even have to move, just wait where I was standing), and I said to him,
"Oh wait! It does come here. That's what the map says anyway."
He looked at me. He was an Indian guy, maybe in his mid-30s.
"Are you from New York?" he asked.
"No, no. Just moved here from Vermont," I replied.
"Vermont," he pondered. "That's in the middle of the country, right?"
"No," I said. "Right next to New York."
"Was the drive far?" he continued.
"About nine hours." I replied.
"Did you grow up there?" he asked.
"No. I moved here, went to school in Vermont, and grew up in Massa-"
Suddenly I wondered why he was asking so many questions. And then I looked at him and noticed the heavy-lidded way he was looking me up and down, and the smile that had formed at the corners of his lips.

Oh, for the love of god.

"I gotta run," I said as I sprinted up the stairs to locate the V. I was kicking myself though. Telling him off and waiting for the R would have been easier, but I don't really have it in me to be nasty without big provacation. I regretted the decision after, though. Once on the V, the conductor announced late-night rail construction, and so I had to switch after just one stop and walk a quarter mile to the 7. From there, I had to go four or five stops before switching back to the W - the train line I originally started on, which no doubt would have delivered me home faster than the detour route, had I just chosen to stick out the 13 stops.

By the time I got to 30th Avenue, I was tired. And hungry. I pitstopped into a Subway because it was right there and I couldn't stand the idea of getting home at quarter to midnight and cooking. As I waited for the bus - at the same stop where the old man offered me the little-girl trinket days before - I struck up conversation with a woman who seemed exasperated at how late it was running. She had a thick accent that I couldn't place and was wearing a business suit and glasses. She had kind eyes.

She told me that she was 31 years old and came to the states from Romania 11 years ago. She said she had a medical degree and a business degree, but that she was currently a manager to artists. I asked her what that meant and she said that it's her job to represent artists, help them network, and find them venues. Most recently she had been working with a concert pianist who she'll be traveling to China with on July 5. She asked me what my story was and I told her that I had just gradated from a college in Vermont with a degree in Journalism and moved to the city a couple weeks ago. She looked thoughtful for a minute and told me that a large part of her job is networking and that she's friendly with a few influential journalists in the city. She gave me her card and told me that I should email her my resume and cover letter. She said she'd send it out to people she knew and that hopefully, if they were looking for any help, it would help me get my foot in the door.

"I know what it's like to go somewhere and start fresh," she said. "It's not easy. My friends often ask me why I bother reaching out to people when I don't have to, but I like helping others. I think it's a good thing. And I think that everything in life happens for a reason. Here's my card. Send me your resume. I'll see if I can help you out."

So my brain has been entertaining two extreme possibilities.

1. This is an incredibly nice woman who I ran into at 11:30 p.m. at the bus station. If I send her my resume, maybe she'll help me get my foot in the door. Maybe it'll get me a journalism-relevant job.
2. I'm giving out my home address and personal phone number to a human trafficking ring.

No, the second one isn't really a viable worry. But still. I'm sure there are people who feed off of others' inexperienced naivete. I'm aware of the possibilities. I told Jen about it and she advised that I do some research and check this lady out. I did, and she seems pretty legit. So I'm not quite sure. I'm leaning toward sending it, but I'm still turning the idea over in my brain.

Why can't "nice" just be "nice" anymore?
And what the hell is up with that bus stop?