I came to New York to start a new life, to "straighten out" and quit doing drugs. I figured the city would be so exciting that I wouldn't want to get high, but I did want to get high and I thought about it all the time. Wandering around the Lower East Side, I kept an eye out for people who looked as though they might be dealing dope-standing on the same corner all day long, shaking hands with a long procession of junkies. But I was afraid to approach them: what if they were being watched by the police? What if I got arrested? And of course I hated myself for being so timid.
      The junkies themselves seemed like a much safer target-I accosted them as they were coming out of the needle exchange on Avenue C. Could anybody help me out? I concocted a ridiculous story about a boyfriend, allegedly a big-time dope-dealer, who used to supply me with all the heroin I wanted but who had just landed in jail and now I was supposedly really, really sick. My healthy skin was the give-away, of course. I looked like a fake-not a cop (nobody ever thought I was a cop) but a poser, a wannabe, a sociology student from the New School, or maybe a journalist for the Village Voice. Nobody would sell me anything.
      After a miserable couple of days, I finally met a girl named Miranda at the harm reduction center (around the corner from the needle exchange) where the local junkies went to get free acupuncture and herbal tea. She had come to New York to become a model and she did look sort of like a model-tall and strangely symmetrical, especially with the acupuncture needles sticking out of her face. We had just met, just started talking, and she told me she was in a hurry: would I like to continue the conversation in a cab? We got high in the back-seat (on her) and then she had to meet a business associate on the Upper East Side, so we got out and she gave me her number and then I wandered around by myself in Central Park.
      Miranda was a naturally generous person. She bought dope for all her friends. We got high together every day, and she gave me a gold ring (which I returned, because I didn't want it) and a whole pile of CDs. I still wear the clothes she gave me. The secret of shop-lifting, she said, was to think of it as a legitimate business and to carry yourself like a legitimate business woman. She would put on a designer suit and a wedding band and even a pair of glasses and twist her abnormally shiny hair into an elegant chignon. At the boutique (she liked small boutiques because nobody steals from a small boutique) she would slip off her coat and slip into a coat that was exactly like it. Then she would walk out and several minutes later, she would rush back in (without the coat) and say, all flustered, "Can you believe I walked out of here without my coat?"
      I had absolutely no desire to learn how to shoplift. Shooting dope was like owning a portrait of Chaing Kai Shek-a crime that was not really a crime. Shoplifting was a real crime and I was convinced that it would damage my immortal soul. But Miranda insisted that I was just scared, and what about being a coward? She kept saying that cowardice would do damage to my soul as well. I wanted Miranda to like me. I needed her to like me. I depended on her; maybe I was even a little in love with her. But I didn't want to shoplift and I told her in plain language, "I don't want to get arrested."
      "See, that's exactly why you do drugs," she said. "You are afraid of everything."

      Lying on the floor that night, in my slippery blue sleeping bag, I started to wonder if maybe she wasn't right. Was I doing the right thing for all the wrong reasons? Maybe I should test myself. I decided to steal a pair of shoes.
      For some reason, I didn't want to tell Miranda what I was planning to do, but I did follow her advice. I got dressed up like a Wall St. analyst (in my room-mate's clothes-she had just started working at a bank) and did my hair up in a chignon and I went to Macy's at 34th St.
      Miranda always got high right before she went to work. You can't concentrate when you're sick. But I wasn't at the point yet when I was getting junk-sick. If I shot up before hand, I wouldn't get straight, I'd get high, and the whole experiment would be meaningless. So I went in to Macy's absolutely straight, absolutely aware of what I was doing. Almost immediately, my own fear grabbed me by the throat like a murderer and I circled the shoe department for at least an hour before I so much as touched a shoe.
      Finally I tried on a couple of pairs of shoes and then a pair of soft, rose-colored boots. They had three inch heels and chic rectangular toes and I think they cost about $150. "May I walk around in these for a while?"
      The salesgirl nodded.
      I carefully examined some ugly purses and then, when the staff was obviously busy with other customers, I walked out.
      The boots, which were very comfortable, felt like an extension of my own body. I imagined coming home and not being able to take them off. I imagined sitting in the emergency room, imagined the doctor cutting through them with a little electric saw only to discover another identical pair of boots underneath. I stopped for a second to light a cigarette. Did business women smoke? I set a new goal for myself: walk around the block.
      So I walked around the block and then I returned to Macy's and rode the escalator back up to the shoe department. I imagined I could hear my heart-beat.
      "Can you believe I just walked out in these boots?" "Yes." The sales-girl was laughing. "For one thing, you forgot your purse."
      She held up my purse.
      "I never would have noticed if the toes didn't pinch," I said. "Where are my real shoes?"
      The sales-girl produced them from behind the counter. One of the customers smiled.
      "We were placing bets on when you would come back," the other sales-girl said. Then, quickly, she added: "You didn't make it outside, did you?"
      "Oh, no."
      The first sales-girl had won the bet.
      "What would you have done if I hadn't come back?"
      "Honey, I got your purse."
      We laughed. I removed the boots and set them aside and put on my shoes and fixed my hair. As she was handing me my purse, I asked her if there had really been a bet-she said that there had and that her friend was going to take her out to dinner. I told her to drink to my health and we had another good laugh.
      All the way home, I rehearsed (again and again) what I would say to Miranda, and I dialed her number with my coat still on. But she was not in, so I drew a hot bath and took off my coat and all my clothes and shot up in the bathtub. This is why I have never been arrested, I thought, just as the drug was taking hold of my brain. Because God loves me.

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