I was at the intersection of Cooper Union and Astor Place the other day. It's the cement island where the moveable cube is, where the skateboard freaks are, where all these punks take a break from begging for change on St. Marks and sit around eating cheap, greasy Chinese food and play with each other, or themselves, or whatever.

When it's busy, it can be a complicated place.

Just as I was attempting to figure out the rhythm of the traffic lights, this little old lady appeared at my side and asked me if I'd help her. She was so tiny and frail that her skin hung from her frame in loose saggy folds that fell against themselves, like her flesh was dripping from her bones. I saw the bright pink makeup on her cheeks and her mouth, and I thought, "Why bother with make-up? You're old, for heaven's sake." The hump in her back was so severe that it hurt my neck as she strained to look up at me. As she did, I looked into her eyes. They were absolutely breathtakingly gorgeous, big and heavy lidded, pale green and clear.

Of course I'll help you, I blurted.

Then I remembered how Ron Ward was always calling me a freak magnet.  Whenever we hang out together, some freak always messes with us, and he blames it on me. The last time this happened, we were in a bar and some big fat drunk girl with braces wouldn't leave us alone. She looked like she was 15 or so, in the face. The rest of her looked super middle aged. It was like her body was spreading and sagging, blithely waiting for her face to catch up. When she finally waddled off, Ronny pointed at me and said, "Freak magnet." Not to be outdone, I pointed at him and said the same thing. We pointed fingers all the way down the street and into the cab and all the way home and for many months after that. Suddenly, though, with this old lady's appearance, I was beginning to believe Ronny was right.

Freaks aren't so bad, I thought as she took my arm.

She barely moved as she walked. People were staring at us. I heard someone guffaw directly behind me. The light changed. A sea of people surged past us. Someone bumped into me. She clung to me for dear life, it seemed, her bony fingers digging into my forearm, while her other arm gripped a little parcel cart she dragged slightly behind her. God bless you, she said. God bless you, too, I murmured. And then I began to wonder how we were going to get across the next street. All of a sudden, NYC was so overwhelming and frightening and dangerous. How in the world did this woman get around? What was she doing out here by herself? How would she have crossed this intersection if I hadn't helped her? Why wasn't she in some retirement home somewhere, strapped to a bed wearing a Depends undergarment and under heavy sedation, like the rest of the people I knew that were this old and helpless?

I felt like a sitting duck.

Most of the punks stopped what they were doing to watch us. When we finally made it, she was so happy. I was simply relieved. Relieved that even though my Daddy was old, at least he wasn't living in NYC. He was in Sunnyland with everyone else. Warm weather. Great food. Slow living.

Bette Davis was right. Old age ain't no place for sissies. Especially if you're going to be old in New York City.