Pointless. According to Manny, Rachel had gone to Penn Station, but she would be long gone now. Nonetheless, here he was, early afternoon, roaming the train terminals. But Jackson had nothing else to do. Another shapeless day taking shape, its own form of punishment. Self-inflicted.

 The day started out well enough. Carla made sure of that. Being with her was like going to a gym: he got to work every muscle group, including his dick. An added bonus of their relationship was that they didn’t have to have one. Carla expected only two things: orgasms that made her scream and his occasional attendance at see-and-be-seen parties. Jackson hated the cocktail circuit, the whole chaperone scene; how Carla got off on making other women jealous when she walked into the room with him. “Eat your heart and crotch out girls,” he could imagine her saying. He put up with it because he owed her. Since he had come to New York eight months ago, she had made his life bearable. No small feat.

 “Where did you go, Rachel?” Jackson asked himself as he walked through the train station to the Amtrak arrival and departure board. Washington? Boston? Denver? She could get to any of those cities from here. But he doubted she’d know how to navigate the crowds let alone buy a ticket. Too, there was the issue of luggage, or lack thereof. She had left home with just a tote, something large enough to ram you in ribs on a crowded bus but too small to hold a change of clothes.

Maybe Rachel was taking a day trip to the suburbs via the Long Island Railroad. But did she even know where Long Island was? She barely knew her own neighborhood. From what he observed, she cabbed it everywhere, except to the Barnes & Noble on 86th Street, a short walk from her co-op, depending on the height of her heels. On Friday afternoons, she and Millicent rendezvoused in the bookstore’s café — used to rendezvous, that is. For three weeks now Rachel was a no-show, leaving Millicent waiting impatiently like a jilted bride-to-be.

 Jackson continued roaming Penn Station, looking at overhead signs. Had Rachel taken the subway? Hell no. The system was far too confusing, even for him. The A, B, C, D, E, F, N, Q, R, V and W lines all crossed paths in the station, as did the 1, 2 and 3 trains. And  why would she come all the way down to 34th Street and 8th Avenue, when she could just easily have caught the Lexington line uptown?

 Commuters raced around Jackson, trying to shave a second or two off their time. Out-of-towners passed more slowly; some, out of politeness, some didn’t pass at all. Whatever their speed, they were easy to spot. They made eye contact, even said “please” and “thank you” when asking for directions and — this was the big one — they wore colors. Turquoise, chartreuse, plaids, stripes, polka dots. Real New Yorkers had a more limited palette: black.

 A woman in a pink-flowered dress slipped by, hauling a suitcase with one hand and a toddler with the other. The kid wore a bright yellow sunsuit; her red hair was up in braids, which made him think of the redhead, J.J. Hyde. “Who the hell is she?” Jackson wondered and then left the station.

 The heat and humidty double-teamed him, and he thought of catching an air-conditioned bus home. Home. That was too generous a term for his Spanish Harlem studio. Closet was more like it, but it was just enough space for his bed, dresser, armchair, mismatched plates and utensils, fan and bookcase. Thirty-four years old, and this was all he had to show for his life. Sometimes even that was too much.

 Jackson strolled up Broadway to 59th Street, then cut through Central Park and headed uptown. The park was packed as usual — didn’t these people ever work? — so he walked along unbeaten paths. The effort, coupled with the heat, tired him. He found a patch of grass to claim as his own, checked for dog shit, then laid down and stared up at the maple leaves. No breeze, no movement except for the occasional dare devil squirrel jumping from one limb to the other. He closed his eyes and let his body sink into the grass. Maybe, just maybe, he could steal a few minutes of sleep. No go. He couldn’t stop thinking about Rachel and Ivan. And now, there was JJ Hyde.

 Jackson decided to return to Rachel’s building and take up position on his usual bench across the street. This time he had to share it with a nanny who balanced a shopping bag, purse and toddler on her lap as she fanned herself with a fashion magazine. She and the little boy looked like an old married couple: tired and bored. Their bus came and he watched them struggle aboard. The M-15 pulled away, farting diesel from its rooftop pipe. Jackson held his breath.

 Manny had gone off-duty at 2 p.m., so Jackson was stuck watching the afternoon doorman, Harold. That damn Bible Thumper wore his uniform like a soldier in God’s army. He smiled at everyone, wished them a blessed day, whistled hymns while he worked. Jackson didn’t dare try to bribe him as he had bribed Manny. Harold would give his earnings to his church, anyway. According to Manny, he was a minister in some holy-roller startup in Brooklyn and was always trawling for new members. “Worse than an Army recruiter,” Manny had sneered.

 Jackson stretched out on the bench and propped his head on his elbow. He knew it was inconsiderate, other people would want to sit, but, hell, wasn’t rudeness the City’s modis operandi? He wasn’t in rural West Virginia anymore, where you were trained at birth to give up your seat for ladies, hold open doors and address everyone as sir, ma’am or miss? Jackson sat up.

 A woman in a strapless dress took up position beside him. She smiled; women always smiled at him. He guessed she was closing in on 40, like Carla. He smiled back; his modis operandi.

 A bus drew up but the woman remained seated, and he wondered if she were waiting for another bus or for him to make a move. He wasn’t interested, however. He already had two women in his life: Carla and Rachel. And then there was JJ Hyde, who, as luck, or providence, would have it, was exiting the building and walking across the street toward him. Had she read his mind?

 Jackson stood, trying to think of something, anything, to say to him. But she walked past him, books in hand, and into the park. “Just as well,” he thought. “She doesn’t know me — yet.”

 He followed her.