On our first morning in New York City, Fadi and I arrived at its famous hub: Times Square. Holding my purse securely against my body, we pushed our way through the throngs of visitors snapping selfies. Fadi stared at and, then, bumped into a steady stream of superhero impersonators. The Mickey and Minnie Mouse lookalikes, the Super Mario impressionists, and the Statue of Liberty aspirants zeroed in on the gape-jawed, foreign-looking Fadi, hoping to make a buck from the iPhone-wielding tourist. They did. Meanwhile, I was busy pulling him through the street ministrations of the Bible thumpers and the head-down-get-out-of-my-way-on-a-mission-to-get-somewhere New Yorkers, but missed the horse-mounted police in the square.
“Hey, buddy,” one yelled at Fadi. “Keep your head in the game.”
“There’s the naked cowboy,” I gestured to Fadi without stopping.
“Oh my God,” Fadi gasped. While he had seen him in a movie or two, he was shocked to see he was a real fixture in Times Square.
“He’s wearing underwear,” I explained. “Behind the guitar,” I thumbed back at him.
“Al Hamdulillah (Thank God),” Fadi responded, mostly in sarcasm, watching my disinterestedness in the face of something that should have shocked me.
As we threaded our way past iconic stores—Disney and Forever 21—and the Orwellian-like screen that snapped pictures of people in the square in front of it, Fadi stopped dead.
“What?” I asked.
“She’s naked,” he said sheepishly.
“Nahh, it’s against the law. No one’s naked,” I said, pulling him along.
But he stood rigid, completely flummoxed, so I followed his eyes to the center of the street where a woman’s bare breasts were being painted in the colors of the American flag.
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