Walking in the city, rather aimlessly, I was accosted by a group of four girls, whom I estimated were aged twelve or thirteen, moving on to junior high, on the cusp of adolescence.
“Madam”, one of them said, “do you want to barter?” She was holding out a single flower, an orange gerbera.
“It’s a game”, a second girl chimed in.
“I’m not sure I have anything to barter.” I hoisted up my shoulder bag and fished out my wallet.
“We’re not allowed to barter for money”, the first girl warned.
“Sure, sure”, I said. She has no idea what a woman’s wallet may contain – I don’t.
“No money!”, the girl reiterated, almost menacingly, as I unzipped the inner compartment.
I took out a valve adapter and slipped the wallet back into my bag. I had bought the adapter yesterday after I found out that the Koga Sports Lady race bike, whose front tire I had accidentally deflated when trying to add pressure, featured a Presta valve which requires an adapter to pump in air through it. It had cost me a dollar and a half.
“It’s a valve adapter, for road racing bikes. Will this do?” It was a game, after all. I felt at ease, knowing that almost anything would do, except money, of course.
“Oh yes”, the first girl said, the second moving in to study the thing up close, another of the four standing aside, not interested, the fourth girl no longer visible. The girl carrying the gerbera handed it to me. I placed the adapter in the hand the second girl held out to me. I moved on, feeling elated, almost liberated. This felt like the beginning of new and endless possibility.
I kept the flower, with its long, stiff stem, in my hand, unable to carry it less conspicuously, but proud, too – a banner. It occurred to me I was near the bike shop where I had bought the adapter, and I headed to it.
“Hello again!”, the boy said. Did you manage to pump up your tires? It’s a nice flower you’re holding.”
“A gerbera. I traded it for the valve adapter you sold me yesterday. I need a new one. I haven’t had time yet to inflate the tires.”
“Here’s another one for you”, he said. “A dollar and a half.” I hoisted up my handbag. I felt for my wallet. It was gone.
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Hard Nosed Women 