Short story ©Ellen Shapiro 2026
AT TWELVE-FIFTEEN P.M., A YOUNG MAN STOOD ON THE PATH leading from the 72nd Street entrance of Central Park into the children’s playground. It was a warm late May day and the air was full of children’s laughter. Nannies in white uniforms sat on benches, gossiping, holding baby bottles and toys in their hands while rocking expensive-looking baby carriages with their feet. Toddlers screeched as they circled the sandbox with their big plastic tricycles. Groups of school kids in plaid uniforms ran by on their way to the playing fields.
The young man held a clipboard in his left hand. A freshly sharpened yellow pencil was poised between his right thumb and forefinger. A list of questions was neatly typed on the top sheet, which was headed “Graduate Psychology Department” in official-looking capital letters. He was of average height, somewhat stocky. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, well-pressed gray slacks, a white short-sleeved button-down shirt and a narrow paisley tie. Three ballpoint pens were clipped to his shirt pocket. His medium-brown hair was freshly trimmed. There was nothing extraordinary about his looks at all; in fact, for most of his life – he was twenty-eight years old – people had a difficult time describing him: “Kind of a quiet nerdy guy, average, studious.”
A multicolored beach ball came flying at him. He caught it and put it into the outstretched arms of a little girl, “Here you go, hon.”
Then, as if on cue, he stepped in front of a young Hispanic woman who was walking up the path.
“Excuse me, Miss,” he asked. “Can you tell me where Columbia University is?” He spoke softly, enunciating every syllable.
“Yes, the main entrance I think is on Broadway just above 110th Street.” She had a faint, melodic Spanish accent. Her almost-black eyes focused on his clipboard.
“Very good. I was wondering, would you be able to perhaps take a few moments today to participate in my survey.”
“Survey?”
I’m a doctoral student working on my dissertation. It would be very helpful to me.” He smiled, showing small, slightly discolored teeth.
“A dissertation. What is it about?”
“Um, about how young immigrants are adapting to urban life, life in New York City. Is that relevant for you?
“Yes.”
“Good, good. Well, then, shall we begin?”
“I have one hour for lunch. You don’t mind if I eat?”
“Not at all. Let’s sit here, all right?” He motioned to a bench near a large wooden play structure crawling with toddlers.
She squinted at him. “Why did you ask me if I know where Columbia University is?” Do you need to go there today?”
“I’m a teaching assistant. Frankly, I use this device to qualify suitable subjects for my research. If they don’t know the answer, then they aren’t smart enough to qualify.” He smiled conspiratorially.
“Oh, yes. I see.” Flattered, she sat down, smoothed her skirt, and placed a shiny white purse on the bench. She took a homemade-looking ham-and-cheese sandwich from a brown paper bag, unwrapped it, took a bite, and wiped her lips on a paper napkin. Her hair almost touched her waist.
“Let me start with some introductory or background questions,” he began. The rich smell of the ham was making his mouth water. “I really appreciate this. It’s not always easy to find suitable subjects. First of all, did you attend college?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Queens College.”
“Uh, huh. What is your occupation?” His pencil moved smoothly along the surface of the clipboard.
“Medical secretary.” She continued to eat, licking her fingers daintily between bites.
“And for whom do you work?”
“For two doctors on Fifth Avenue. Dermatologists. They specialize in dermabrasion and hair transplants on some very important patients.” She pointed to a granite apartment building across the street. “Their offices are on the ground floor.”
“Very impressive. Where were you born?”
“San Juan, Puerto Rico.”
“And your name, please?”
She took a bite, swallowed, licked a drip of mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth, and stared at him. He was chewing the end of his pencil. “Linda.”
“A pretty name. I always liked that name. It even means ‘pretty.’ How old are you, Linda?”
“What? Twenty-six.” The playground noise made it hard to hear his questions.
“And where do you live?”
“Jackson Heights, Queens.” One could not desire a more perfect subject, he thought, trained to be respectful and cooperative. And so lovely.
“Very good. As I said, Linda, my research concerns attitudes of young adults, immigrants who are relatively new to the city. Now that I see you are an ideal candidate , we are going to get into the more specific questions. Okay?”
“Sure, como no? Why not?”
She swallowed the last bite of sandwich, brushed some crumbs from her skirt, took a large nectarine from her bag, and bit into it. A jet of juice squirted his shirt front.
“I am so sorry, forgive me.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Three boys, perhaps three or four years old, ran by, screaming, “Gotcha, gotcha,” Batman capes billowing.
“Listen,” he went on. “This playground is noisy at lunch hour. Before we go on, I think it will be much easier for us to complete the survey if we move to a quieter spot.”
“Okay.” She finished the nectarine, wiped her hands and chin, and put the pit and the napkin in the paper bag.
“How about over there?” He gestured toward a bench about two hundred feet away, on a sunny spot on a hill.
“Sure.”
If he played his cards right, she would feel lucky that she was chosen to do this, that her words would be part of a study. He guided her by the elbow up the grassy hill. She sat down and reached in her bag.
“Would you like a cookie?”
“Thanks so much.” He sat down next to her, not too close. The macaroon melted on his tongue. He savored its sweetness. Oh, how well this is going. How very, very, well.
“Let’s go on, shall we? Let’s continue with your history. What age were you when you came to this country?”
“Twenty-two.” She took another bite.
“Uh-huh. Did you come with your family?”
“No, they stayed in San Juan.”
“I see. How did your parents feel about your coming here?”
“Aye, did they fight! Mami said, ‘Our daughter has a right to make it in America. She is an American citizen. Let her get a good education.’ Papa said, ‘No. Respectable young girls like Carmela must stay near their families, make someone a good wife, have several children.’“
“Excuse me, didn’t you say your name was Linda?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if I should tell you.”
“I understand. Well, go on.” He smiled as if to say, all was forgiven, thinking, she is opening herself up to me. This is not going to be too hard at all.
“Anyway,” she went on, “I had other relatives in New York, like almost everybody from Puerto Rico does. My aunt said I could live with her for a while. So I moved into her apartment on East 120th Street. I hated it there. Can I tell you something?” She folded up the paper bag, finished.
“As I should have mentioned earlier, Carmela, this survey is strictly confidential.” His pencil stopped moving. He looked into her eyes and touched the eraser end to his lower lip. Her perfume was making him dizzy.
She shook her head and her hair moved in a glossy black wave. “I could not stand to see how some of my compadres live in New York. Like animals. In such terrible places. It is sad.”
“I know what you mean. But this can be attributed to deficiencies in our governmental and economic systems. It isn’t entirely the fault of your, uh, compadres.”
“I had to get out of there.” She clenched her fist. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on the skin just above the neckline of her blouse.
Oh, God. Where had he seen a blouse something like that? In high school social studies books, the illustrations of Mexican women patting tortillas. Those puffy white blouses with the low round necks. Where else, somewhere else, just last week? Yes, on the side of a bus! A St. Pauli Girl Beer ad: You’ll Never Forget Your First Girl. Those breasts rising above the top of that white peasant blouse. You are doing well, very, very well, he told himself, just keep taking it slow.
“I am quite interested in exploring your point of view, Carmela. Frankly, it isn’t unusual.” Evenly, softly. “We are getting to the core of my research. But you must be so uncomfortable in this heat. I apologize, I picked a lousy spot. Let’s move somewhere cooler.”
She looked at her watch. “I have to be back at work by one-thirty.”
“No problem. No problem at all.” He led her up a hill, over some flat boulders, to an open grassy area behind a cluster of trees.The playground noise became a low distant hum. “Much better.”
She sat on the grass, put her purse down beside her, and wrapped her skirt around her knees. He positioned himself below her, balancing the clipboard on his lap. “Give me a minute to catch up on my notes,“ he said, flipping a page. “There. Now, where were we? Oh yes, your attitudes. To where did you choose to move?”
“Jackson Heights.”
“That’s right, sorry.”
“You see,” she continued, “there are many Spanish-speaking people living there, in Jackson Heights. Bolivians, Colombians. They believe in education, in bettering themselves. They learn to speak English very well.”
“You speak beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
He’d visited Puerto Rico himself. As a tourist, of course. From behind the tinted bus windows on the expressway between the airport and the Condado Beach hotels he studied the pastel stucco houses with front and back yards, large patios, elaborate wrought iron grillwork. For some reason he’d expected cardboard shacks over open sewers like they show in National Geographic features on Great Slums of the World. Too much Oscar Lewis can do that to you. She’s probably from a place like that, middle class. But to her it was a prison nonetheless.
“With whom do you now reside?”
“What? Oh. I live by myself.”
“Uh, huh. And how many rooms is your apartment?” What a dumb question. Keep on track. “Never mind, I’ll give you a few moments to think about the advantages of living by oneself versus having the traditional support of the Latino extended family. Describe your feelings in as much detail as possible, please.” Oh God, almost there. There’s no one around, not a soul. My research. I’ll show them, Kinsey and Reich and Masters and Johnson and all of them. They’ll invite me on talk shows, to speak at conferences. I will write articles for the academic and popular press. I can see up her skirt right now! I have her at the perfect angle. Even though she’d tried to tuck that nice little flowered skirt around her knees, I can see her thighs.
“Well,” she spoke directly, as if making a speech. “I don’t think you should think of Latin American people as different from any other people. Young single women have always come to New York, from Europe, Asia, other parts of the States, everywhere. She sang, “If you can make it here you can make it anywhere” and giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. “I mean, we get apartments, we get first jobs, we get promotions….”
He broke in, “I apologize. It was inexcusable of me to exhibit such stereotypical negative cultural bias. I’m sorry, Carmela. You see, I’m learning from you, and others will, too. You know, I was thinking,” he cleared his throat, “it would be so much better for us to continue at my place. I have a tape recorder there and some testing equipment, a more advanced phase of the survey. We could make a convenient appointment.”
“That would not be possible.”
“Okay.” Close call, careful, careful. Plenty of time. He thought about a magazine spread he had clipped from Playboy years ago. It was still taped to the wall in his room. In high school the guys liked to come over and read it and laugh. ‘Complete This Sentence,’ read the headline: (Blank) said the lovely young thing as he (blanked) his (blank) (blank) into her (blankity-blank). The page was filled with lists of luscious subjects, verbs, objects, adjectives, expletives. Oh, all the combinations one could make! He’d figured it out on his pocket calculator: 127,564. Which would it be this time? She had agreed to everything! To the survey, to sitting next to him, to following him all the way over here, she had even given him a cookie! Let’s get on with it.
“At this point in the survey I would like to address you technically, in the language of my field, behavioral psychology with an emphasis on endocrinology. I know that you work in a doctor’s office, but if you don’t understand a word or a question, please let me know? And don’t be embarrassed. After all,” he looked up at her, smiling, “they talk about stuff that’s much more controversial on Oprah and Geraldo every day. Don’t they?”
“Yes, sure.”
It was very quiet. The children must have gone in. She glanced at her watch.
He went on, more quickly, still smiling. “It is getting late. Anyway, the male and female hormones are manufactured by the adrenal glands. During periods of arousal the glands secrete another substance, a phe-nom-e-rone, which I am researching. Have you heard about phenomerones?”
“What?” Frowning, puzzled, “No I have not.”
She is still intent on answering the questions properly, trying not to appear stupid. What about that quizzical look on her face? Perhaps she doesn’t quite grasp what I was saying. The ache was almost unbearable. He shifted his weight. Just another few seconds. “Phenomerones are a type of non-steriod hormode composed of modified proteins. At certain times their molecular structure changes, and they become insoluble in the lipid cell membrane. It’s been well documented in the cicadian rhythms of mating animals, for example, in the springtime, at this time of year. Um, at this very moment, your adrenal glands are probably secreting this substance, lubricating your vaginal walls. It’s one of your natural bodily functions, ensuring that… here, let me demonstrate… I am sure you will want to find out all about this…”
His clipboard slipped to the grass. As if in slow motion, his fingers reached toward her. His breathing came on fast.
Aieee!
She ran as fast as she could, fast, faster, faster, down the hill, panting, around the playground, sweating, past the toddlers and the nannies and the carriages, out the gate, her heels clicking on the pavement, across Fifth Avenue, horns screeching, cabbies cursing, past the doorman tipping his hat, into the dermatologists’ office, letting the heavy door slam behind her, letting out a long sigh, “Uuuh.”
Rose, the receptionist, was at the front desk, applying glossy red lipstick between the lip-pencil outlines she‘d drawn. There was plenty of time until the patients started coming in at three o’clock.
“Carmela! What happened to you?”
“Aye, Rose, you’ll never believe it.” She was panting, hair hanging in sweaty tendrils.
“Try me.”
Carmela put her hands over her eyes, sat down on the sofa, and gulped out the story.
Rose shook her head. “I can’t believe you even talked to him. Why did you talk to him in the first place? Didn’t your parents teach you anything? What’s his name? We’ll call the police.”
“I don’t know his name. I didn’t ask him. He asked me all the questions.”
“He was asking you about sex and you didn’t know his name! You are what we call mashugena. Crazy”
“My purse. Where is my purse? I forgot my purse. Oh, no.” Carmela covered her face with her hands. “It must be on the grass somewhere.”
“I’ll go with you and we’ll look for it. Both doctors are still at the hospital.”
“I can’t go out there. He’s probably still out there.”
“I’ll go by myself. He won’t be interested in me.” Rose had an ample bustline but was sure her gray hair and sensible shoes would not be attractive to a pervert like that.
“Oh Rose, what would I do without you?”
“Go on. I’ll be right back.”
At one-forty p.m., as the doorman tipped his hat at Rose, the young man was standing near the 60th Street entrance to the park. Carmela’s keys, cash, and drivers license were in his pocket. Her white patent leather purse and its other contents were in a dumpster on 68th Street. He’d memorized her address and was running it over and over in his mind. He stepped in front of a redhead in a blue business suit and said, “Excuse me, Miss, can you tell me where Columbia University is?”