Appetites

Just another New York immigration story

At twelve-fifteen p.m. on a warm late May day, a young man stood by the side of the path leading from the 72nd Street entrance of Central Park into the children’s playground.

The air was full of children’s laughter. Nannies in uniform sat on benches in the playground, gossiping, holding toys in their hands while rocking baby carriages with their feet. Toddlers screeched as they circled the sandbox in their big plastic tricycles. A group of school kids in plaid uniforms ran down the path, soccer balls in their arms.

The young man was of average height, somewhat stocky, wearing well-pressed gray slacks, a white short-sleeved button-down dress shirt, and a narrow paisley tie. Three ballpoint pens were clipped to his shirt pocket. A clipboard with a sheaf of papers was in his left hand; a freshly sharpened pencil poised between his right thumb and forefinger. A list of questions was neatly typed on the top sheet of paper, which was headed “GRADUATE PSYCHOLOGY DEPARTMENT” in large capital letters. There was nothing extraordinary about his looks. 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 his feet. He bent down, picked it up, and placed it…