My wife and teens were a block and a half ahead of me on Broadway, and I was moving as quickly as I could with a bone spur on my right hip that burned and ached. Two peddlers stopped me, asked where I was from. I told them near Memphis, Tennessee, home of Beale Street, the Blues, Elvis, Sun Records, and they smiled wide, handed me a CD, and asked if I’d share it with my connections.

I didn’t have any connections to the music industry though I’d once run into Vince Gill at the sales rack in Stein Mart. At the time, I didn’t even know who he was, and I assumed later it could have been his doppelganger. We’re all supposed to have one. I said yes, I’d share it, so I could inch forward on the sidewalk jammed with aerobic-walking New Yorkers. One said they didn’t charge for the CD but took donations. I told them my wife had the money and pointed toward her. She’d stopped with the teens, and they waived and signaled me to come on.

He may have told me get cash from her and bring it back, but when I caught up, we moved on toward our hotel adjacent Central Park. I heard someone yell, “Tennessee.” It was the peddler coming for his donation. My wife ignored him, kept walking, and he snatched his CD from my hand, scolded me with his expression and shaking head, and sprinted back down the sidewalk to his peddling spot. I didn’t know if it was a rock, country, or rap CD, but I felt certain it played one song to its listeners titled “Sucker.” I mused the peddler didn’t even know he was out of business because CDs had become obsolete just like cassettes, eight tracks, and ’45 speed records. Even my late model SUV didn’t have a CD player. I mused he might have to hustle pretzels, hot dogs, art, caps, or something else if his CD scheme didn’t pan out.