Good Samaritan Gone Bad

I'm on my way to the subway after a doctor's appointment, trying to type on my new Blackberry like a dexterous person might, when I am accosted by a large black woman in a bright orange shirt standing next to a Lexus. She sees my retardo-texting and says she'll wait until I'm done.

I'm expecting her to ask me for money. I've been stopped on the Upper East Side many times with tales of woe. My policy is to offer to accompany the person to a nearby deli and buy him or her some food. That really gets beggars angry, I've found. I don't do it to be mean: it's a sincere offer. Since I don't drink or partake of illegal substances, I understandably do not want to subsidize others in their quest.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand: the lady and the Lexus. She politely waits for me to stop poking at my Blackberry keyboard with fingers graceless as gnarled chicken knuckles. Then she says, "My boss is over at the dentist and he told me to sit in his car and put the the AC on, but I don't know how. I don't drive."

I don't drive, either, but a car's AC system is easy to figure out. What's her angle? She hasn't asked me for money for the meter. It's hot out here. Why doesn't she ask me for money so she can go get a cool drink at Starbucks and sit in there?

She produces the keys and her story gets a little more plausible. We click the power buttons and hear beeping but the passenger door won't open. (My sage advice? "Don't hit the panic button." I don't know what it will do but it can't be good.) After I try the door handle several times, we move to the driver's side. After more clicking and beeping, I pull the door open.

I point to the AC control on the console. She says she doesn't want to get in on this side because she doesn't drive. I tell her she has to get in and turn the car on so she can get the AC running. She tries but can't fit behind the steering wheel because she's amply proportioned and the seat must be adjusted for the owner's smaller frame. She asks me to get in. As I take the keys I say, "You aren't stealing this car, are you?" and then instantly fear she will think it's a racist comment. But she laughs. This is how I find myself sitting in a stranger's Lexus ES350 on a Monday afternoon in Manhattan.

What will I say if the police show up right now? Am I on Candid Camera? Am I being punk'd? What if the owner shows up? I turn the car on and crank up the AC after moving a sunglass case and some paper out of the way. I get out and give the lady a quick rundown on how to work the AC buttons. She asks if she can take the key out so she can get in the other side. Not wanting to go through the whole thing again, I get back in the car, lean across, flip the lock button and push open the passenger door.

Finally, I am fully extricated from the Lexus. The woman introduces herself as Marjorie and I tell her my name as we shake hands. We laugh and she tells me I can write a book about this as I walk away and she gets into the cooling car. I'm a block away when I realize I should have told her not to tell her boss the story: I don't think he'll enjoy it.

When I tell my husband my only-in-New-York tale that evening, he says, "You could've stolen that car and gone for a joyride." When I tell my friend today, she agrees and adds that the woman is really lucky I didn't take off with her in the passenger seat and dump her upstate somewhere. I have to admit, I hadn't thought of it from Marjorie's point of view.

Then she says, "What if that was a drug dealer's car or there were people smuggling kids or something? What if the police had that car under surveillance and there you are, white girl sitting in it?" Now I'm thinking, what if that car gets used in a crime? What if her name isn't really Marjorie? Why did I give her my real first name?

What if the whole thing was a set up? My prints are all over that car. Hair, epithelials. I watch CSI. I'm screwed. I just wanted to help a lady cool off in somebody else's Lexus and now I'm going to prison. Please send cookies.