Jill Freedman: For Life

These here are some real New York ladies.” Nobody had ever come to my defense like this. It was a snowy January afternoon. The weather was cold but the mood was cheerful. Jill and I had just left her apartment in Harlem, near West 100th street, Morningside Park and the majestic cathedral that overlooks it. We were headed to the other side of Central Park, towards 70th street. In New York, you can only tickets for the bus with small change, which you usually only need for laundromats. Standing across from the stony-faced driver, I was digging in my pockets for a few more coins. “Just take a seat,” Jill said. “The drivers won’t care, he’s used to it.