Yesterday, while I was walking down the street, a very tall, slightly bedraggled man stopped me, pointed at a building, and asked me, "What girl in the window you want?"

"I don't understand."

"What girl you want?"

Feeling rather as if I were on "Candid Camera," I looked up at the building he indicated, but there were no girls in the windows. "I haven't any idea what you're talking about," I said.

"No, not up there. Down there. In the big window." He indicated not the apartment windows I was looking at but the storefront window of a nail salon, which indeed was full of women. "Which one of them you want?"

"For what?"

"Which one you want?" The husky emphasis on the last word left no doubt as to his offerings.

"I don't want any of them," I said, wondering if the nail technicians and their customers were aware that their intimate services were being brokered remotely.

"You sure, man?"

"Quite so, thank you."

"You put this on and I guarantee they be all over you." The man whipped out two bottles of cologne from somewhere.

"No," I said.

Then I went home and ordered fried chicken.