«Coincidence». A remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection. I know the meaning. And yet, every time I face one of those - I can’t help it, but shiver.

I had a friend once, he introduced himself as “Jimmy”. Soon, I found out it wasn’t his real name.

“Jimmy, Jimmy, - sings Parvati Khan in “Disco Dancer” 1982 Indian film. - Aaja, Aaja”. While growing up, I always thought it’s “Genie, Genie”. Genie in a bottle. Repetitive lines from the song sounded like some kind of an invitation. “Wizard, wizard. Come to a dance floor”.

My friend made a choice. He took the Jimmy-name because his real one was way too romantic for Harlem, where he worked in a shoe store. The fake one sounded friendly, popular, simple. New life, New name, New everything. New York.

The neighborhood I live in is filled with Dominican dollar stores, neon-sign bodegas, fried chicken shops, jewelry and lombard corners as well as grocery, electronics, furniture and clothes. Street fashion retailers. Local style stores like these are often seen in louder parts of Brooklyn and Bronx. There was one in Bushwick on Knickerbocker Ave. Most of them are called “Fashion Planet”, “Primadonna”. Sometimes — “Violetta” or “Havana Mama”.

Shabby headless mannequins placed right on the street walk. Cheap synthetic stripper outfits in windows. Lots of sheer pants. Biker shorts for $8, tank top “BABE” for $10.

I walked in, hoping to find a simple cotton t-shirt and maybe a summer dress. You never know with these small businesses around here: such stores existed long before Amazon or, forgive me, Temu. Looking at rows and rows of clothes on walls, I’ve noticed a set of two green eyes watching me from a far corner. He stood there, heavy, for a minute or two, learning my taste and neurotic shopaholic movements. I quickly walked around one clothes rack to another, scanning hangers. He stopped me: “Take this one. Nice color” — it was a salmon dress.

I looked at him: in his 60s or even 70s, he was tall and big. Strong man. Significant nose, green eyes. Wise. “I don’t have any other dresses in your size anyways” — he smirked. I noticed that his left eye was a bit smaller than the right one.

The man knew his business and he sold me the dress. After that, followed a question: where I am from. “Guess!” — I answered, as I try not to name my country of origin to strangers recently. He looked puzzled. — “I can’t really tell”.

“Where are you from? Yourself?” — I aimed back at him. My favorite small-talk technique borrowed from gaslighters: ignore, mirror the question.

“I’m from the Middle East, — he finally said. — And you are…” — “Russian”.

I followed him to the register. He wanted me to bargain. I gladly did, winning extra 20 bucks. He handed me a black plastic bag and said:

“My name is Jimmy. And yours?”

I took a deep breath.

“Jimmy is not your real name, is it?”

The man kept quiet. I turned around, walking out of his store, and then heard his voice following me:

“My actual name is Amen. How did you know that Jimmy is a fake?”