grocery; Baseball Cap must have been in that market. On Canal Street, I drew no suspicion, because I looked like a tourist, sure, but also because the salesmen had an incentive to believe I was who I said I was: They wanted to sell bags. Just like the fool from Long Island believed the wallets were real because she wanted to have found a deal on a luxury item. It was the incentive that had made me a good spy -- not my own work -- and no one in the grocery store had it. They saw my syrupy Southern- tourist persona for what it was: a knockoff unraveling at its haphazardly stitched seams. I was too ashamed to tell my boss, so instead I removed my name from the remainder of the schedule and left. Not long after that, upon entering my apartment building on the corner of Hudson and Perry, I walked upstairs and stuck my key in the lock, but it wouldn't turn. Duh, I thought, as I instantly realized my gaffe: wrong floor. I deduced the error quickly because I was familiar with the mistake; I made it about once a week that year. It was a strange and annoying affliction that has never struck me in any other of my many dwellings. My place was on the third floor, first door at the top of the stairs. Sometimes I stuck my key in the right lock. Other times I tried to open the corresponding door