The man who co-owned the Halal street stand on the corner of Broadway and 32nd street had an unusual memory for numbers. If he heard a number, even several digits long, he could recite it back without hesitation for at least three days. His wife and friends found his talent to be of great use, particularly when on the phone in the car and no paper to write a number on in the glovebox.
His cousin, the other co-owner of the Halal street stand on the corner of Broadway and 32nd Street, also had an unusual memory. He could remember each of his customers faces with near-perfect clarity for an indefinite period of time. The second cousin knew immediately if a new customer was new or an old customer was old. He stored the faces of each customer who approached the stand into the mental categories of “new” and “old,” which he would quickly recall the next time he saw them. He did not bother to remember anything beyond their status as “new” or “old” – he did not remember if they got a kabob or pita, or if they liked white sauce.
Neither of the cousins' memory talents were especially useful for grilling and selling chicken kabobs. Nevertheless, their stand was widely regarded as the best in the area.
One winter evening, a young man and woman came to the stand on the corner of Broadway and 32nd Street. The second cousin silently recognized the young man as an old customer and the young woman as new.
“You want white sauce?” The first cousin asked the young man. The young man did.
The second cousin asked the young woman what she wanted, but the young woman didn't want anything.
As the young man and woman walked away with just one aluminum-foil wrapped chicken pita, the second cousin wondered, at first to himself, and then aloud to the first cousin, if he could count the young woman as an old customer next time he saw her, or would have to count her as a new customer again, since this time, technically, she wasn't a customer at all, new or old.
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