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21
May
06

Arms

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Strangers Observed
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I saw two people yesterday who had only one arm. I saw the first one on the way to a rugby training that morning. His baggy tee shirt sleeve hung empty from his side shoulder like a deflated balloon. The second guy, I saw on the way home. He had his shirt sleeve pinned up.

I thought nothing of the first one. Just an anonymous New Yorker with one arm. When I saw the second one, he stood out to me because of the first guy. How many armless people will I see today? I wondered. I thought armless might be a theme for the day, and I was preparing for the third one-armed man. But I saw no more.

It was a strange way to book-end rugby training, rugby being a game that requires two arms yet not infrequently puts someone in near danger of losing them. I don’t think most people participate in activities that put them in such danger.

Today, I saw a person who I thought might be missing an arm or two, but they were actually just tucked inside his shirt. I could offer no explanation for why he might be doing this, except that maybe his arms were cold.

It made me remember pretending to be an amputee as a kid. I’d pull my sleeves off and clasp my arms under my shirt behind my back and walk around bumping into things and people and falling down and trying to get back up with my arms. My favorite part was always pushing my arms back out through the sleeves and watching them “grow” back to their normal state.

I think I will be looking at everyone’s arms today.

10
May
06

Our Hands, Ourselves

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Strangers Observed
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I like to watch people’s hands while standing in the subway. During the morning and evening commutes, when the trains are crowded and people are standing and grasping at anything solid to keep their balance, hands are so exposed. Sometimes all I can see of a person is his or her hand.

Some bite their fingernails; others take exceptional care of their tips. They are brown and beige and pink and sallow and white. Some have spots. Some have finely formed ropes of veins down the arm, around the wrists and across the back of the hand. Some have hairy knuckles. Some with a firm grip show sinews and tendons straining against the skin. Some are fat and shapeless. Some are so thin, it’s a wonder they function at all.

There is a paradox about hands: While they are indeed exposed and open and very public, they are also extremely private and personal and intimate. Almost everything we do both privately and publicly involves hands. Why are we so skittish about genitalia and breasts when it is our hands that prepare our food, burp our babies, wipe our asses, wash our bodies, insert and remove our contact lenses, wear our wedding rings?

If the brain is the largest sex organ, surely the hand is the second largest. Indeed, sometimes sex involves the hands more than any other body part.

You put your hands where? And then you touched me? the doorknob? your french fries?

Of course, we wash them. And for the ultimate in OCD behavior, we can also waterlessly sanitize them. So, I’m not talking about dirt or germs here, but rather the idea of what we do with our hands.

We write with our hands, conducting our fears, memories and desires — and things much more banal — from the brain to the page. Some talk with their hands, expressing themselves with complete languages but without a single word. We construct with our hands: buildings, art, Web sites. We destroy with our hands.

We play with our hands — piano, rugby. A friend of mine, who does both, and who works on a laptop computer all day long, recently broke the smallest phalange of his ring finger. All the things he does that matter have become exercises in endurance, so central are his hands to his life.

We are defined by our hands. When that thumb showed up millions of years ago, everything changed. Forget fire, the wheel, moveable type, cheese in a can. The revolutionary hand started this whole crazy mess.

It’s kind of obscene, the way we so shamelessly expose people to our hands, given all the trouble they get up to. We should wear gloves.

04
Mar
06

“Ain’t Got No Money, Ain’t Got No Honey.”

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York, Strangers Observed and The People in Your Neighborhood
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Down in the subway station at 74th and Broadway in Jackson Heights, where you can get the E, V, F, G, R and 7, there’s a terribly depressing man who pops up from time to time. He wanders up and down the platform trying to sell a piece of jewelry to commuters. It’s a “gold” necklace with one of those charms on it, usually a woman’s name in scripty lettering, or something like “love” or “precious.” I never get close enough to read the thing.

The guy is old and evidently in poor health. Missing teeth. Crackling skin. If he were a fishmonger or a butcher, in my simple, little world, he might be considered haggared in a charming, story-book way, if not for one thing. His right lower eyelid sags drastically, looking like it’s turned inside-out to reveal pink, moist, swollen flesh that surrounds and obscures the eye itself and leaks fluid down his cheek. It looks like an infection that’s been split open and spread wider. I find it horrifying.

He dangles his trinket out in front of himself, stopping people as they descend the stairs or walk past on their way to the platform edge.

“Ain’t got on money, ain’t got no honey,” he calls out.

Not quite “Feed the birds. Tuppence a bag.” But I guess you gotta have a gimmick.

Apparently he’s appealing to the more shallow part of ourselves that is willing to believe that a flash piece of jewelry will be enough to win the affection (or at least the attention) of our dearest.

People do their best to ignore or avoid him. And, to his credit, he doesn’t press the sale.

I can’t imagine anyone buying this thing from him. It’s tacky. And he’s scary. Assuming he has held onto his sanity through his difficult years, I don’t imagine he expects anyone to buy it. It might just be a pretense for getting some spare change. Or maybe he’s just crazy, after all. I want to give him some Visine and an eye patch. I wonder if he’d get more attention that way.

24
Jan
06

Climbing Boy

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York Minute and Strangers Observed
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Scaffolding is as ubiquitous in New York as it is mysterious. Usually it serves no discernable purpose. It merely is. Like parasitic architectural lampreys, these collections of metal and particle board cling to their host buildings, waiting … for something.

They spring up out of nowhere, as if thrown together by teams of industrious elves overnight. On a routine walk somewhere or other, one might stare at a freshly ensconsed building and think, “Hunh… What’s different?” Then over time it becomes part of the building, the texture of the neighborhood. Tress are rerouted and split. Birds and small mammals make their homes. Then just as suddenly, months later, it disappears. And like a brainless goldfish that forgets its surroundings the moment it swims onward, you stand in the same spot thinking: “Hunh… What’s different?”

I can completely understand how a young boy would look at one and see nothing of its supposed true purpose or benefit — but instead see … a king-size jungle gym. How many video game-inspired Kung-Fu dreams could be fulfilled with a posse of scrappy friends and a Saturday afternoon on one of those things? Oh, consider the possibilities. The ultimate graduation in the School of Found Toys: The refrigerator box is left far behind in our erstwhile childhood, giving way to the glorious Scaffolding.

Today I saw a boy climbing on a scaffolding outside of a deli near where I work. The woman who was minding him said firmly but encouragingly, “You be careful. That thing’ll fall down right on top of you. Get down, now.”

The kid replied, “Aw… Why? What’s gonna happen?” He stopped climbing, but sort of lingered, a leg wrapped around a post out of reluctance and defiance, marking his territory.

“What you climbing that for?” she asked.

“What’s gonna hap—”

“I never touch those things, and you’re climbing all over it.”

“What —” he began, but she interrupted again with a string of admonitions. Repeatedly, he could say no more than “What &#8212?” before she interrupted again. “What —? What —? What —?” he said

“What what what!” she mocked. “Do you understand English?”

Then slowly she repeated: “Why. Are. You. Cli. Ming. On. That?”

What started out as mere concern for his safety quickly and weirdly escalated to a personal grudge about syntax. Her mood had completly changed in an instant. The original question had been rhetorical. “What you climbing that for?” If he had just stepped away and not answered, she would not be challenging the poor kid’s linguistic affinity. But because he annoyed her, the question became something that demanded an answer — long after he had stopped climbing and stepped away.

Ironically, it was she who misunderstood him. He had already asked her “What could happen?” as in “Get a grip, lady. This thing ain’t gonna fall. What do I have to worry about?” True, it’s little more than simple, boyish bravado that probably should be corrected. But he is a boy. Talk to the kid about what’s dangerous. Don’t stand 10 feet away barking at him.

She had a greater chance of breaking her nose on the door of the deli in front of her than he had of being crushed under a ton of aluminum pipes. But she is the Adult, and therefore has the apparent moral authority to not only ignore his curiosity but also to insult him. I understand the concept of enforcement through fear: Look both ways before crossing the street, and all that. But a scaffolding is not a house of cards. It seems to me there are limits to the amounts of disbelief a kid is willing to suspend after a certain age, and one needs something better than unrealistic fears of death and dismemberment to get his attention.

10
Jan
06

Congrats to the Guy Outside the 99 Cent Store

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Me, New York and Strangers Observed
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I’d like to salute a complete stranger, who I’m willing to bet I’ll never see again in my life, for a small act of courage.

Walking out of a 99 cent store (We call them “dollar stores,” where I’m from, which I think rolls off the tongue much better, but that’s just my silly Midwestern opinion) in my neighborhood not long ago, a man tapped me on the arm and said something that I found very alarming.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m about to make a complete fool of myself. But I just had to tell you something. I think you’re really handsome. I don’t know if you’re gay or not, or if you’re with someone, or whatever, but I just had to tell you that.”

I sort of laughed and said, “Thanks.” I could think of nothing else to say.

He continued at a breathless pace: “See, I’m never in this part of town anymore, but I used to live here about eight years ago. I live in the West Village now, but I still come here to get my glasses, and while I was here to pick up a prescription, I stopped in here to get a couple of things …”

He had been standing at the counter, paying for his stuff, when I walked in. He looked me straight in the eyes and said in a very familiar way, “Hey, how’s it going?”

I had assumed that he knew me from somewhere and I couldn’t remember from where, so I nodded and pretended and gave him the old “Oh, fine. How are you?” It was apparent, however, standing outside in the corner with him, that he had just been flirting.

“Well, it was nice to meet you. And yes,” I said. “I am gay. And I’m flattered. Thanks.”

When I told Jeff about it at home later that night, the first thing he said was, “Ah, well, I notice you didn’t tell him you’re married.” Did it matter whether I told him or not? I didn’t want to explain too much or prolong the moment. Though I was flattered by his sentiment, I was also embarrassed by the attention. I took his hand and shook it.

“Well, take care,” I said. “Have a good night.” It seemed like I was blowing him off, but I couldn’t think of anything more graceful.

I ran the scene through my head over and over again, laughing quietly to myself for the two-block walk home. It struck me as a romantic yet hopeless gesture. Funny how often those two things are the same in certain contexts. I couldn’t believe it had just happened — out in public on the sidewalk. In my neighborhood. I felt kind of proud someone felt safe enough to do that in my neighborhood.

I feel a little silly, even conceited, to mention it. (Is it possible to tell these stories without seeming conceited?) Truly, looking at it objectively, I give him a lot of credit for stopping a stranger to say what he said. Not because I’m any kind of great catch, but because it took some nerve. We should always congratulate ourselves on these little victories against self-doubt. Lord knows, I never would have done it.

16
Dec
05

Bright Eyes, Big City

By Eric 1 Comment
Categories: Music, New York and Strangers Observed
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My friend Marc and I were walking through Chelsea one night last summer looking for ice cream when we were accosted in a very friendly and not unpleasant manner by a very strange woman.

We walked up and down 8th Avenue well into nightfall, but the temperature was still probably in the high 80s or low 90s. Such is heat retention in the city. The ice cream, sweet bliss in the summer heat, melted at an alarming rate and began dripping down the cones and the paper wrappers into our hands and down our wrists. The minuscule napkins Ben & Jerry’s gave us were hardly enough for a nose blow, let alone a torrent of chocolate goo. I had to be careful not to dribble all down my front. We ate (licked, sucked, slobbered) quickly to avoid disaster and embarrassment, and I ended up with a stomach ache.

At some point, a woman ran up to us from behind and tapped Marc on the shoulder. We turned around and she looked down at my friend’s chest. I noticed this, because I thought it was weird she wasn’t looking at his face.

“Sorry to bother you, but I have to ask you about your shirt,” she said.

It was a Bright Eyes shirt. White silk screen on black or dark-dark green or something. The front displayed the words “Bright Eyes” and a drawing of a guy throwing up into a toilet, but instead of vomit, it was a stream of ones and zeros. Very techie. Very Matrix. Very New Century.

I recognized the woman as someone we had just passed. Apparently she had caught a glimpse of his shirt and now wanted to inspect it more closely. People do this all the time with my Trash Can Sinatras t-shirt, which displays a single-color silhouette of a clothesline in a strong breeze. Marc seemed pleased if not startled by the attention, and eager to talk about the shirt.

This happened to me once. A guy about my age once stopped me and asked me about my Batman t-shirt. “Dude, I love your shirt.” He asked me where I got it from. “I don’t mean to insult you. I mean, I’m sure it’s, like, vintage. Have you had it, like, forever? I mean, did you get it around here?” I told him I got it at a place on 5th Avenue near 34th Street. You can find ’em anywhere, I said. (I did not say specifically that I got it at one of those cheap tourist t-shirt stores near the Empire State Building.) I was impressed that he stopped to ask and flattered by the attention. A friend of mine later told me the guy just wanted to get into my pants and I should learn to recognize when people are flirting with me. Another friend told me the guy probably knew I got it from some cheap tourist store and was mocking me.

Anyway, you never know what you’re going to get with a random stranger who stops you on the street to ask you about your clothes. And with this woman, we definitely did not know what we had on our hands (apart from dried, sticky, melted ice cream).

“That shirt,” she said. “I have to ask you something. What’s going on here?”

“Well,” Marc said, “Bright Eyes is this band I really like, and —”

“Yeah, I know who Bright Eyes is,” she said. “But what’s this?” She gestured to the figure crouched over a toilet.

“Well,” he said, sort of nervously looking at me, “this guy is throwing up? But he’s throwing up … um … binary code.”

“Uh, huh.” she said. “There’s something I need you to help me understand.”

“Yeah?”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Um… I need you to help me understand something.”

We waited.

“Well, what does it mean?” she asked.

“Um. I don’t know. I just thought it looked cool,” Marc said.

“You did,” she asked, more accusatory than inquisitive, cocking her head. “‘Cause I’m really bothered by this shirt.”

We were both thrown for a moment. Marc stammered. “W-w-what?”

I expected: Where did you get the shirt? or How much was it? Or even, lifting her own up over her head and saying brightly Wanna trade? But not this.

“I need you to help me understand something. I mean, do you think this represents his music?”

“Well,” Marc began. “Actually…” (he paused to think) “yeah. Yeah, I do — ”

Marc knows Bright Eyes. I don’t. So I can’t even remember what he said. But it took about 30 seconds and it sounded reasonable. Nice thinking on your feet, I thought.

But she pressed on. “Do you think he would like this? This ‘throwing up?’ Do you think he would want this to represent his music.” She sounded not exactly belligerent, but was definitely approaching agitated.

Marc just blinked. “Well, I just said — “

“I need you to help me understand something,” she said again, calming herself. In the course of the conversation, she probably said it about five or six times.

Nuts. Just nuts. But she looked so normal. She wasn’t drunk and didn’t appear to be high. She didn’t look like someone who would know where to find drugs anyway. I forget precisely what she was wearing, but let’s say it was a beige cotton skirt or khaki shorts with a simple fitted t-shirt and a pair of flip flops. Late summer wear. She could have been a student. Looked about 23 years old. Asian-American. Glasses. Just utterly normal and unthreatening.

It turns out she assumed Marc had made the shirt. That he was ripping Brights Eyes off by using their identity and misrepresenting them or something. We explained that Marc had indeed not made the shirt and that it was probably sanctioned by Conor Oberst himself long ago. Are you some kind of music industry representative or copyright lawyer? we asked her.

No, just some girl.

She doesn’t even like Bright Eyes, she said.

“Well, then why do you care?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve offended you.”

“What? No! No, nevermind. It’s fine, it’s fine. Just … what do you want?”

“OK, I’ve offended you. Well, that’s all. I’m …. ah … I’m gonna go. Sorry. Thanks.”

And she turned and walked away.

Marc and I waited a bit in silence, watched her get a good block away from us, and we turned and continued walking in the other direction.

15
Dec
05

Mmm-mmm!

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York Minute and Strangers Observed
Tags: ,

Another F train story.

There was a man leaning against the doors one morning who noticed a woman sitting across the car. He walked over to her, placing himself directly behind me (I was standing and holding one of those brushed chrome vertical poles), and began flirting with her mercilessly, talking about how he wanted to marry her, how he’d treat her right, how he’d show her what it meant to be a woman, and other vague, thinly veiled sexual promises. “Mmm-mmm!” he’d say. “Mmm-mmm!.”

She was attractive but totally average-looking, in my opinion. No better-looking than half the women on the train.

She did her best to ignore him, but he did not let up. So, realizing she was not going to look up at him, the guy started to get belligerent.

She buried her attention deeper in the newspaper she had been trying to read. As I glanced around discreetly, I could see that she was clearly distressed. She may have been looking at the paper but she was definitely not reading it. Her eyes were not moving, and she looked nervous.

Then the train stopped in the tunnel somewhere between Roosevelt Avenue and 21st St. All went quiet. There was not even any unintelligible intercom announcement explaining the delay.

The guy started up again. “I work for myself. I’m my own boss,” he said. And “I got me a burger in his bag. I’m saving it for a homeless person.” He has so much money, he said. So much money, he’s going to go to Germany on business.

I can verify that he had a bag in his hand. But as for the rest of it, I can only assume he was … exaggerating the truth.

“I got more than 5 G’s at home, baby. It’s all mine. I’m my own boss. Ain’t no one gone tell me what to do.”

No one was coming to her aid. She didn’t want to cross him; she was scared of him. I did not want to cross him, because he was obviously crazy and not the kind of guy I want to be stuck with on a train in a tunnel.

And then who would come to my rescue? No one.

The train lurched into motion again.

Evidently someone looked at him, because he turned his attention to someone else. “What you looking at?” he snapped. “Fuck you.”

Then he began muttering to no one in particular. “People don’t mind they own god-damn business. What the hell is wrong wit you?” He said some more about Germany and all his money and his happy employment situation. I don’t know who he was talking to. He tried to assail the woman with his charms again, but she was ignoring him.

Then: “You want some money? I got money. I ain’t no fool. I’m my own boss. Here, I’ll give you some money. I don’t need no one.” I presumed he was talking to the person who had distracted him. He dug in his pockets and pulled out some change.

No response.

“Here, god-dammit. Take this god-damn money.”

The change fell to the floor, either rejected or ignored. It was a couple of quarters, by the look of it. The crazy guy stooped to pick it up in a fury. I seriously thought he was going to hit someone.

He then started to rant and philosophize. More of the same story. More about the hamburger. Sighs were audible all around the car.

Then the train stopped at 21st Street. The doors slid open. And the man tossed his change out the door onto the platform, shouting “Hey, world. Here’s some change. Give yourself a wake-up call.”

The woman stood up and left the car. I don’t know if she got back on. The good news is the guy did not leave the car to follow her. The bad news is the guy did not leave the car. Evidently he had business to attend to in Manhattan. And that’s where we went next. He continued talking to people who ignored him. I was desperately hoping he would not approach me. To make sure of it, I also left the car at the next stop, ran forward a few doors, and re-entered the train.

To my annoyance, I discovered I had gotten into the very same car — but at least I was down at the far end from him.

Then, as perfect, perverse luck would have it, he made his way down the car in my direction, leaving a trail of distressed but relieved passengers in his wake. I don’t even know what he was saying to people, because I wasn’t paying attention to the words anymore.

Then he announced. “I’m gone get off this train. I ain’t gone bother nobody no more. Fuck all ya’ll! I got to give this here burger to someone. Somebody need this.”

He got out at the next stop — “fuck all y’all” — shouting all the way.

29
Nov
05

Girls, Girls, Girls

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: New York Minute, People We Don't Like and Strangers Observed
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Anyone who knows teenage girls knows that one of them may, at times, be a challenge. A group of 30, however, is an unstoppable force of nature.

The F train starts out so crowded in Queens that, by the time we hit midtown, I’m grateful for a chance to sit down and stretch out and read as the train deposits its cargo of workers along its southward path. But all that ended abruptly this morning when what I assume was a school group entered at 34th or 23rd Street. Before the doors opened, I could hear a loud roar out in the echoing subway platform. The doors slid open, and a deluge of sound and teenage girls burst forth into the train, filling it instantly.

An amalgam of scented hair product vapors was released into the air, their mild toxins mixing invisibly but undeniably. And I was suddenly scrunched up again, making myself as small as possible and sitting bolt upright — but not against business suits and khakis anymore. This time I was avoiding contact — at all costs — with body-hugging velour track suits (They can wear those things at school?), small-waisted jean jackets, steering-wheel sized hoop earrings, rhinestone-studded belts and teased, crimped hair.

It was an assault on every human sensation, most notably the ears. Together, as if it were a personal goal, they achieved a tremendous volume. Each of their voices augmented the other, and the train car was an impenetrable cacophony.

With each balance-throwing rock of the train carraige, there was a sudden shift of teenage bodies and a rush of giggles. There was a conversation about a boy here, someone’s outfit there, and bursts of laughter all around. Some of them clicked their long fingernails against their cellphone keypads and bleeped.

And they never stopped moving. It was like being trapped in an animated diagram of what happens to mashed potato molecules when microwaves hit them.

I had no choice but to sit and stare and observe. I began to see them as creatures acting as a collective. The actions of a single ant don’t amount to much, but the actions of a colony are really count. It seemed to be these girls’ primary function to make noise (Were they making words or just noise?) and to raise the temperature of the car with their constant motion.

There were two young women in front of me, both in head-to-toe velour; one in pink, one in beige. All curves were revealed. I had no idea girls their age were shaped that way. It was impossible not to look. No matter where my eyes landed on them, I felt dirty. I felt as if I should explain to them: I’m really not interested; you’re just standing so close…

When a woman escaped at West 4th Street, a seat opened up next to me, and the velour twins became human once again. One sat down in the empty seat and, taking her friend’s hand, she drew her near and pulled her down so she was sitting on her lap. It seemed the most unremarkable thing to them. They continued their conversation without interruption. No where else to go, so why not sit on my lap, eh? They were 14. They were friends. They were, simply, girls. And I was no longer annoyed.

You’d never catch teenage boys doing this. Not the straight ones, anyway. And not on the F train. I wondered which one was heavier. Is this one always on top, or do they switch sometimes? Are they sisters? girlfriends? Then I realized that each probably weighed 90 pounds soaking wet, and it was probably much like holding a large purse or backpack on one’s lap.

We hit Broadway/Lafayette, and the doors parted, and I swear we all had to catch our breath from the vacuum created by the mass exit. The squawking did not stop so much as simply shift from one space to another. The doors closed, and again I heard the high rumble of the girls’ voices. Dust settled. The eddies of swirling newspapers and empty coffee cups died down. The train lurched forward. And we were soon in relative silence.

The other passengers were left dazed and bewildered. There were maybe a dozen people left on the train — all happy, I’m sure, to be left with a place to sit and room to breathe. We resumed staring forward. The sudden quietude was eerie. Lonely. Cold.

11
Oct
05

Tóqueme

By Eric Leave a Comment
Categories: Me and Strangers Observed
Tags: ,

It seems to be ingrained in our upbringing that we are not to touch people who are neither family nor friends. Lately I’ve been considering how much of our time we spend not only not touching people, but in fact assiduously avoiding touching people.

(Obviously I’m speaking for myself, but I think this applies to American society at large, so I’ll use generalizations.)

Closeness is a fact of life in a city such as New York. On public transit, especially. We all tend to stop moving when we’re close. We make ourselves small and shut ourselves down. We concentrate on a book. We fade into our iPods. We stare at the floor, the ads, the biceps of the guy standing next to us… If someone touches our foot with their foot, they immediately pull it back and apologize. If someone leans in to check the subway map, we shift to avoid them touching us.

It feels like politeness. It looks like politeness. But I think there’s something else there. It seems protective — or defensive. Motivated by Fear? Disapproval? Disgust? Where some folks are concerned, yes, definitely, all of the above. But for the run-of-the-mill strap-hanger, what gives? Is it that famous American spirit of independence we’re always congratulating ourselves on? There’s a sort of coldness in this avoidance of contact, this willful ignorance of everyone around us. It’s sort of sad and lonely. Solitary. Isolationist.

Usually when someone presses against me, I move to accommodate them if I can. But sometimes when there’s an accidental connection, I like to not move — to feel the heat of someone else’s leg through their pants and yours — just to see what happens. It can be kind of exciting. Accidental intimacy. This person would not touch me on purpose, but here we are trading body heat. And who’s the one not pulling away? Me or her?

Sometimes when I’m gripping a pole in the subway car, and someone leans their body against the pole and covers my fingers with their back or their arm, I’ll leave my hand there. I want them to feel that I’m there, that I can’t be erased, and that if they’re uncomfortable, they can move back, but I’m staying put. Sometimes I swear they just don’t feel me there.

It’s my experience that co-workers are especially careful not to touch each other. When we do touch, it feels weird to me. It sounds little alarms in my head. Handshakes? Fine. They’re supposed to happen. I don’t even think about them. But if someone puts a hand on my shoulder — whoah! If someone returns a dollar they borrowed at lunch time, and their hand touches mine — eek! If someone puts their hand on my arm when they’re talking to me — ooh, I could just shudder. And if someone removes a piece of lint from my cheek … I dare not continune.

There was a guy I used to work with who, every once in a while, would give my back a pat or very briefly rub a shoulder or even put an arm around me. It always totally arrested me, a reaction I think (I hope!) is imperceptible. A second later, though, I calm myself. No big deal. Actually, this is kind of nice.

He’s straight. It never occurred to me to take it as anything other than what it appeared to be. Why should I? He thought nothing of it. It was natural and unplanned and meaningless to him. But to me it signified so much more.

I’ve noticed that straight guys communicate with other straight guys with touch like gay guys communicate through touch, but in different ways. Watch straight guys at the bar. Watch them in front of Monday Night Football on TV. Watch them wrestle each other for no reason.

When this guy would touch me in any way other than a handshake, it felt like he was doing something highly unusual. Not wrong or even uncomfortable — just vaguely alarming. Maybe I’ve grown to see that sort of touch as a signal of something else, and when’t not actually, my brain spins a couple times. I don’t know.

All I know is it would wake me up. Every single time it underscored how little I touch the people around me every day — familiar people; friends. I’m always there, but I’m never there. And those meaningless gestures encourage me not to be afraid to hug someone, slap someone on the back, touch someone’s face, touch someone’s arm, grab someone by the back of the neck — whatever.

08
Sep
05

Fat Woman in Black

By Eric 1 Comment
Categories: Strangers Observed
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I saw an enormous woman on the F train today. She was as round as a gourd. Her arms hung from her body at 45 degrees. She was very neat and almost angular, despite her evident softness — very clean and almost sharp. She wore clean black sneakers — her after-work shoes, I guessed — black tights and a black skirt that stretched across her legs and waist. It didn’t stretch in an uncomfortable-looking way.

Thank god she wears her size, I thought. I hoped it was out of sensibility and pride rather than resignation. Whatever the reason, it’s better than squeezing into something she’d spend the rest of the day spilling out of.

The only bit of color she wore was a lime green top, sleeveless, I would imagine, over which she wore a black jacket. Simple earrings. A bracelet or two. A neat hairdo, piled casually on top of her head.

She was totally captivating. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was beautiful and terrible. It was like examining something you see all the time — just a stranger on the train — something that all of a sudden looks totally foreign and reveals things you never think of otherwise.

I make up stories about people like this in my head. What’s her name? Where is she coming from and where is she going? How old is she? Where did she grow up? What is she reading? Is she covering her face with it hat newspaper? Who gave her that watch? Did she have a good day? Where does she work?

The most arresting thing about her was her face. Her face was swollen but very soft-looking and smooth. It was like a lump of ice cream sliding out of a cone. She had gorgeous, radiant skin. And she wore so much make up, very well applied, that the blush on her cheeks and the illusive shapes and contours she gave herself made her look severe and angry. Her face was a blank canvas shaped with color and shadow. Did it thin her out, or was it merely her style? What would she look like out of make-up?

Her eyeshadow was very dark. Black. No, almost black. I imagined she gets some happiness from knowing that it’s really a dark blue — even though people must surely think it’s black. Like a little trick she plays on the rest of the world. Like a secret.

Her fingernails were meticulous and done in a French manicure. Did she attend a wedding last weekend? Was she a bridesmaid? How big her dress must have been! I hoped it wasn’t one of those ruffled taffeta numbers. I hoped it wasn’t a bright color. I imagined she’s very picky about what she wears — and knows well by now what flatters her figure and what does not.

She takes such good care of herself, I thought. She clearly cares about her appearance. Why is she so fat?

I imagined her feet must hurt. Her shoes didn’t have laces. Just something that slips on and off. Something easy. Can she even touch her feet? She should sit down in the subway car, I thought.

She was reading a magazine. And she kept raiding it to cover her face. Like she was about to sneeze. Like she was hiding from something.

I have this perverse notion when I see a really fat person eating ice cream or a piece of cake, that he or she is very unhappy. That she hates every lick. Or that he puts every bite out of his mind and ignores that little voice on his shoulder.

Maybe it’s the one treat a month he allows himself. Maybe she’s just decided to start a diet.

Or maybe she’s happy with herself. Maybe I’m the freak for thinking so much about it. Maybe someone loves her. Maybe she loves herself.

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the untallied hours