I was waiting in line for the restroom. There was pandemonium going on around me as I waited. Little children were running amok with no pants on, women were washing their faces in the sinks, then hogging the space to look at their non existent pimples in the scratched and tagged mirrors. The bathroom was so crowded, even the baby changing station had a queue of poop-filled, diaper wearing, red faced toddlers, who were screaming in their mother's arms; while the parent with the babe on the changing station shouted into her cell phone as she deftly wiped a urine soaked butt.
I watched the progress of the line for the changing station with envy. My line for the stalls was moving much slower. I looked down the long line of black and white flecked plastic doors which ran the length of the cream colored, highway rest-station powder-room. Three of the doors had an "Out of Order" sign hanging on the front that looked like it was written with crayon, mustard, and the blood of a busted mouth (probably from the fight that broke out over who had to clean the tampon stuffed toilet which was now overflowing water into the drain at the center of the room, and rather than deal with it, an improvised sign was smacked on the front).
I watched as the ladies in front of me dodged the pantless children and, like lithe gazelles, leapt for the sound of a toilet flush. No where in the world is a toilet flush a sacred sound, save for the inside of a packed ladies room. Every time the sanctimonious whooshing sound of soiled water being sucked into a filthy sewage pipe hits the air, it's as if a call to the bladder to begin to relax is sounded. A sigh of relief becomes audible every time another woman can take a step forward to await her fate in whatever stall she may be lucky (or unlucky) enough to get after the toilet has drained, and the lock turned, releasing an unassuming woman from its dark and secretive enclave.
There's a gamble when waiting for your turn in the stall. If all the cards fall the right way, then the toilet seat is clear, the floor is dry, there is toilet paper in the dispenser, your lock clicks into place without hassle, and there is no brick-wall-of-shit smell when you first enter. Unfortunately, any one of those things could go wrong, leaving one with the unpleasant task of having to do her duty in circumstances that make relaxation extremely difficult. Not to mention the pressure from every second spent in the stall is another second some other poor schmuck needs to wait to get in.
I was lucky enough to be in and out of my stall with as little harassment as possible, save for the toilet flushing automatically before I was really finished. Aw well, if that's the worst that'll happen, then I'll consider myself lucky. I stepped out to wash my hands. No one can fault me for leaving anything nasty behind me, there was a little wad of TP left behind, but that was harmless.
I watched the next gazelle leap for my stall in the bathroom mirror I was washing up in front of. She read the "Out of Order" sign on the door next to mine and then pushed my door open. She paused, looking in, and considered her options. She looked back at the mustard and blood spattered sign and then back at my stall. What? Is my stall not good enough for you? I found myself thinking. I left that stall in great condition! I wanted to go over and sell that girl my stall: "Look! I wiped the seat! There's no smell! The lock, locks! That wad of toilet paper was the result of an automated pre-flush! That's not my fault! USE THIS ONE I'M NOT FILTHY!"
Instead, I hogged a sink by looking in the mirror and pretended to pop a pimple that wasn't on my face before I got the hell out of there.
Showing posts with label Strangers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Strangers. Show all posts
Monday, May 27, 2013
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Growth to the Extreme!
At 8:30am this morning, I was pushed onto the 7 train and squeezed in with hundreds of other New Yorkers like cows in a slaughterhouse. I walked in huge groups of people, all walking the same speed and direction and with the same neutral expression on their faces down long hundred-foot hallways. I watched as hundreds of people moved along the platforms, almost like schools of fish, on their way up the stairs, down the stairs and onto the trains.
I was so glad I wasn't doing this every day just to get to work, I was a temporary visitor just passing through. It's stressful to be in such tight quarters with so many people, but then having to fight your way to the surface just to go to work? Stress-Fest! Every time a train pulled in it was packed so tight with New Yorkers that I couldn't see the inside of the train from the windows. And as I stood in the middle of an especially large group of commuters, I was in the awkward position of not being able to hold on to any poles, so I simply let the sheer amount of bodies surrounding me on every side hold me up as the train lurched and rattled along the track. I even had a full cup of coffee I sipped, but because the trains were so packed I couldn't lower my arm, so I let the coffee cup rest at my chin.
Simply put: Holy Shit the subway system is over crowded. I can't imagine that what I experienced this morning is healthy or safe! Fire hazards? What a joke! There were so many people that, god forbid, if there was something truly wrong the exits would not be enough to handle the stampede of folks! And even the sidewalks of New York are too small to handle the outflow of people from below!
According to the NYC Dept. of City Planning:
"New York City's population increased from 8,175,133 in April of 2010 to 8,244,910 in July of 2011. This is an increase of 69,777 residents or about 0.85 percent over the 2010 mark. The largest change in the city's population occurred in Brooklyn, increasing by almost 28,000 persons or 1.1 percent, followed by Queens, which registered an increase of 17,126 persons or 0.8 percent. Manhattan also showed a substantial increase of 16,075, which translated into a change of 1 percent. "
Woah.
So, as of 2011 almost 70 thousand people moved to New York. Meaning that one could bet there are even more people now. Manhattan Island is not getting any larger, though. So... maybe that can explain why I feel so packed tight.
To keep my mind off of how miserable that commute was I kept imagining wide open spaces and big old-growth trees... Being a guppy in a massive school of fish is no fun, and the city just gets bigger and bigger! 70 thousand people need a place to live, too! And eat! And work! And, according to the Census bureau New York's population has a good 30% of it in 25-35 age range. So, we're young, too. That also explains why I kept catching the eyes of many tired looking, trendy 20 something's also on their way to work, or, you know, unpaid internships.
I think I'll just stick to the off-peak hours so I can stretch out on the seats of the train car and pretend I'm only one of 20 individuals going to work.
I was so glad I wasn't doing this every day just to get to work, I was a temporary visitor just passing through. It's stressful to be in such tight quarters with so many people, but then having to fight your way to the surface just to go to work? Stress-Fest! Every time a train pulled in it was packed so tight with New Yorkers that I couldn't see the inside of the train from the windows. And as I stood in the middle of an especially large group of commuters, I was in the awkward position of not being able to hold on to any poles, so I simply let the sheer amount of bodies surrounding me on every side hold me up as the train lurched and rattled along the track. I even had a full cup of coffee I sipped, but because the trains were so packed I couldn't lower my arm, so I let the coffee cup rest at my chin.
Simply put: Holy Shit the subway system is over crowded. I can't imagine that what I experienced this morning is healthy or safe! Fire hazards? What a joke! There were so many people that, god forbid, if there was something truly wrong the exits would not be enough to handle the stampede of folks! And even the sidewalks of New York are too small to handle the outflow of people from below!
According to the NYC Dept. of City Planning:
"New York City's population increased from 8,175,133 in April of 2010 to 8,244,910 in July of 2011. This is an increase of 69,777 residents or about 0.85 percent over the 2010 mark. The largest change in the city's population occurred in Brooklyn, increasing by almost 28,000 persons or 1.1 percent, followed by Queens, which registered an increase of 17,126 persons or 0.8 percent. Manhattan also showed a substantial increase of 16,075, which translated into a change of 1 percent. "
Woah.
So, as of 2011 almost 70 thousand people moved to New York. Meaning that one could bet there are even more people now. Manhattan Island is not getting any larger, though. So... maybe that can explain why I feel so packed tight.
To keep my mind off of how miserable that commute was I kept imagining wide open spaces and big old-growth trees... Being a guppy in a massive school of fish is no fun, and the city just gets bigger and bigger! 70 thousand people need a place to live, too! And eat! And work! And, according to the Census bureau New York's population has a good 30% of it in 25-35 age range. So, we're young, too. That also explains why I kept catching the eyes of many tired looking, trendy 20 something's also on their way to work, or, you know, unpaid internships.
I think I'll just stick to the off-peak hours so I can stretch out on the seats of the train car and pretend I'm only one of 20 individuals going to work.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Electro Therapy
I met a guy on the subway last night. Or, rather, he just started talking to me. When he first sat down I thought he was a bum. He was carrying a crate with something wrapped in a garbage bag in it that he propped up between his legs. He was carrying a big gray stained coat and a black back pack stuffed with stuff; it looked heavy. When he sat down next to me I actually considered getting up and walking to another seat. I expected a sour smell to come from his direction and wondered when he might start muttering to himself. He didn't. Instead he muttered to me.
"Sorry to bother you. But, I was curious about the book you are reading." He said, reading over my shoulder.
I looked up from "Drop Dead Healthy" by A.J. Jacobs and showed him the cover of the book. He read it over appraisingly and then said, "You know. I write a website about health. You should check it out."
I looked at the man again. Why did I think he was a bum? The crate could be some tool he needs at his job and maybe the coat is stained because he has kids and they spilled apple juice all over it. The man pulled out a bottle of oil and began to moisturize his hands. The oil smelled citrusy and made me feel comfortable. "Do you have a card?" I asked.
"No, but I'll give you the address." He pulled out a notebook covered in scribbles. He looked like a writer, for sure. I felt stupid at this point. Who was I to judge this guy? He is not only not a bum, he smells downright nice, he was wearing a Yankee hat that looked very trustworthy, and is giving me a web address for his website! I looked over the piece of paper he gave me and smiled. I hoped that maybe he'd read my smile as a: Hey, you're OK, man. When I got off at my stop I wished him a good night. "I hope you check it out!" He called after me as I stepped off. "I will!" I responded.
It turns out his site is an advertisement for electrical shock therapy treatment with a huge banner for NetZero across the top. Did I look like I needed Electro-shock therapy?
I wonder what A.J. Jacobs would think of electro shock therapy. And I wondered again what the crate that man was carrying was full of.
"Sorry to bother you. But, I was curious about the book you are reading." He said, reading over my shoulder.
I looked up from "Drop Dead Healthy" by A.J. Jacobs and showed him the cover of the book. He read it over appraisingly and then said, "You know. I write a website about health. You should check it out."
I looked at the man again. Why did I think he was a bum? The crate could be some tool he needs at his job and maybe the coat is stained because he has kids and they spilled apple juice all over it. The man pulled out a bottle of oil and began to moisturize his hands. The oil smelled citrusy and made me feel comfortable. "Do you have a card?" I asked.
"No, but I'll give you the address." He pulled out a notebook covered in scribbles. He looked like a writer, for sure. I felt stupid at this point. Who was I to judge this guy? He is not only not a bum, he smells downright nice, he was wearing a Yankee hat that looked very trustworthy, and is giving me a web address for his website! I looked over the piece of paper he gave me and smiled. I hoped that maybe he'd read my smile as a: Hey, you're OK, man. When I got off at my stop I wished him a good night. "I hope you check it out!" He called after me as I stepped off. "I will!" I responded.
It turns out his site is an advertisement for electrical shock therapy treatment with a huge banner for NetZero across the top. Did I look like I needed Electro-shock therapy?
I wonder what A.J. Jacobs would think of electro shock therapy. And I wondered again what the crate that man was carrying was full of.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
A Canvas Created For Me To Screw With
My shared table at Starbucks consisted of Ortiz, the cop on her break flicking her finger on the screen of her phone as she wistfully stares at the window and listens to whatever music she has on in her earbuds. The blonde, sitting next to Ortiz, is eating a Biscotti and reading the Thursday Style section of the Times. Bob, the regular who comes to my cabaret and reads poetry at the Open Mic every other Friday, is sitting with his small alarm clock placed in front of him and is searching for a muse as he writes his next poem in long hand using a blue ball point pen and blank printing paper. The guy to my left, Tom, is a tourist. Tom looks like he might be French as all of his maps are in French. He looks up from his NYC Guide Book from time to time and takes a sip of his very sugary fuck-it-I'm-on-vacation frappuccino.
I'm sitting at the head of the table and recording this moment, because it's a really cool moment. I think this is a great example of a blank canvas happening at the modern Day-Time pub of New York. These people are here to sit down to take a breather, and when they are here doing that, it becomes a bigger moment than just a "breather." I look at it and think: how would one totally screw with this moment and make it funny or poignant or sad or crazy?
Bob's tracing the outline of his lips as he thinks of his next line. The Blonde is surreptitiously checking out the people coming in and out of the entrance before going back to reading the next article. Ortiz has her hands on her head and looks annoyed as she reads the next text. Tom's friend just sat down from a visit to the bathroom and the two are talking excitedly in french as the next destination is made and the map is consulted. I'm sipping my latte and feeling like a fly on the wall.
What would happen if I suddenly snapped and jumped up on the table and did a dance? What if I stood up and threw my hands to the ceiling and just opened my lips and sang the loudest version of "Fuck Her Gently" by Tenacious D? This moment right now as I write this, this incredibly common and delicate moment, is a result of everyone sitting at this table and trusting that for just a minute they don't have to deal with the threat of something outlandish like that happening like it could (and would) happen out there on the other side of the glass of the Starbucks store front. We all rented our seats at this table, we all bought our 3-5 dollar drinks and decided to park our butts here so we can avoid the crazy.
I'm smiling just thinking about what it would be like to laugh hysterically and then start playing "The Floor is Lava" with the whole cafe. I don't think anyone would be very appreciative of that, I may get a couple polite laughs and a few smiles, but this is not where that moment would happen.
And yet another reason for loving improv. If this were a scene, I could be that crazy person and my entire team would jump up on that table and dance like crazy people, too. I can mock that preciously common and fragile moment of all of these strangers sitting at a Starbucks table. And as a result of these thoughts, I'm loving the power of knowing I could destroy the moment in a frenzy of song and dance, but deciding instead to write about it and just exist here as a player in the tableau of this scene.
I'm sitting at the head of the table and recording this moment, because it's a really cool moment. I think this is a great example of a blank canvas happening at the modern Day-Time pub of New York. These people are here to sit down to take a breather, and when they are here doing that, it becomes a bigger moment than just a "breather." I look at it and think: how would one totally screw with this moment and make it funny or poignant or sad or crazy?
Bob's tracing the outline of his lips as he thinks of his next line. The Blonde is surreptitiously checking out the people coming in and out of the entrance before going back to reading the next article. Ortiz has her hands on her head and looks annoyed as she reads the next text. Tom's friend just sat down from a visit to the bathroom and the two are talking excitedly in french as the next destination is made and the map is consulted. I'm sipping my latte and feeling like a fly on the wall.
What would happen if I suddenly snapped and jumped up on the table and did a dance? What if I stood up and threw my hands to the ceiling and just opened my lips and sang the loudest version of "Fuck Her Gently" by Tenacious D? This moment right now as I write this, this incredibly common and delicate moment, is a result of everyone sitting at this table and trusting that for just a minute they don't have to deal with the threat of something outlandish like that happening like it could (and would) happen out there on the other side of the glass of the Starbucks store front. We all rented our seats at this table, we all bought our 3-5 dollar drinks and decided to park our butts here so we can avoid the crazy.
I'm smiling just thinking about what it would be like to laugh hysterically and then start playing "The Floor is Lava" with the whole cafe. I don't think anyone would be very appreciative of that, I may get a couple polite laughs and a few smiles, but this is not where that moment would happen.
And yet another reason for loving improv. If this were a scene, I could be that crazy person and my entire team would jump up on that table and dance like crazy people, too. I can mock that preciously common and fragile moment of all of these strangers sitting at a Starbucks table. And as a result of these thoughts, I'm loving the power of knowing I could destroy the moment in a frenzy of song and dance, but deciding instead to write about it and just exist here as a player in the tableau of this scene.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Girl Walks In To A Bar...
She's looking to learn something, maybe. Or, she's bored. Or, she's heard great things about this bar and figured she would try it out. She sits down at a stool and looks at the menu written in chalk on the board. That beer looks good, that scotch looks yummy, etc, etc.
A Second girl walks in to the same bar. This girl looks very similar to the first. She's a brunette, pretty, with big brown eyes, just like the first Girl. She too decided for whatever reason to come to this bar and see what the hype was all about. She walks over to the stools and stops. Wait a minute. I know that girl. The 2nd brunette says to herself as she watches the first brunette go over the menu written in chalk on the wall.
Suddenly, an evening that was supposed to be a no-brainer, became a super-brainer.
The Second Girl sits as far away from the First Girl as possible so as to avoid being seen. She picks up a food menu that is sitting on the old wooden dinged up bar top and pretends to be engrossed with the appetizers, but is actually stealing glances at the 1st girl who has just ordered a bourbon (Girl #2's favorite bourbon, as a matter of fact). Now, why should Girl #2 be so thrown off by the first brunette who came in and sat down? What is the reason to send this otherwise ordinary night into a frenzied anxiety attack?
Girl #2 knows Girl #1, but they've never met. It's just that Girl #2 has heard a lot of stories about Girl #1and the second brunette is pretty sure that the first brunette probably has heard of her as well. Tricky? But wait! There's more! These two girls know each other because they have slept with the same manipulative bastard of a guy!! Uh oh. Hold on a minute, though. There's got to be more to the story, right? Oy, yes. Girl #1 dated the guy for years. They broke up, and the guy went and told Girl #2 that he was oh so heart broken and that he could never get back with Girl #1 again, and wouldn't Girl #2 take pity on him and fall into his bed with him and they can live happily ever after? Girl #2 stupidly obliged the offer.
Once Girl #2 spent weeks on the phone with this woman-eating asshole trying to get the guy from dramatically deleting all photos of his previous relationship, and talking him down from acting like a crazy person, the guy suddenly disappeared. Only to resurface again and state that he was back together with Girl #1, but beseeched Girl #2 to please keep her mouth shut about the fact that he had slept with her a number of times because he didn't want Girl #1 to know the full extent of what had happened.
Girl #2 was angry! Actually: beyond angry! She was horribly depressed! She felt used. She felt low and dirty and unworthy. It was a rough summer. She promised herself she would never speak to that guy again and stuck to that promise even after he came crawling back on his knees and begged. Nope. Fuck off.
But, here the two were. Girl #2 didn't know what to do. To what extent did Girl #1 know of the 2nd brunette? What was the etiquette of broaching the subject? Should Girl #2 just ignore Girl #1 and pretend she didn't see her? Or, should she say something?
Girl #2 inched closer to Girl #1. They both really did have a lot in common. Girl #2 felt embarrassed by how much they had in common. Seems that guy liked a certain type, that's for sure...
"Um. Hi. Do you know me?" Girl #2 asked.
"Oh my god. Yes." Girl #1 responded, her eyes getting wide.
The 1st Girl sat holding her bourbon looking agog. The 2nd Girl stood behind the bar stool looking awkward and wishing she was holding a bourbon. Nothing more was said. The two stood and looked at each other for a while, as if what someone seeing a mythical creature they had only heard in legends would look like if that creature suddenly showed up at the bar you decided to drink at that night.
The two girls were still looking at each other at the bar as the scene fades out. There were no more words exchanged... yet. But, somewhere the Guy just woke up in a cold sweat as the nightmare he just dreamt unfolded into a reality.
Oh, Shit. They've met each other...
A Second girl walks in to the same bar. This girl looks very similar to the first. She's a brunette, pretty, with big brown eyes, just like the first Girl. She too decided for whatever reason to come to this bar and see what the hype was all about. She walks over to the stools and stops. Wait a minute. I know that girl. The 2nd brunette says to herself as she watches the first brunette go over the menu written in chalk on the wall.
Suddenly, an evening that was supposed to be a no-brainer, became a super-brainer.
The Second Girl sits as far away from the First Girl as possible so as to avoid being seen. She picks up a food menu that is sitting on the old wooden dinged up bar top and pretends to be engrossed with the appetizers, but is actually stealing glances at the 1st girl who has just ordered a bourbon (Girl #2's favorite bourbon, as a matter of fact). Now, why should Girl #2 be so thrown off by the first brunette who came in and sat down? What is the reason to send this otherwise ordinary night into a frenzied anxiety attack?
Girl #2 knows Girl #1, but they've never met. It's just that Girl #2 has heard a lot of stories about Girl #1and the second brunette is pretty sure that the first brunette probably has heard of her as well. Tricky? But wait! There's more! These two girls know each other because they have slept with the same manipulative bastard of a guy!! Uh oh. Hold on a minute, though. There's got to be more to the story, right? Oy, yes. Girl #1 dated the guy for years. They broke up, and the guy went and told Girl #2 that he was oh so heart broken and that he could never get back with Girl #1 again, and wouldn't Girl #2 take pity on him and fall into his bed with him and they can live happily ever after? Girl #2 stupidly obliged the offer.
Once Girl #2 spent weeks on the phone with this woman-eating asshole trying to get the guy from dramatically deleting all photos of his previous relationship, and talking him down from acting like a crazy person, the guy suddenly disappeared. Only to resurface again and state that he was back together with Girl #1, but beseeched Girl #2 to please keep her mouth shut about the fact that he had slept with her a number of times because he didn't want Girl #1 to know the full extent of what had happened.
Girl #2 was angry! Actually: beyond angry! She was horribly depressed! She felt used. She felt low and dirty and unworthy. It was a rough summer. She promised herself she would never speak to that guy again and stuck to that promise even after he came crawling back on his knees and begged. Nope. Fuck off.
But, here the two were. Girl #2 didn't know what to do. To what extent did Girl #1 know of the 2nd brunette? What was the etiquette of broaching the subject? Should Girl #2 just ignore Girl #1 and pretend she didn't see her? Or, should she say something?
Girl #2 inched closer to Girl #1. They both really did have a lot in common. Girl #2 felt embarrassed by how much they had in common. Seems that guy liked a certain type, that's for sure...
"Um. Hi. Do you know me?" Girl #2 asked.
"Oh my god. Yes." Girl #1 responded, her eyes getting wide.
The 1st Girl sat holding her bourbon looking agog. The 2nd Girl stood behind the bar stool looking awkward and wishing she was holding a bourbon. Nothing more was said. The two stood and looked at each other for a while, as if what someone seeing a mythical creature they had only heard in legends would look like if that creature suddenly showed up at the bar you decided to drink at that night.
The two girls were still looking at each other at the bar as the scene fades out. There were no more words exchanged... yet. But, somewhere the Guy just woke up in a cold sweat as the nightmare he just dreamt unfolded into a reality.
Oh, Shit. They've met each other...
Friday, September 28, 2012
Feeling Stoopy
Crowded subway. It's rush hour. I'm still groggy from the nap I woke up from. I think I dragged my butt in to work in just about the slowest "get-ready-and-go" I have ever done in 15 minutes. At least, I felt slow when I reached for the conditioner for a second time in the shower and only after lathering it in realized I had already done that step. D'oh!
So, anyway, crowded subway... I'm too "stoopy" [Stoopy: (Stoo-py) A word used to describe the groggy or, in cases of Natalie's family, utter lack of brain function when awaking from a long nap.] to take out my book or put on my head phones and listen to Maroon 5 again, so I let my eyes wander.
Oh, the crotches one sees on the subway. Have we all noticed this and not said anything? Am I coming into an awakening I've never had before? Sitting on a train in New York directly positions the person sitting to have their face almost exactly at the same height as the crotch of the person standing. I suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed. I tried to dart my eyes down and instead found them resting on the package on an enormous Pakistani man sitting across from me wearing jeans that were far too small for him, so his incredible girth was spilling out and over the confines of the denim, revealing a very dark and hairy under belly that I cringed to look at. I glanced up and noticed he had noticed I was staring. I quickly feigned boredom and picked at my nails.
Cut to: crowded passageway on my walk from the 7 to the BDFM trains that span the length of an avenue block in New York. It's a nice tunnel, well lit, there are murals on the walls, and every now and then there are weird quotes that don't seem to really make a whole lot of sense to me. Every time I walk past "Gutta Cavat Lapidem" I repeat the mantra to myself like it's a secret code only I know. So, I'm walking down the passageway and again, my eyes begin to wander. There are so many people in that passage! Everyone is tall and short and fat and thin and male and female all at once! Sometimes, I need to look at my hands to remind myself that I am indeed a human and not a sheep, because falling in line with the throng makes me lose all sense of individuality (I guess this is why I am always listening to music when going to work). I start to analyze what everyone is wearing: "Nice boots, I'd wear those!" and "Terrible shirt" and "Is that a man? or a woman?" Yet, as each person passes me and goes on their way, there is a short moment of eye contact, and then we both look away.
Ahhh... There is it: Eye contact! The only way to not have that walk become a triviality and mind-numbing parade of faceless humans. But, watching all these people watch me made me feel like I was suddenly held together by a bunch of blocks of wood. What am I wearing? I feel so stupid in these pants, I feel like everyone behind me is getting a good look at my butt and everyone passing me can see the shape of my boobs and I feel like I could scream! I took deep calming breathes. I even made up a poem in my head.
It's times like these when I really need to stand in a field of wide openness and just let the wind pull back my hair and the sun burn my arms and the grass tickle my feet.
"Gutta Cavat Lapidem:" A water drop hollows a stone.
Who is getting hollowed? Me? Or the City?
I need another nap.
So, anyway, crowded subway... I'm too "stoopy" [Stoopy: (Stoo-py) A word used to describe the groggy or, in cases of Natalie's family, utter lack of brain function when awaking from a long nap.] to take out my book or put on my head phones and listen to Maroon 5 again, so I let my eyes wander.
Oh, the crotches one sees on the subway. Have we all noticed this and not said anything? Am I coming into an awakening I've never had before? Sitting on a train in New York directly positions the person sitting to have their face almost exactly at the same height as the crotch of the person standing. I suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed. I tried to dart my eyes down and instead found them resting on the package on an enormous Pakistani man sitting across from me wearing jeans that were far too small for him, so his incredible girth was spilling out and over the confines of the denim, revealing a very dark and hairy under belly that I cringed to look at. I glanced up and noticed he had noticed I was staring. I quickly feigned boredom and picked at my nails.
Cut to: crowded passageway on my walk from the 7 to the BDFM trains that span the length of an avenue block in New York. It's a nice tunnel, well lit, there are murals on the walls, and every now and then there are weird quotes that don't seem to really make a whole lot of sense to me. Every time I walk past "Gutta Cavat Lapidem" I repeat the mantra to myself like it's a secret code only I know. So, I'm walking down the passageway and again, my eyes begin to wander. There are so many people in that passage! Everyone is tall and short and fat and thin and male and female all at once! Sometimes, I need to look at my hands to remind myself that I am indeed a human and not a sheep, because falling in line with the throng makes me lose all sense of individuality (I guess this is why I am always listening to music when going to work). I start to analyze what everyone is wearing: "Nice boots, I'd wear those!" and "Terrible shirt" and "Is that a man? or a woman?" Yet, as each person passes me and goes on their way, there is a short moment of eye contact, and then we both look away.
Ahhh... There is it: Eye contact! The only way to not have that walk become a triviality and mind-numbing parade of faceless humans. But, watching all these people watch me made me feel like I was suddenly held together by a bunch of blocks of wood. What am I wearing? I feel so stupid in these pants, I feel like everyone behind me is getting a good look at my butt and everyone passing me can see the shape of my boobs and I feel like I could scream! I took deep calming breathes. I even made up a poem in my head.
It's times like these when I really need to stand in a field of wide openness and just let the wind pull back my hair and the sun burn my arms and the grass tickle my feet.
"Gutta Cavat Lapidem:" A water drop hollows a stone.
Who is getting hollowed? Me? Or the City?
I need another nap.
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