Friday, June 06, 2003

SLOW ON THE UPTAKE Do

SLOW ON THE UPTAKE

Do you ever get the sense that people are looking at you?  On my way home last night, after a tedious and repetitiverich and fulfilling day, I crammed my little cap on my head, put on my good ol’ fleecy cord coat and my shoulder bag, and headed out to the bus station.  On the way there, I kept thinking I saw people looking at me.  Not in angry or aggressive ways - they seemed to be smiling shyly and turning away discretely.  Two strangers said “hi” to me as I passed them on my three-block walk to the bus.  The bus was crowded; as I sat in my usual seat the vehicle filled up with people and as my eye scanned the crowd and caught theirs, many of them still seemed to be looking at me.  I was getting a bit unnerved - I kept checking to see if my hat was on askew, if my shirt was inside out, my fly open, anything that could have explained the attention I felt I was receiving.  I almost asked the very pretty woman sitting across from me in the tight jeans and leather coat who was reading the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, but the cat, as it were, got my tongue.  But several times I looked up from my writing pad to see her eyes trained in my general direction; each time she looked away, occasionally with a faint smile, never with the rancid scowl of a person trying to discourage unwanted attention.  I felt very self-conscious.  Checking myself in a mirror when I got home, I found no pen marks on my face, no obvious sartorial errors… I am still at a loss.

However, it puts me in mind of an experience I had a few weeks ago....

That evening I found myself at a bus stop at the intersection of Uptown and Scummyville, where innumerable tourists search their maps and guidebooks and gawk at hookers, junkies, aggressive panhandlers and alienated youth of every description.  The sky was murky; I wore dark clothes and maybe a little sneer to keep the lost souls at bay.  I stood in the gathering darkness, watching traffic and counting the change in my pocket by feel.  And I waited for the bus.

The traffic light turned from red to green and back again, and the cars stacked up in front of me and then scurried away like spawning salmon, the traffic cycling monotonously, world without end.  And so it came to pass that I found stopped before me, waiting for a greenie, a particular vehicle.  A pickup.  Dakota, green, tricked and shiny.  It had the mag wheels, the pretty pinstripes, the smoked windows and deluxe interior.  And the big guy. 

I couldn’t tell how big he was since he was sitting in the car, but clearly weight was not proportionate to height.  His gut bulged enormously, crowded the steering wheel.  His neck swallowed his chin and his eyes peered at me over corpulent cheeks like marbles in lard. 

Peered at me.  The smoked passenger window slid smoothly down.  I didn’t move.  Neither did he.  He just watched me, impassive and massive.  His big truck rumbled quietly at my feet.  Our eyes were locked.  My jaw was clamped and my brow was lowered; the messenger bag strap over my shoulder bulged like a bandolier across my chest, cut hard back against my lats on the other side.  My posture was erect.  My shoulders bunched involuntarily, protectively.  I hooked a thumb under the strap.  The light changed.  The lead cars crept, rolled, accellerated forward.  Without shifting his gaze from me he rolled up his passenger window; then he returned his attention to the road and drove off into the night. 

I was already on my bus before I realized he’d been trying to pick me up. 

Moral: If you want something, ask for it.  You may not get satisfaction but at least people will know where you stand.  Especially if you’re sitting down.