|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
By Maura Madden
Okay, so I know it's not nice to stare or to eavesdrop. It is rude. In most places, like Minnesota, you're probably shunned for it.Ê And that's bad. But in New York, you might not be shunned, but you can get yourself into serious trouble. Trouble of the "What are you looking at, punk?" variety. But the city offers such a consistently delicious feast of eye and ear candy that I just can't help myself. I stare and I eavesdrop all the time, with little or no shame. And I know I'm going to get my ass kicked, but what can I say? I'm an addict. I want to chomp on the visions and the dialogues that are presented to me in a constant stream of stimulus.
Everybody's got a hungry heart, and I feel like I'm starving.
The subway, of course, is the best. But rush hour, though it affords you the highest number of visuals treats, is not the most delicious voyeuristic meal. It's all about the quantity, and baby, I'm all about qua-lee-tah. The rush hour commute is so saturated it seems almost impossible to sift through the masses to find the person worth staring at. I prefer the subway at off-peak times, when you can sit far enough away from someone that it seems like you're not paying attention, but you've actually got a great view.
But I take my pleasure everywhere - in crowded bars, on line at grocery stores, even walking down the street on a sunny afternoon. I'm not above trailing people if I think their story will be worth telling. And if I think they won't notice me. I'm not worried if I decide to get on the same subway car as two late-teenage ravers on their way home after an all night party, tribal necklaces stained with sweat like their soaked-through Pokemon t-shirts. They're so caught up in their own world they won't even notice I'm there as they pull out cheesy flyers for future raves, trying to decide which ones are cool enough to put up on their walls and which ones are too "gay." And I'll read what people are reading over their shoulders, or glance at what they're writing as I hover above them: "Who invented the first backpack? And was it called a backpack or a rumpsack? I wonder what coler it was," scribbles a fourth grade Park Slope child on her way to a Brooklyn Heights elementary school. She is dressed in a fake fur coat and wearing her own Harry Potter backpack. She catches me reading her upside-down reflections, but I flash a look that says, "Of course I wasn't reading your diary!"
The only time I can refrain from staring is in the presence of a celebrity. Ethan Hawke and Sarah Silverman's showing up at my friend's bar is enough to make me turn around and walk right out the door, leaving my drink untouched. There is a sense of pride I feel in not staring at celebrities - not privileging their mannerisms or familiar visual presence above anyone else's. But it's not that I don't want to stare. I'd like nothing more than to fixate on their actions and words. Their presence is a filling in a story I already know, so it's the reverse of the usual pleasure. But I've got my dignity, and I'm not about to feed their necessarily large egos by giving them the honor of a lingering stare. Besides, they're already known to me, so I can be satisfied with their live Polaroid presence. What really peaks my interest is uncharted territory.
I'm looking for the back-stories. If I see a tattoo peeking out from under a jacket, I want to see the whole arm's worth - examine the colors and contours for clues into their meaning. I want to hear the complete orchestration of the song whose bass line is seeping from nearby headphones - I don't want the tune hampered by the electronic earmuffs. I want to know if the woman sitting beside me reads the Bible every morning for inspiration or if she brought out the big guns today to give her courage in a time of great personal crisis. And what I can't find out in the moment, I make up later as I go along.
So New York makes me feel like I'm drunk in a delicatessen and I just found a twenty dollar bill - there's plenty to choose from, I want it all, and I can have most of it before I get sick or run out of cash. So the city-as-deli offers a selection of treats that call out to me saying, "Stare at my white-boy afro!", "Gaze upon my tear-stained face!", "Wonder at my red lamee jogging suit!", "Marvel at my furry cowboy hat!"
It's hard to convince yourself not to indulge in something. So I do, every day I do, and I can't seem to stop myself. I just have to hope I won't regret it in the morning.
|
|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
