eyes over a crowded city

mini rant from a girl in new york

I am wedged against the brick wall of a CVS. Trapped, I have three options: forward, back, stop. Left is out of the question because, well, the wall. Right is out because of the man beside me, mirroring my pace and shouting in a fit of rage.

WHAT AM I GONNA SAY?! TELL ME! WHAT AM I GONNA SAY?!

---

I am often stopped on the streets of New York by a man who is out of breath. He’ll come running out of nowhere, sprinting to catch up before pivoting and jogging backward like a college tour guide who has just slipped his second Adderall. He’ll flash a sheepish wave.

Hey! He’ll say. Hi! Hey!

I’ll crimp a tight smile, exaggerating the plucking of my AirPod, punctuating the disruption to my city flow.

Hi, I’ll give him, curt and withholding.

A moment ago, I was enjoying leisure or an errand, and now I’m staring down a guy who thinks I’m his wife.

Usually, I am underdressed for a meet-cute with destiny. Maybe if I were more sartorially equipped to encounter my soulmate, it wouldn’t feel like such a personal affront. If I were wearing a sundress, or jeans, but instead I am almost always in pajamas, hair unbrushed, strolling to the grocery store in pursuit of a rotisserie chicken. Sometimes, I am with chicken when they arrive, juice (that will soon congeal to chicken slime) pooling against the feeble hot plastic.

Hey! He’ll say again, extending his arm in pause.

I saw you walking and I had to tell you…

Oh…I’ll recoil, looking somewhere else, off into the distance, to the crosswalk, to my chicken.

That’s because the next line is always the same.

I had to tell you…it’s just—you’re exactly my type.

This is where I flatline.

You did all that running. You crossed rivers, you climbed mountains, you sold your last living goat, you slayed an ogre—all to tell me I’m your type? What vestige of chivalry is this? I can’t think of a more bloated and unsavory pick-up line. I’d rather you ask me if it hurt when I fell from heaven. Your type. The words just rot in my mouth.

First—your type? I’m young. I’ve got blonde hair, blue eyes and look decently like a baby. Of course I’m your type! What man would say that isn’t his type?! You guys are systemically designed to hunt down fresh blonde bait like me. It’s mainstream. It also carries an air of pedophilia. You think it’s niche that you’re attracted to me? I’m the Sabrina fucking Carpenter of Manhattan fucking New York!! (don’t fact check that). Saying that pale blonde in gym shorts is your type is like sending me your underground indie playlist and it’s all Tame Impala.

Second—that’s your best line? That’s the best compliment you could come up with? Of all things I could strive to be—important, beautiful, brilliant, the spitting cerebral copy of Kate Berlant—you reduce me to your arbitrary standard of sexual fitness? Who ever said I wanted to be your type? The assumption that I would be flattered by this gnaws at me. It strips me of a certain power. The power to choose whose type I want to be in the first place (preferably a hot masc’s in a PhD program with ample arm tattoos, which is probably the source of all this angst in the first place. Also, baby, where are you? Please come find me).

Of course, I don’t say any of this. Sometimes, I’ll grind out a thank you. If I’m feeling playful, I’ll say I’m a lesbian. Most of the time, I’ll just ignore them and zag the other away.

But that’s most of the time. This time, I’m nearing the back wall of a CVS.

The man has just come running. He spills into hi hello hello hi and eventually I stop. He stops.

I had to tell you—he heaves.

But I’m in a rush this time. Or I’m prepared this time. Or at my limit this time.

No thanks, I’m not interested.

He steps closer.

But, I have to tell you—

I’m not interested, sorry.

He straightens, catching on.

Does this happen to you a lot?

A sardonic laugh escapes me like a fart. I answer honestly.

It does, yeah.

I’m hoping this will repel him, make him feel foolish and cliché. I’m hoping he’ll bow out lest become another victim to the tragic stereotype that befalls all men in SoHo who think I vie for their attention.

I resume walking. He resumes walking. I stop. He stops. I step away from him, toward the wall. He steps toward the wall, probing.

What am I about to say then?

I avoid the question.

I told you. I’m not interested.

I speed up. He speeds up.

Come on! What am I gonna say?

He raises his voice, feigning play with a smile, but his eyes flicker with demand.

Stop. I’m not doing this.

He draws closer, backing me against the brick. I hang my head low, edging along the wall the way a mouse scurries through the kitchen.

WHAT AM I GONNA SAY?! TELL ME! WHAT AM I GONNA SAY?!

I want to bark back. Rattle off all the things I know. Perform the script right at him and watch him shrivel into a derivative raisin. I want to scream. But time is moving too fast and too slow and now I’ve approached the end of the block, where the automatic doors of the CVS envelop me and I find myself tucked in the vestibule. The man groans and shakes his head but does not follow me.

Whatever. I hear him mutter under his breath before he disappears.

I wait. I let the moment pass. Pretty sure I carry on. Pretty sure I go to spin class.

---

Every woman is entitled to her own opinions on this, but I don’t want to be approached by men on the street. I know I shouldn’t blame them. They can’t control where they spot me, their doe-eyed blonde wife-to-be. I’m sure they wish the circumstances were different. I’m sure they wish I wasn’t holding a chicken! It’s now or never, they think. Shoot their shot, or watch me slip away. Watch their wife slip away! It might be unfair how harsh I am, how quick to repudiate a well-meaning gesture of Love. Of love! I know it takes some guts to go up to a pretty girl, and then, there I go, shooting down the man who put his heart on his Abercrombie sleeve. But every time it happens, I am left with a visceral urge to peel out of my skin. It reminds me that I am not entitled to defect from surveillance. That no one is, but particularly not women (or any non-dominant gender). That wherever we go, they are watching us.

Once, I was (stressed) composing a work email from the sidewalk, cramming data inside my tiny phone screen. By the time my body rendered the looming shadow, I darted up and shrieked on impulse. I screamed in broad Manhattan daylight—horror movie style. I went final girl mode.

I locked eyes with a man, so close his feet nearly touched mine. He spat a nervous laugh, shooting his hands up in defense.

Sorry about that! He grinned, before angling toward me to renew the flirty introduction he had planned. I didn’t stick around for the rest. Gentlemen, pro tip: If your cheeky banter makes a girl scream bloody murder, maybe cut your losses and try again on the next damsel.

Time and time again, I feel like I don’t deserve the right to privacy or personal space. That might be a daft request in New York, but I’m merely begging for inches here. I’m asking for an email on the sidewalk, a trip to the grocery store.

I want to live in a city, not an arena.

Worse, one day, it’ll stop. One day, I’ll have no youth and no value and no one will give me the time of day. I’ll be forty-five or sixty or one hundred and two and I’ll long for the years when I meant something. Occasionally it’ll happen. Men will chase me down (more slowly) and say:

Hi! Hello? HELLO? Excuse me—I have to tell you, you’re my type.

And that type is cougar or milf and I am once again consigned to object to woman to thing.

Your type. Ha!

I wish I was the type to let it go.

---

It’s Friday around 10pm and I am rushing to a housewarming in Crown Heights. I chalk concealer under my eyes and sample four pairs of jeans before deciding on the ones I’m already wearing. I lock my apartment, then unlock it, change my tank top, and lock it again.

I descend to the downtown D platform, crossing the portal into the tight pulse of a night out in New York. Everyone is waiting on the taut cusp of some promise or adventure. I’m technically going out too, but not like that.

Dotted along the platform are three clusters of young women—standard girl groups all dressed up, giggly and cool. They’re going out in a real way, to clubs or bars or hotels. Each cluster is aligned in mission but differs in mood, like M&M’s you sort by color to learn fractions. All are strikingly beautiful.

I can’t help but feel kind of enamored by them. Even the sheer numbers and iterations are enough to throw me off balance. Each little bundle is so perfect like its own tableau. I want to know their secrets. Who are they? Where are they going? Do they know each other? Where do they shop? What face wash do they use?

Okay, enough.

I wander away from the huddles slowly, distracted, nearly knocking into two older men as I do. In their late sixties or so, the men are having a conversation, but their bodies cheat out like actors in a play, angled toward the girls. Their placement is strategic, their line of vision obvious. They’re trying so hard to be subtle, but I’ve caught them perched, gawking.

I admit, I notice their calculated gaze because I had approached their corner with the intent of doing the same—seeking discreet refuge, a place to soak in the scene without judgment. The old men sense my presence, looking over at me with inviting eyes, welcoming me into their peep show. I draw back, whipping to face the other platform, curdling in the milk of my shame.

Ah, fuck. We live in a city of pervs.

And I am one of them.

XOXO,

Shelby