The Singer

After just a few days of living in Washington Heights, I came up with a basic rule that is now second nature: eye contact is bad. Actually, it's a little more complicated than that.

I do not make eye contact with most men in my neighborhood. The Yeshiva kids are largely exempt from this rule, if only because it's impossible to be too obnoxious while wearing a yarmulke. Hell, I've never even had to say "Back off or I'm calling your mother," but I'm 99% positive that it would work like a charm if I ever did.

Also in the "safe" category are men with small children, and anyone whose clothing would be appropriate in a Midtown law firm. On the other hand, any male wearing one of those puffy coats will be strictly ignored. This is because (although Mary will be skeptical) this rule is not about race; it's about culture. And the men around here who have bought into the dominant local culture are aggressive.

A lovely Southern woman I know who moved here and did not know this ended up terrified of the hallways in her own building after she made one minute of small talk with a man who lived there, who then got really creepy and insistent that she come in to his place and "get more comfortable." And some of the things that I hear from guys on the street are just obscene, and no one endears himself to me by jutting his chin out and staring as we pass each other, especially when he turns his head as we do so that it's about six inches from my face. Which happens far more often than you would imagine.

My personal understanding of what it means to be "polite" would triple the time (at least) that it takes me to walk to the subway, and would probably result in being followed a lot, if not outright stalked. My version of minimally "polite" (smiling when smiled at; responding to greetings in kind) is not appropriate in my neighborhood, at least not with the men.

So no eye contact; no change of expression.

Last night, the flaw in my plan was exposed: it only works for brief encounters.

As I left the subway station, I heard this guy singing to himself. Since I had to call Mary, I wasn't thinking much about it, until he drew even with me and began singing to me. He kept pace for four blocks, and I tried to keep up a normal conversation (although I did wish we were talking about something a little less silly than making plans and sharing gossip).

It quickly got ridiculous. I cannot describe how difficult it was to keep a straight face, especially when Mary suddenly asked, "Who is that singing?"

"I'm not talking about that," I said, hoping that would suffice.

"Okay, but there is someone, right? I'm not just making that up?"

"There really is."

"You're running up your minutes," the guy stopped singing long enough to inform me.

"Mobile-to-mobile" shot out of the side of my mouth, and although I tried to go right back to telling Mary that I wasn't sure if Elena would be up for a group thing on Friday but that I would totally let her know, my cover was blown.

Fortunately, my singer was, as his approach suggests, a bit unusual. When I paused to tell him a bit about Nick and my feelings on monogamy, compliment his singing voice, and firmly wish him goodnight, he did not exactly go gracefully, but his protestations were all made with a sense of humor, and he did go.

I do think, though, that this will make a lovely "How-We-Met" story for him and some single girl someday. It may take an awful lot of singing to strangers first, though....