The sun is making an appearance after weeks of rain. Since I no longer have to dress appropriately for work - the firm I have been with for over five years is breathing its last breath - I throw on a sundress, a ridiculous pair of platforms, and scrub my face until it's rosy and fresh. No make-up. No hair taming. No protection against the world.
I've been in a funk lately - so much uncertainty and so many big decisions have left me feeling unsettled and anxious. I am not as adaptable as I once was. I've been holding my breath, steeling myself against unknown harm, battling confusion and dread.
Out in the sun, I feel my body relax. It's good to be alive, walking along my block, greeting the old Yemeni shopkeeper whom I adore.
"Good morning, my friend," he calls, popping his head out from the door. He is unfailingly courtly and polite. "How is my friend?"
"I am fine, my friend." I say it because it is true, and because it is part of our routine.
"And how is my friend?" he asks, referring to Fauxhawk.
"Still not smoking!" I say, and walk on by.
The subway is always a struggle, despite several patent-pending methods to ensure that I get a seat. Today I am out of luck. I stand holding the rail next to a mostly toothless Vietnam vet who looks remarkably like Iggy Pop without the (dubious) sex appeal. I catch him looking me up and down in a clinical, dispassionate way.
"What happened to your arm?" he says, leaning in a bit too close.
"I burned it on the oven."
"Battle scars!" Iggy seems very excited by this idea; his light blue eyes light up. I wonder about his battle scars and how many of them are visible.
"Yes, I think the oven won."
He is genuinely concerned. "It looks bad."
I agree, hoping for a break in the conversation so I can go back to reading The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake. But Iggy wants to shoot the breeze.
"Is that your class ring?" he asks, touching my hand.
"Uh...no. It's my...uh...engagement ring." Suddenly, I feel extraordinarily shy knowing that the people surrounding us are listening to what has become an awkward situation.
"Well, that's nice, isn't it? Love is in the air! But all the good ones are taken." Wink, wink.
I don't know what to say. I am flustered and embarrassed and turning the color of eggplant. But Iggy is unfazed.
"What do you do?" he asks.
"You know, I don't really know. I don't know what I do."
"Well, you go on, pretty little thing," he says gently, turning to me. I feel as though he means it - as though he is wishing me well as I fumble my way through this new stage in my life. I am oddly touched.
And then, ever so delicately, he pats my bottom and leaves the train.
Sometimes sexual harassment is kind of wonderful.
Shelley Duvall via Suicide Blonde.
