*I wrote this during my last semester of college. I called this “The Ambiance of Negligence.” You’d think with a title like that, I’d be writing about the need for NYC public school reform or a terrible dive with roaches that is still a popular eating establishment. No. I was just being haughty and contemplative.
It started with a dream.
I walked through the crowded East Mall weaving in and out of crowds of people moving from one class to another. Cellphones hugged half the available ears, as it’s so important to commemorate every ten feet of travel with a phone call to someone who doesn’t really care. The fountain was on, but no one was practicing bizarre yoga poses on the crabgrass yet. Suddenly, I looked up and saw a white woman hanging from the high branches of a tree. She appeared to be dead. Her face was gray. The noose was gray. She wore dark colors.
I never startled, not even when I saw another woman crouching on another high branch of the same tree. She was not hanged, but looked afraid, like a hunted animal. No one else noticed. Conversations continued. Cell phones rang. Some people plugged it all up with headphones. When I noticed no one else appeared to see or care about the women, my desensitization was validated. I kept walking.
******
The earliest part of the day involved noticing everyone else’s little errors. The misbuttoned coats. The car keys left in the trunk’s lock. I never said anything. What do you do when you see someone has left his car keys dangling in a lock? Pulling the keys out would make me look suspicious if the driver suddenly came back. There’s not generally a desk where you return properly placed car keys. (They do, after all, belong in locks. Just not when the owner isn’t around). What story would this driver make up when he realizes the keys are missing? Would he totally forget he was ever messing around with the trunk? What if he remembers, goes to the trunk, and the keys are gone? Actually, what if the whole car is gone? If this happened to me, I would probably make up a story about how I must have been pickpocketed, or in my case, had my underwear picked. (I hope if I read this years from now, I will remember what the hell I am talking about).
I also noticed, but did not remedy, more evidence of the winter fashion paradox. My mom cackles when she sees “bozos” in flip flops wearing sweaters and coats. I’ve been seeing bare midriffs displayed from open coats and jackets. This is not a slight sliver of skin, either. I mean inches of carefully calculated belly display. If a person feels the need to wear a scarf and hat, why not also cover the stomach? Besides, the arctic winds must be hell on navel jewelry.
I then went to the computer store. It felt like an episode of Seinfeld - the long lines (in Seinfeld, there are always lines), the nothingnesss, my exasperation at a woman I do not even know who was wearing a maroon pleather jacket and carrying a hot pink pleather purse. This woman could have been one of Jerry’s bad dates or a person Elaine worked with. I couldn’t stop staring at the atrocity. I know I once wore pleather. Those cheap leather-like items are so tempting when you’re twelve and your best friend’s mom drops the two of you off at the mall and you only have $30 to spend. My aversion to pleather is a part of my coming of age and coming of credit card.
Pleather Woman was a cranky customer buying some Dell-related product (scoff, scoff), and she complained to an incompetent cashier about getting things shipped in and out, up and down. I almost forgot: pleather woman was also wearing a faux leopard round hat. I’ve been looking up hats for awhile trying to figure out the name of such a hat, but alas. I just know it looked terrible, especially with the colorful pleather pieces.
Surprise again. I didn’t say a thing. She barked at that one incompetent cashier for a long time. Finally, I was able to get my student copy of Office 2004 Pro. Pleather Woman left empty-handed, mismatching into the afternooon sun. A preventable tragedy. I’ve felt guilty ever since.
