noticing people

Thursday, February 23, 2006

What's supposed to happen in coffee shops

-How do you manage to concentrate so hard in a place like this?
-It would be easier if you weren't talking to me. Actually, its easier for me. I like the buzz. If I'm someplace completely quiet, my mind tends to wander. Here I have to concentrate to stay on track. Besides this is a good book.
-So is this one, amazing, it's teaching me all the physics I learned in school and takes me yet further.
-English has to be at least his second language. Why does he suddenly seem about 10 degrees hotter? A little paunch never hurt anyone... I think that is supposed to be the least read best seller of all time, or the ratio of the number of people who own the book to the number of people who've read the book is huge, or something like that.
-It is good for one's mind to read difficult things.
-I love the sound of English with an Indian accent, pretty and precise.
-
What I love and hate about it is that you never know what the author actually thinks. In the first part you think he believes Newton, in the second Einstein, and now strings...
-He's way too young for me. Why is he talking to me? I think it was, maybe Aquinas, or Pascal, who said "I believe so that I may understand." It is rare that someone can set their own opinion aside for long enough to think critically, or let their reader decide for herself.
-I had not thought about it that way before. Have you read it?
-He's actually pretty gray, maybe he is old enough. Cover to cover. I can't say I understood the whole thing, but I am pretty proud--I wanted to be on the right side of the ratio.
...
-Have you had dinner? Maybe you would care to join me.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

What if she's boring?

I only have a moment, but I want to write about this woman--I'll come back to her, someone should put her in a novel.

5'7". A little taller than me.

Straw coloured hair halfway down her back. Almost 80's big hair. Curly, obviously teased. Parted at the side, no bangs. It looks oily and the individual curls stick together--an unwashed rather than a coifed ropiness.

She is thin and wearing a peasant skirt, it has a big pattern like fall leaves, is full and drops to midcalf. Her tank top is yellow, loose and low cut. I look away when she bends down. Her breasts sway when she walks--no bra. I feel like a snob or a prude, but I just don't want to see them.

Her espadrille sandals are laced about 6 inches up her calves.

She wears a trollop's make up. Fake tan, red lips, heavily lined eyes.

What grabs me is that she has to be about 80 years old. The skin on her thin brown arms and calves in not just wrinkled. It looks like a seamstress carefully gathered it into pleats and folds. It drapes over bones without any intervening flesh.

The lines on her face are deep and her red lipstick bled back onto her lips--sort of vampirish.

What is this woman's story? She could be mad. She could be defiant. She could be apathetic. Maybe she just hasn't gone shopping since she was 35. She could be about a million different things. I have no category for her and I am deathly curious. I almost prefer to make up a story--what if she turned out to be dull?

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

My groove

I go to the gym 5 days a week. It was very difficult to get into the groove when I moved to Pittsburgh. I felt like drinking scotch and watching TV, not going to the gym, or even going to work for that matter. But, two things got me out the door. The first was the realization that the scotch and TV cycle could repeat endlessly leading to what could only be called a pathetic life. The second was an entire wardrobe that I bought which was one size larger than my last one.

Step one: find a gym. This doesn't seem to be an exercising sort of town. In fact, when I go out at night there are lots of people around who make me feel delightfully skinny--something not likely to happen in NYC. Finally I found the spot, the Shady X 24 Hour Gym, or something like that. It wasn't very big. It smelled sort of funny. The woman's locker room needed a coat of paint. But, it was cheap, close to home and close to a very fine coffee shop. I signed up.

Step two: get in a groove. Signing up may have been a leap for my cheque book, but it was a small step for me. If I went first thing in the morning I had to wait for cardio machines. If I went after dinner I had to compete with the no neck boys for the free weights. Now, I can elbow my way into lots of situations. But with guys this big there are basic limitations imposed by the laws of physics. I tried to go around dinner time one Sunday and was told by the attendant that on weekends they closed at 6. I know, I know the name of the gym is 24 hour something or other. But I was informed that just because it said 24 hours in the name it didn't mean that it was actually always open. I asked him why they didn't call it 'the 18 hour gym'. I asked him if the word 'gym' in the name implied that there were actually workout machines and classes inside. Actually, I didn't ask him any of this stuff. I just went home and had a martini. Afterall, a woman has to get points for trying to workout.

But, I am digressing from my groove. I found out that the perfect time to go was in the mid-morning. Very few people there and the ones that are there are mostly women who have recently given birth. I am in better shape than most of them and since I actually get to sleep at night I look better too. It is crazy just how much of feeling good about yourself has to do with who is out there to compare yourself with. Sometimes noticing other people is a purely selfish sort of thing.

Monday, February 20, 2006

Scooping unseen poop

The woman was wearing a big stocking cap pulled all the way down over her face to her chin. There were indents where I presumed her eyes were and a sharp protuberance where I presumed her nose was. It had never before occurred to me that there was no need for a blind person to endure the harshness of raw winter air against their face.

The able bodied are very good at ignoring the disabled--looking the other way, determinedly not seeing or noticing the disability, pretending the difference isn't there. This determination not to see makes the disabled disappear. This woman, with her face completely covered helped me along in my ignorance. I wonder how many people saw her service dog and looked away not even noticing that she had already provided herself with the anonymity that they were so eager to grant her?

Why did I look? I looked because I wanted to thank her for performing an everyday service. I love dogs but hate negotiating the piles of poop they leave on the sidewalk. As a result, whenever I see someone with a plastic bag between their hand and a warm pile of crap I try to catch their eye to give them a grateful look and pat their dog on the head.

What first told me that this wasn't the common dog owner scene was the fact that the dog was wearing a big harness. Then I noticed that the hand with the bag on it was sweeping over the ground. Finally when the woman stood up I saw, or rather didn't see, her face. The stocking cap--she had eyes and a nose but no particular eyes or particular nose. She pulled the bag down over her handful of crap and tied the loose ends into a neat knot. She unzipped her fanny pack, deposited the bag of poop, zipped it up again and grabbing onto the golden retriever's harness began to walk on down the street.

I didn't thank her for scooping her dog's poop. I didn't know how. I couldn't catch her eye. But I did stare at her as she walked away. And I did wonder what a stocking cap would feel like against my eyelids.