NYC Subways - Guest Blogger Shelly
My name is Shelly and I work in Jen’s office in New York City. I
came to work one day loaded with questions after I had an an all too
familiar and unfavorable encounter in the subway. Seeing me visibly
shaken, Jen encouraged me to write a guest entry on her blog, hoping
that her wise readers could offer me insight on the dilemma I often
face.
I am a twenty something, professional living in New York City. I
graduated in the top of my class from the college I attended on an
academic based scholarship. I believe myself to be kind, sensible and
secure and yet, I somehow find myself in the most peculiar, sometimes
dangerous and always avoidable situations like the one I am about to
recount for you now.
First thing, last Tuesday morning I had to run to 42nd St. on an
urgent errand for FLYING. After completing the task, I stood in the
surprisingly quiet subway station in a not so surprisingly state of
mental haze, waiting for a train to take me downtown and back to the
office. An extended holiday weekend had just come to a close and my
mind was still mingling with the friends that had visited me and the
incredible Soy Chicken we had discovered in Chinatown. However, I was
jolted back to my surroundings when a woman, similar to my age, asked
for directions. We stood together at the large subway map and I began
tracing the winding train tracks, directing her in which blue and
orange snakes she could take to Queens. But yet another startling
interruption came from a man urgently approaching the two of us asking:
“Do you ladies need help? I live here. I can help”. The train was
clamoring into the station and I got the feeling he was torn as to
whether he should take it and not be late for work or stay behind and
help the damsels find their way in this tough city. Fortunately for
him, I had already given her directions and all three of us could catch
our trains without further delays. I hurried to my train only to find
that the man who had been trying to help us had sat directly across
from me. We sat there studying each other, me trying to be a bit more
discreet about it, peering at him over the top of my book. He had an
open sore on his face and lips that were so dry I wouldn’t have been
surprised if he had just returned from an expedition in the Himalayas.
His hands were well worn with more than half of his fingers dotted with
dark purple spots on his nails. His age was indistinguishable. Maybe 43
or 65 or a dirty 35? I sat there trying to guess whether he was
homeless or just disheleved when all of the sudden my object of study
spoke:
“That was nice of you to help that girl.”
“Oh, it was nothing”. It really was nothing.
“You work in the Financial District don’t you?” He said this as he got
up and made his way over to me. Sitting down next to me, he left no
room for comfort. He then said:
“I’ve seen you around down there…many times”.
SHIT! I thought I lived in New York City where all faces are anonymous.
“Yes, that’s right. I do.” The first stupid response of many more to come…
“Where do you work?”
“At a film production company.”
“What’s the address?”
“ Maiden Lane.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Zohe Films.”
Second, third, and fourth stupid responses of the day.
But really, could it be that bad? He was just a lonely old man. I
was bringing him joy. And I have always had a place in my heart for old
men. It was a harmless conversation.
We continued talking and I learned that he also worked in the same
area as I, in fact, how wonderful!, only one block away. Much to his
delight we were getting off at the same stop. It was at this point that
I began to get a little worried. Even though I had foolishly given him
the name and street of where I worked, I hadn’t given him the exact
address. I didn’t want him to gallantly walk me to my door, only to
return and just “happen to run into me again”. The questions he was
barraging me with began to get much more personal also- Where did I
live? What was my last name? I realized I needed to throw in something
about a bodybuilding husband or a jealous boyfriend and soon! He gave
me every opportunity to do so. “Who do you live with?” “My boyfriend of
three years”, I should have said. It would have been the truth. But
there was something in me that just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It
wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wanted to continue talking to me and
think he had a chance, a chance at what, I don’t know, but nevertheless
a chance. And so I just said, “I live with a friend”. “Where did you go
for the holidays?” Again, I went upstate on a ski trip with my
boyfriend‘s family, it would have been the truthful and safe answer.
But again, I merely said, “On a trip with family”. I was so mad at
myself for not being cautious, for not protecting myself with the “I’m
taken” schtick. But what for? Let the man have his cake, just don’t let
him eat it too. That was my philosophy.
The train finally came to our stop and I hurriedly made an excuse
that I had another errand to run before going to my office. We would
have to part ways here. We stopped walking and standing in the sunlight
he asked me for my number. He wanted to take me to a gallery opening
where I could meet lots of film producers. I could hardly believe that
this scrappy looking man in a torn flannel shirt was going to a gallery
opening, but I gave him my phone number minus the real digits anyways.
It was just easier then saying, “I don’t want to give you my number.
You are too old for me and you actually are making me feel sick.” I
needed to get away. I was starting to feel suffocated, like all the
personal information he was sucking from me was actually the air I
breathed. I turned to leave and he reached out his hand to shake it. I
was reluctant. I remembered the purple sores on his hands, but I
extended my own anyways. I didn’t want to offend him. But, then as he
grabbed my hand he thrusted me towards him and went in for a full-on
kiss! As I came to from my disbelief I snapped my head away from his
intrusive and chapped lips and he ended up planting one on the side of
my face. Ugh! I could and probably should have screamed. Shaken, I
didn’t say anymore. I just walked at the greatest speed possible away
from him. I couldn’t let him take anything else away from me.
In retrospect, I am aware that I must appear to be something of a
naïve dolt, traipsing around New York City confiding and trusting in
every Tom, Dick or Harry that so much as offers me his seat on the
subway…and as I write this, I think, “Yes, maybe I am.” But most of the
time I prefer to think it is just my mid-west upbringing manifesting in
all of it’s “Please and thank you’s, kind sir and that’s mighty kind of
ya’s, ma’am” glory. But, returning to work after “the incident” I
realized that I am not alone in my instinctual need to please. Many of
the women I work with shared similar stories. Why don’t we say anything
when we are clearly being taken advantage of? Where does the desire to
please come from?
This is not the first time I’ve let something like this happen. I’ve
actually found myself in much more life threatening cases where I’ve
blindly given men the benefit of the doubt, thinking I was doing them
some great favor by being nice to them when no one else would, only to
have them wait for me outside my building at all hours of the day and
night. Is this the price one must pay for showing a bit of compassion?
