In New York City it seems hard to get anyone’s attention. At times, you see those people cruising by, wearing the weirdest outfits, having the fanciest groomed dogs, forty Target bags, or some other outrageous bits of attire, that seem to go unnoticed by the passersby.
Personality also is a thing. Some people sing, other people pray, or shout, and everyone around just behaves like this is a totally uneventful day, and the person shouting in a neighborhood is just another piece of revolving reality. A bird, a tree, a person carrying an inflatable doll, and a shouting man. Typical Tuesday – some would say.
This story is about one evening in a bar in West Village. Normal day in a regular bar. Few couples are having a drink, one single man with an orange beard and an orange hat, and a middle-aged man with very prominent boobs, perhaps balloons, and a pink crop top. He is standing there leaning against the wall, and absolutely no one pays attention to him. At some point my friend points him out to me with a look, and whispers – “what about the boob guy”?
At this moment I realized, what is one of the signs that you become a New Yorker – you are not surprised anymore, moreover, you stopped noticing things. On one hand it felt amazing – “I am a New Yorker! I am there! I haven’t even noticed the 5D cup guy! I belong to this place!”. And then I got concerned. Both about myself and the boob guy.
About myself – isn’t it about noticing things? Isn’t it why I want to be in this city? To notice as many bizarre occurrences as possible? Will it end?
And about the boob guy – what if he really would love to be noticed, and no matter what size of balloons he is going to fit under his crop top, he is not going to succeed in getting a look.
There is so much stimulation on every corner of this city, and so many events competing for your attention that you are just completely getting used to it.
At that moment, I asked myself a few questions.
First, do people carrying themselves in certain way, or behaving in certain way, actually crave for the attention which is so hard to get, so they try extra hard and still most likely stayed unnoticed (which would be kind of sad), or they are just truly, and shamelessly themselves, and don’t give a care about any eyes noticing them, which in this scenario it is a pretty free state of mind.
The second thought I had was – how to get attention in the place, that nothing surprises? And should we deeply reevaluate a concept of the need for attention? Should we expect to be noticed by anyone? Isn’t that what fashion is exactly made for? If we don’t care to look a certain way, everyone would look the same, and there would be no need for style and extravagance. Or maybe I am going too far with that?
Do we actually dress for ourselves or for others? Does the guy put the balloons under his crop top for himself or for the public?
I risked it, and gave the guy a look – “I see you, and your crop top and your lovely boobs too.”
He could have hated it, or get offended, or ignore it. Instead, in a few moments, like a graceful, pink, chesty cat, he strolled quietly in the vicinity of our spot at the bar, and waved his body to the rhythm of the lounge music.
I felt glad. I was able to give a bit of attention to this cat man. He seemed to feel satisfied about his effort in looking great that night. I asked if I could touch his boobs. All in all, they were pieces of art, an installation attached to his chest, and he was an artist and a performer.
I sensed he wouldn’t mind. He didn’t, he was a man of few words, or an actual cat in a human form. He gave me the look of approval. And I touched. They were Styrofoam. With the Styrofoam nipples crowning the installation.
I have met myself today, noticing a human being who wished to be noticed, and he made it enormously clear. Does everyone in New York City crave to be noticed somehow? I don’t know. And maybe “it is rude to stare” but, maybe some other times it is polite to stare too?