New York polite
by David Benjamin
“It
is one of the sublime provincialities of New York that its inhabitants
lap up trivial gossip about essential nobodies they’ve never set eyes
on, while continuing to boast that they could live somewhere for twenty
years without so much as exchanging pleasantries with their neighbors
across the hall.”
— Louis Kronenberger
MADISON, Wis. —
Happenstance has dragged me here and there. So, I know places. I’m still
surprised about this. As I was growing up in a hamlet called Tomah (the
Athens of Monroe County), I didn’t have any expectation, or any
discernible desire, to know anyplace at all. I was rooted there, in
juvenile ignorance of mountains, tropics, great cities and scenic
vistas.
There were, of course, a few expeditions, most notably a
train ride to Milwaukee with my grandfather to attend the auto show,
where my scenic vista was a lot of brand-new ‘58s parked on rotating
stages. And then there was the highlight of my ephemeral Cub Scout
career, a bus trip to Minnesota, to visit Niagara Cave (no relation to
the Falls).
Once below ground, I was the only kid in my “den”
who knew beforehand the difference between stalactites and stalagmites. I
was a library rat, and I’d already read at least two books about caves.
I had pondered spelunking as a vocation. That might have been the
moment I realized that I could probably teach the Cub Scouts more than
the Cub Scouts could teach me. Later, I had the same problem with 4-H.
By the time I hit ten, I was an intellectual snob, even though I hadn’t
been anywhere beyond Harmony, Minnesota. And I didn’t expect to go.
Only
when Mom uprooted me and moved to Madison did I discover that I’m a
city kid. Well, I’d suspected as much, even in Tomah, where our last
dwelling was a second-floor slum that overlooked the town’s main drag,
which was also Highway 12. All night, 18-wheelers — bound for Chicago,
New York, Sioux City, San Pedro, Paris, Bangkok, the moon! — roared past
and rattled the frost off our windows. Every Friday night, the street
was thronged with shoppers ’til 9 p.m., and still busy thereafter — with
drunken farmers, carousing GIs from Camp McCoy and a few loose women —
’til 2 a.m. when the Crow Bar, the Elbow Room, the Hofbrau, the
Sportsmen’s Bar, the pool hall and three other downtown taverns had to
close. I was a main-street Bedouin with no curfew and I loved it. I
delivered handbills for the Coast-to-Coast hardware and had a connection
for remaindered comic books at Burris’ five-and-dime. During the
holidays, Christmas came to me. All the stores were on my block and the
guy selling fresh-cut trees set up shop at the foot of our stoop. My
favorite carol was “Silver Bells” because I honest-to-God thought that
living on Superior Avenue was “Christmas-time in the city.”
After
a while in Madison (pop., 125,000) and a few urban stops that followed,
it came to me that every city is no bigger than Tomah once you get to
know it. First thing you do, you find the library.
Among the
cities I’ve stumbled into is Boston, where I lived on St. Botolph
Street, survived the North End, holed up in Jamaica Plain, and hung out
at Sgt. Brown’s Memorial Necktie. I’m also pretty much at home on the
Peninsula just south of Frisco (which the folks in Frisco don’t like you
to call Frisco). I got to know Tokyo well enough to write a guidebook
or two and get myself in trouble with the Sumo Association. I’ve roamed
Paris so much that I even — occasionally — surprise Maribel, my French
tutor. She learned from me, for example, that there are four screaming
madmen on the facade of the city hall in the Tenth Arrondissement. But
hey, Paris is still her turf far more than it is mine. I’m the Cub
Scout, she’s the cave.
I don’t know New York like that. But I
lived there for a while and I recognize it, understand a few of its
idiosyncrasies, can tell a native from a hick at first glance, know how
to buy meat at Zabar’s and cheese at Murray’s.
One of the
lessons that changed me from a bumpkin to a street urchin was figuring
out pedestrian style. In Tomah, it’s easy, genial and voluble. You pass
close and say “Good morning.” We call this “Wisconsin polite.”
Your
typical Tokyo walker, however, is territorial and aggressive. They come
straight at you and dare you to crash head-on. One day, after seven
years in Tokyo, I wearied of playing the patsy in sidewalk chicken.
Enough, I said, and hip-checked a 100-pound geezer into a vegetable bin.
Ah, sweet victory!
In Paris, they’re arrogantly oblivious.
You’re the invisible man, shrinking aside lest you’re squished ‘neath
Gallic disdain, a smear on the sole of a tasseled loafer.
But New York, well…
Fear
— no, suspicion — is your co-pilot. New Yorkers give their fellow
walkers a judicious berth. Whether Bleecker Street or Myrtle Avenue, you
steer right, clear a dozen inches and never make eye contact. New York
is mecca for weirdos who need only a glimpse of pupil to bond with you
for life or — too often — death. One veiled glance can trigger an
endless lunatic monolog, a pursuit of a thousand city blocks or a dozen
years of miserable marriage.
Or all three!
Last week, on a
crowded stretch of 47th Street, I was overtaken by a New Yorker. As he
brushed past, through tourist-tangled holiday traffic, my hand clipped
his arm — lightly, briefly. He turned his head, not looking at me but
showing just enough cornea to express displeasure. Our contact seemed
barely worthy of acknowledgment, but noting his attention, I kicked in
my Midwestern manners and said, “Excuse me.”
This had no effect.
He offered no response, withdrew his gaze hastily and visibly increased
his pace away from me. At this, my (dark) city self took over. As I
always do when I extend courtesy and get none in return, I said, mostly
to myself, “Well, excuse you, too.”
But he heard! The head turned and, for an instant, the gecko-eye glared.
Here
then, is what I’ve come to regard as “New York polite.” He had bumped
into me without remark but had greeted my apology with a dirty look,
followed by a second dirty look when I heralded his rudeness.
So, how is this “polite?”
Hey,
we’re talkin’ New York here. He did not halt, grab me by the lapels,
shove me against the wall, bang my head and yell into my face, “Hey! I’m
WALKIN’ heah, m***********!”
All in all, a swell guy.
Next
day, back in Wisconsin, at my morning coffee outpost, I encountered a
fellow patron in a narrow space between tables. Immediately, I said,
“Oops, sorry.” He said, “Oh no, excuse me!” We both smiled and made room. As we squeezed past each other, he patted my back amiably and wished me good morrow.
Poor bastard wouldn’t last ten minutes in Brooklyn.
Thursday, December 21, 2017
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2 comments:
Lived in Tomah for eighteen years, and my observation was always that you got Wisconsin polite if you were from there and your respective tribes didn't have ancestral feuds, but if you were a foreigner (even from Sparta) you got a suspicious look that meant "Who do you belongta?"
After i read your screed a few thoughts came to mind about pedestrians and politeness in NYC (Perhaps i am a bit defensive about my city) . So here are 4 things to consider;
1) the midtown sidewalks of NY are a virtual river of humanity. Once one jumps in one must move along with the current. It is not about the individual experience anymore, it is just about keeping the river flowing. Any aberration seems to be a deliberate impediment to the forward movement.
2) In NYC time is money, the meter is running, the clock is ticking, etc. You get the idea. NYers move quickly to get on to the next task which usually involves making or spending $$
3) Not all sidewalks and all pedestrians are the same. In some neighborhoods and side streets walking is more leisurely. One can stop to window shop and people appear to be more polite.
4) But... the best reason to like NYC is that people still walk! everywhere!! So even if there is some physical contact it still beats driving and parking and then searching for the car in a vast parking lot. No?
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