An Assertion of Space

A man (or maybe a woman who looks like a man, or, better said, a woman who happens to dress/style like a cis-gendered man who has comfortably accepted that societally-designated role, or perhaps in truth: a trans man. I don’t know, because I do not ask) in construction vest and boots, with a short haircut (like, just-longer than buzzed) gelled or pomaded down and forward, with tattoos on his arms, sits. His legs are spread wide. He leans his elbows on his knees, reading today’s NY Daily News.

To this man, I politely say, “Excuse me.”

While it’s just an implication, I think it’s clear that I’d like for him to take up less space so that I can sit in one of the two APWs (Approximate Person Widths) he’s occupying. He looks up but just ignores me. This is, of course, some sort of power move, right?

Imagine you’re me. He looks directly at you. A clear indication that he sees you. And then—AND THEN!—he looks right back down at the paper. There’s no way to interpret it except as him showing you that A) he knows that there’s something to be done, and B) he’s not going to do it. There’s also an implied C): he’s aware how all that will make you feel.

Now, to assume D), that he’s enjoying it, is a step too far I think, but to assume he’s not?, that’s probably just naïve.

I sigh. I’m physically big, and if I play this wrong, I’ll probably have to fight him. Or, at least, things will escalate until they are close enough to me having to fight him that I’ll be uncomfortable. I’ll break a sweat, my heart will race, I’ll feel embarrassed, and then I’ll have that coursing through my veins all day.

Violence scares me, and I neither want to be hurt, nor hurt anybody. But, also, I’d like to sit. So, I pretend he just didn’t quite hear me, and I step a hair closer. And for the sake of polite society, and in hopes of avoiding a physical altercation (as unlikely as one may be—we are on the subway after all — though, based on this person’s look, I fear he may jump at the chance to get physical. I mean: he’s trying so hard to look like the cartoon stereotype of a macho man that maybe the chance to regale his construction pals later over a light beer with a story of punching another man on the subway is exactly what would make his day. Anyway, for all those reasons…), I try to add no frustration or anger or sass to my voice as I say again, “Excuse me.”

This time, I’m fully ignored.

Everything inside me wants to take control of the situation, maybe sit down half on his leg, forcing him to move over or take my weight. I’ve seen people do it, to varying degrees of success. But all that is just not worth it. It’s too immature. It also refuses to accept that it may start a new argument rather than end the ongoing one.

So, all right, I forfeit. Cuz fuck it, right? I walk away.

But, I just can’t help myself, so as I’m stepping off I say, “You’re boring,” which, if you think about it maybe makes sense, but definitely makes no sense without a decent amount of analysis.

(The behavior exhibited by our train friend is one of aggression, of territoriality. It’s a “man” move. It’s somebody asserting an animal behavior that we are all well-educated enough to know as such, and usually well-educated enough to control ourselves enough to avoid doing. We live in a structured society with an understanding that we are all just people. That each of us is a person more/less like the others. That a society is simply a long-held mutual agreement to cohabitate, to trade, to share. It’s a collective understanding of kindness, at its heart. An eternal cease-fire. Without it, parents and communities wouldn’t bother to teach their children to not behave like animals, because there’d be no civilization in which to be civilized. But, society’s mere existence is proof that we want to live together in harmony, whether or not that goal is achievable. Point being: the act in question is predictable (in that he is trying to look like a “man” and acting like a “man”) and annoying (in that I hold an entirely different idea of what it means to be a man). So, he’s boring in that putting off the vibe of “I’m keeping this or fight me” is old, used, done. It’s out of place now, and I avoid using that vibe actively. And yet, here this guy is in 2015, behaving like an animal child. So boring. So predictable. And that’s why I should’ve predicted what was next. It fit too well in the old mold.)

Now, having just walked away, I’ve made it a few steps. I‘ve got my back to him when I hear what must be a NY Daily News hit the ground, hard. Harder than if it had been simply dropped. It’s a thwack. Now, I’m pretty sure the Post sounds more like a thump when thrown in anger toward the ground. And, if you spike a Times hard enough to get the attention of somebody who just pissed you off but is waking away, it’s somewhere in the vicinity of a thok. So, I’m figuring it’s our friend The Real Man, who had the Daily News, and he’s trying to tell me something: he’s not done with me.

I think to myself, I just had to say something. I’m so spoiled. Well, maybe not spoiled, but entitled. I‘ve been working on it, but clearly I’m not quite free of it. Next time I’ll keep a lid on it, but for now: consequences.

I turn around and — as though he was waiting for me to turn and look at him — only then does he begin to rise out of his seat. He’s up. Power stance, legs a little wide, like he’s gearing up to strum the opening lick to “Baba O’Riley” in front of a sold-out crowd. But, he doesn’t move. He just stands there.

I look at him for a second. What’s up, guy? Nothing.

After some silence—both verbal and physical—it’s clear he’s made his move; the ball’s in my court. Boy, this guy loves to small-play it. Half a look. Then stand in silence. Kinda guy who’d nod at his own wedding instead of saying “I do.”

Okay, I’ll play his game. I look him up and down. That’s my whole move.

He returns with a tiny head-tilt. The kind that would normally accompany the words “You wanna go?” or “You think you’re better than me?” or an aggressive “’Sup?” but in this case was accompanied with silence.

I shrug. Shrugging is the smallest, least offensive thing I can think to do, while still doing something.

This is when I realize that neither of us wants to fight. He just wants to appear like he’d be willing to fight if I would be, but every time there’s an opportunity to come fight me, he’s just passing the ball back to me.

But then I pass it back to him, ostensibly for the same reason, but I don’t need to appear like I would fight him. I want out of the game. And if I’ve got the ball, and I don’t wanna play the game, maybe it’s time to pop the stupid ball, and call it a day. So, after my shrug, I turn around to go. A shrug, and an about-face. It’s over.

I listen as I walk away for any indicator that this, in fact, is not yet over. I quickly realize that having shrugged and walked off is probably even worse than calling him boring. Like, I looked at him and decided he wasn’t a real threat. I turned around. How insulting! I’ve indicated to somebody whose masculinity is clearly a large part of his identity that he isn’t scary enough to keep my eyes facing him. I’ve exposed my back to him, giving him all of the strategic fight advantages in the imaginary fight we were about to have! He must feel emasculated. Probably a bad call on my part.

I can’t tell, but I think I hear footsteps. I keep walking, but I pull my shoulders up around my ears, the way you do when it’s raining and you don’t have an umbrella. As though if I protect my neck, he can’t really do lasting damage from behind.

No contact comes, no words either. I relax a bit. Maybe nothing will happen.

I get as far as the next vertical pole, and I pause. Maybe I’ll turn around to look, to see what he’s doing now. But I keep my head down at first, because I can’t look until I’ve established a few things:

1.) Distance: That I’m outside the blast radius.

2.) Contentment: That I am very happy to stand over here holding this pole, instead of sitting.

And 3.) I’m Over It: Did something of interest even just happen? Oh, wow, I was unaware.

I’ve got #1 covered I think. And 2 and 3 are all about pretending not to care. So, I can’t turn and look right away; that’s not casual enough.

I give it a few seconds. I look around. I check my phone. I look up at the … the thing that tells you what station is next. The station display? Then I look back at my phone. And only then do I look back over at him.

He’s still standing there. He hasn’t moved a muscle, and he’s still looking at me. But then, (then!) he nods. He nods and he sits back down.

Again! he waited for me to look before he made his move. He also clearly decided that he was the “bigger man” for having walked me off. And yes—by animal and Cro-Magnon social standards—he is the bigger man. But by today’s standards, I think I am the “bigger man” for having walked off, for having disengaged. Boy, I hate that term: “bigger man”.

I’m glad this thing didn’t escalate to what it could have been. Men from 2015 don’t do well in fights against men from the past. I release a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

He’s seated. He’s not looking my way. It’s over.

He reaches from his seat to pick up his NYDN, but it’s out of reach, so he’ll have to get up out of his seat a little if he wants to pick it up. Why I’m still watching I don’t know. So, I flip my bag off my back to get out my book. Now I’m looking down at my book, which means I only catch the first instant of what happens next in my peripheral vision. But I do catch the rest of it in its full glory.

The man is partly crouched, partly leaning against his own seat, and he snatches up the NYDN. I look up just as he crosses his crouched legs underneath him and does a 360º dance-spin on his way to standing up. Then he does a little kick-ball change. Then the trademark Michael Jackson wobbly-leg air kick, right into the trademark MJ point-up/crotch-grab/“hee-hee!” only this guy’s doing it with a newspaper in the hand that would be pointing. Out of nowhere, he turned into a dance icon. And, honestly, he did it well.

From his final pose, he looks at me again. And I’m looking right at him.

Some scattered eyes from throughout the train have traveled his way. I mean: a guy just falsetto-“hee-hee”-’d and is posing like a rock star in the middle of the C-train, so that seems fair. Nobody’s looking at me.

He breaks his stance, nods again at me, and he sits back down. He flips his paper open and starts to read it like nothing happened, though clearly something had.

The doors to my stop don’t open just then, and I don’t get to return to my life left only with this weird and beautiful image in my head. This is the nature of being in between stops. These are your people until the train says you may go.

There’s a thickness to the air, not awkwardness and not tension, but some sort of weight, as we both remain, here, on the train, half a car’s distance from one another, each aware of the other’s existence without any further acknowledgment.

I’m forced to think about our his-turn-only (and thus kinda unfair), impromptu dance competition. He sucker-punched me with it. I guess, thinking about it, I could dance back at him, go move for move, winner takes the seat. But I don’t, and not just out of cowardice or self-consciousness (though I do have those in spades). I’m making the decision not to engage. Mostly because I don’t think that the original argument over the seat is what his little performance was about.

Really, I think he was saying “I’m here.” Maybe even, “I’m here. And damnit, I’m not boring.” I mean, right? What else could it be? Somehow that “boring” thing must have stuck in his craw, as random and weird as it had been for me to say it.

I stare at him—sometimes actively, sometimes passively—for the entire rest of my ride. My stop is coming up, and he’s still sitting.

At several points during the remainder of the ride, people were forced to stand because he continued to take up more space than is polite. But I think taking up space may be central to his identity. Or, perhaps better said: I think it’s his way of easing his self-conscious discomfort, the same self-conscious discomfort we all possess. By standing in people’s way, he’s forcing them to acknowledge him. He’s aware it’s not nice, but niceness isn’t as important as his being seen. This will go on until he feels seen, I guess.

As I exit the train, I get his attention: “Hey.” He looks up, and I nod, looking for a nod in return (we know he likes to nod), or any sign of camaraderie. “Hey dude, I get you now. I see you,” is my thought, and I’m looking for an “I’m glad. Thanks”-type response.

When he sees my nod, his face twists into an expression that can only be described as “What the fuck? Are you really still here?”

I nod again, this time as a concession, like “I get you,” with a hint of “you’re right, what am I doing?” I shuffle in shame, backward, onto the platform.

The doors close between us, and he’s gone.

I see him again about two weeks later, also on the train. I recognize him, because that’s my superpower: recognizing people I see at random. Another NYDN. Another wide-seated stance. Another wasted APW.

He doesn’t recognize me, or hasn’t noticed me. This time I have the sense to let him do his thing, to not engage at all.

A couple stops along our journey “together”, a young woman with micro-bangs, in a flower-pattern top and high-waisted, cuffed chino shorts gets on the train. She looks at him. And then she sits down on his leg without saying anything, a power move of her own. He looks at her like she’s crazy, but he keeps his mouth shut and cedes the space. She pulls out a book and actively ignores him. He returns to his own reading.

She catches me looking at the two of them, but I think she gets the wrong idea; she rolls her eyes at me, and then rolls them back down to her book. I feel bad that maybe I made her feel uncomfortable, or objectified, but I keep smiling as though she and I are a team and that we, together, just won the game.