Okay, I’ve been gone for a month, and here I am making two posts within minutes of each other. Not only that, but I’m also talking to myself because I’m certain that no one is listening.
So today I was taking the C train up to Harlem, and I got on at 59th St. I sat across from this woman with enormous eyes. We’re taking huge fucking eyeballs, people. I mean, she could have easily doubled as a mogwai…with much darker skin…without the body hair…or the cute songs sung for an old Chinese man. Anyway, she decided to engage me in the game that New Yorkers love to play on the subway:
THE MEXICAN STANDOFF!
I sat on the train, and I noticed her gigantic eyes staring at me. At first, I thought she might be in a daze, staring off into space, so I stared back. After a few seconds, a good riposte stare will usually fend off any novice starer.
But alas, she was a pro.
I tried looking away, pretending to read an ad that was surprisingly not for Dr. Z’s acne removal system. Then I darted my eyes back to her, hoping to wake her from a potential daydream. No, she was awake and transfixed on me.
Why was she staring at me? I will admit that I might have looked a little strange. I was carrying a bag containing a Roast Pork Italian wit and a Cheesesteak Provolone Sharp wit from Tony Luke’s Old Philly Style Sandwiches, which would later become a delectable dinner for my woman and I. In order to preserve the warmth of the sandwiches, I kept the brown paper bag inside my coat, using my body heat as an incubator. (My coat now has a wonderful pork smell to it.) I clutched the coat under the bag and thought, “Maybe I look like a terrorist. I do have a thin beard now, and despite my lack of olive skin, I guess a bearded guy clutching his coat fits the profile.” Then I realized that terrorists wouldn’t carry a bomb inside their coat and clutch themselves while reeking of pork. If these were Middle Eastern terrorists, Allah would have made them order the chicken.
I tried smiling and looking relaxed, but she wouldn’t budge. She was emotionless, but her eyes were piercing through me. It was unnerving, so I once again tried to stare back. I sucked at this and cowered under pressure. I was starting to get pissed, so I kept trying to regroup and stare again, but I couldn’t hold up under her intensity. She owned me.
I have a friend, who when encountering these situations, likes to yell, “You wanna fight or fuck?” (He typically gets lots of responses to the latter, and almost always is ammenable to the suggestion.) I have asked this question once in the past, and it did prove surprisingly effective at warding off the offending starer. But this is not exactly the most tactful thing a man can say, especially to a beautiful woman, especially when there are children around, especially when there are very large, menacing men around, especially when there are very large, menacing women around. I just cowered away in fear, and for the first time in my life, I lost The Mexican Standoff.
But then I regrouped and tried to make it a “best out of three” situation. She had already looked away after thrashing her prey (me), so the game could technically be on for another round. I geared up, rolled my eyeballs back into their sockets, and with full force, I shot my eyelids open and stared with tenacity.
Her eyes were closed.
She was intentionally cutting me off.
You can’t do that. That’s totally bush league! Just slide into my leg with steel spikes, why don’t ya?
Then she got off at the next stop and wouldn’t even pay me the respect to glance at my obvious disgust.
I was pissed, and I needed to stare at someone. The next guy who sat down across from me was a very large dude. I got ready to stare, and he immidiately went to sleep. I started to look him over, and I saw that he had a picture of a woman and a girl (presumably his wife and kids) around his neck. His bulging sweat pants had a big hole in the crotch that looked like it had been re-sewn more than once. His head was adorned with a New York Post hat.
Times readers would never blow out their crotch.