Complaint Box | Immobile on the Phone
By PAMELA A. LEWIS
This is a city of people who are constantly on the move. But lately I have noticed many who are completely immobile. Their favorite places to stand are on the subway stairs, either at the top, bottom or halfway up; at times, they camp smack-dab in the middle of the sidewalk. Regardless of where these people choose to stop, they are all engaged in the same activity: talking on their cellphones. And while they chatter away, like statues newly bestowed with the gift of speech, the rest of us are obliged to perform something akin to interpretive dance to make our way around them.
I had a close encounter with this new brand of boor this summer. Before even reaching the entry to the station, I spotted her from a distance. As if glued to the top step and leaning against the steel railing, she was a textbook image of the cellphone user: oblivious to everything save the words she uttered and the ones coming from the stylish model she pressed firmly to her ear. As I neared the stairs, I felt my blood pressure inching up, yet I was determined to stay calm and noncombative.
“Excuse me, please,” I said, dredging up a courteousness I really didn’t feel. No reaction. Once more into the breach: “Excuse me, I need to get by,” I repeated, adding more force to my tone. The statue turned her head, glowering at me. Mere seconds separated that indignant stare from my fate: Would I be tongue-lashed with a barrage of profanities? Hurled down the subway stairs I needed to descend? Or worse, would I be dispatched by the cellphone itself, swiftly transformed into a Bond-like instrument of death?
The statue moved slightly, just enough for me to make my way down; as the distance grew between us, I heard her grumble profanely something about “these people asking me to move.”
I like the cellphone. There’s one in my handbag, and on occasion I use it. It’s practical and fun. But it has also changed our behavior, and not necessarily, I am discovering, for the better. Whether it’s calling and texting while driving, or blocking the path of other pedestrians while conversing, the banging sound of civility’s bar as it is lowered another notch is being heard more frequently.
It is always difficult to know at exactly what point such a shift occurs; when, say, the importance of one’s call outruns everyone else’s need to funnel down subway stairs or walk along the sidewalk. Yet its effects, however slight, can be felt.
We can call all we like; the least we can do is respectfully step aside while doing it.
Complaint Box | I See London
By TRACEY LLOYD
In general, I make it a habit not to come in contact with men’s underwear. I guess I’ve heard too many frat-boy stories about what happens when guys put off doing wash for a really long time. Since I’m single, this avoidance works out pretty well most of the time.
On the off chance that I do encounter a guy’s underpants, I expect that he’s at least showered and worn clean ones for the occasion, and implore him to pick them up off the floor on his way out. So imagine my dismay at being confronted daily with the countless men who refuse to cover up their boxers or briefs.
This mode of undress has been popular for years, and when it reached its all-time low — buckling one’s pants under the buttocks in the style of some hip-hop stars — I thought it was finally on its way out. But no. Teenagers and 30-year-old men alike continue to stand in front of me on the subway, giving me an eyeful of their tighty-whities, which in many cases have ceased being both tight and white.
And you think high heels are impractical? Try walking in some low-slung slacks. You must adopt a waddle to keep the pants from dropping completely and must always keep a hand free to hike them up. Then there is the need to buy ever-longer shirts to cover your rear end — shirts that apparently don’t exist, since I can see your underpants!
Nor are sagging pants the only sartorial choice that makes me cringe. Take rompers, or shortalls. They offer the ease of a dress with the comfort of shorts, and I’m for convenience. But when adults start wearing clothes that I’ve been buying for people’s babies, something is wrong. As for wearing a very adult thong with a short skirt: Do you really want to sit your bare derrière on a subway seat? Granny panties may not be that sexy, but neither is a visit to the urologist.
And what about those skinny jeans for men? Unless you’re built like the lead singer of the All-American Rejects, you’ll look like a Weeble wobbling in them. And if your legs are big enough to offset your broad upper body, you will instead resemble a stuffed sausage. Get yourself some relaxed fits — to be worn above the equator, of course. Unless you’re David Beckham, and your chiseled body has been groomed and styled into flawless Emporio Armani briefs, I don’t want to see your underwear. And neither does anyone else.
Complaint Box | Counter Culture
By DAVID SAX
Excuse me? Pardon me? I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your text messaging, which is probably what brought that look of scorn to your face, but I was wondering if you could help me.
That’s funny. Maybe I’m imagining this, but each time I open my mouth to ask a question about the clothes you’re selling, your nose scrunches, your eyes roll, and your head darts down to where the register is. I can’t imagine what’s so pressing.
I’m the only customer in here. Is there an urgent cash crisis? A dangerous cashmere spill?
Oh, of course! It’s me, isn’t it? I’m not exactly amusing you with these little queries of mine. My bad. I know my Gap jeans and old sweater are hardly from the mind of Karl Lagerfeld, but that’s why I came in here today. To trade money for goods and services. The way it works is: I ask questions about various products — in this case, the clothes beautifully displayed around us — and you, in your role as service person, answer them, perhaps even leaving your spot behind the desk to physically touch the clothes and aid in my investigation and ultimate purchase of them.
We can even have fun doing it. You can talk to me, ask me questions, too, even joke casually about things we might have in common (I totally agree about Lady Gaga!). You can use those powers of human interaction to assist me in a purchase, maybe even one that’s larger than I had originally intended. Wouldn’t that be cool? I’ll end up feeling validated, happy that I spent $200 on a pair of jeans I didn’t need, because you made me feel like a million bucks when I came out of the changing room.
Perhaps a friendship will blossom out of it. O.K., friendship is a leap. A camaraderie? Can camaraderie blossom? Like the type that allows me to say, “Thanks so much for your help, man,” or even address you by your first name. That’d be nice. Wouldn’t it be nice, Mark?
I can see this isn’t really your thing. You’ve told me to “feel free to look around.” Maybe you were just trying to put me at ease — a little “my store is your store” attitude. And I understand. A lot of people don’t want your help. They want to browse at their discretion, unencumbered by salespeople. I am not one of them. I need guidance. Think of me as soft clay, ready to be molded in your image. What do you think, Mark, brown belt or black?
Oh dear. There are those eyes again, barrel-rolling in their sockets like a pair of F-16s at an air show. But you’re coming out from behind your perch? How exciting! Wow, those are some serious tattoos. And what boots — I can’t believe you tuck your jeans right into them! I totally underestimated your coolness, Mark. Do you have this jacket in a medium? Oh, you’re going outside for a cigarette. My God, I didn’t even realize I was interrupting your private time. I’ll just slink out of here quietly. So sorry to have troubled you.
Complaint Box | Public Grooming
P.C. Vey
WHEN did grooming become a spectator sport? When I was growing up, back in the days when the express train beat the local, straphangers were content to pass their time in transit with a good book or a crossword puzzle. Occasionally, I’d encounter the loud talker, the nose-picker or someone who had to free themselves of a wedgie. Hey, we’ve all been there. That’s old school. These days, if someone seated near me on my morning ride is putting on makeup, someone else is clipping his fingernails (and, on one odd occasion this summer, a toenail). Or they’re plucking eyebrows, tying ties, squeezing pimples, even spraying perfume. There are those who just have to bathe themselves in lotion. Others are brushing their hair. It’s the full monty, commuter style.
A few months ago, a woman sitting across from me on a westbound Long Island Rail Road train was flossing her teeth. When she finished, she threw the silky, slimy string on the floor.
“Maybe you should do that at home,” I chided.
“Maybe you should mind your own business,” she said.
“Maybe tomorrow you can shave your legs on the train,” I bellowed.
“Whatever,” said Miss Dental Hygiene.
Whatever, indeed. It takes a village idiot.
The flosser was a special case. Most days, I suffer in silence, fearful of setting off one of those “What are you looking at?” confrontations unique to this city.
We’re all strapped for time. If a person cannot manage to keep personal business personal, then it’s time for a major life overhaul. Yes, it’s hard to juggle life’s obligations. But, for the record, I don’t want to see others plucking their eyebrows or flossing their teeth. I hate to see myself doing it. I also don’t want to be in the cloud of cologne wafting through the air by the mad spritzer sitting 20 feet from me. It irks my allergies. It takes only a few extra minutes before bedtime or in the morning to tend to personal hygiene, which becomes much less hygienic when it’s done on the subway seat where some vagrant just spent the night.
Each season, as summer turns to fall, I hope the cooler weather will end the sideshow. While a cold spell puts some public groomers on ice, others will not be deterred. Last week, on a Manhattan-bound F train, I saw a man combing his hair. When he was finished, he pulled the hairs from the teeth of the comb and sprinkled them on the floor like he was seeding a field. And recently, on my way home to Queens, a woman seated near me on the E train decided it was an appropriate place to remove her nail polish.
Complaint Box | Snow Code
By STEVEN P. SCALICI
P. C. Vey
The giant snowstorm in December rekindled the irritation that is felt by many homeowners in the New York area, who after spending hours digging their cars out of six-foot-high snowbanks and driving to pick up groceries, return home to find a strange car parked in that just-cleared curb space. This is, perhaps, a minor inconvenience compared with the plight of residents whose cars get snowed in and stay snowed in for days after a storm, but it is nonetheless frustrating on an interpersonal level.
My neighbors and I are all in the same snowed-in predicament — dig we must, drive we must. So at some point, all of us have to shovel out. Surely space usurpers know the toil and trouble and exertion necessary to create a car-length chasm in the mini-mountain of snow outside their front doors because they had to dig out their own cars? Now they have to use another’s space?
Wary and crafty homeowners often resort to placing garbage cans and lawn chairs in their spaces to deter the wandering driver seeking curbside refuge from snowplows. I’ve also seen offending cars with flat tires and egged windshields, no doubt the penalty for using someone else’s spot. I’ve even seen arguments erupt as homeowners, guarding their spaces by vigilantly peeking out their front windows, catch their neighbors sneaking into them. Fortunately, I have not seen blows exchanged.
I do not resort to such draconian methods. I abide by the unwritten and reasonable homeowners’ code of snow ethics — you shall not use a parking space that you did not carve out yourself — and hope others will do likewise. Usually they do, but some people have visitors after the storm, and they have to park someplace.
My consternation with these interlopers rests more in their travel sense than their parking needs. Surely they, too, must be faced with similar snow situations in their neighborhoods? Do they think they will find a magic clearing in someone else’s? If staying home and talking on the phone is not an option, can’t they take public transportation, which gives them the added benefit of leaving their own cars in the precious parking spaces at home?
My strategy is to use public transportation for work trips and to heed the warnings of the weather broadcasters, no matter how melodramatic they may seem, by stocking up on basic necessities like eggs, milk and bread before a storm hits. I think such preparedness would go a long way toward peaceful coexistence, at least in cold-weather countries.