Notes to the City

Dear New York:


1. I know my bag is open. The reason it's open is that there is nothing of value inside. Currently my bag contains a bottle of juice, a book, eye drops, lip balm, a handkerchief, one kung fu shoe, and a decal that someday I will get around to putting on my window to alert firemen that there are pets in my house. So you can see why I'm not all zipped up and locked down. In fact, I may want a clear shot at that hankie or lip balm without having to grapple tiny zippers with my big crude hands.

2. Do not touch me. When someone on the subway or on the street suddenly taps me on the shoulder or shouts for my attention, I do not assume they are helpful and concerned about the security of my belongings, or that they think that I'm especially attractive. I assume that they are crazed and dangerous, hurling themselves at the bars of the social contract that allows us to play at being grownups together. If I don't know you and you're touching me on the subway, you'd better be giving me CPR, or dragging me out of the tracks. (In which case, you are welcome to the contents of my bag. Perhaps you have pets?) Or you had better be doing something dirty that I can at least shock my friends with in the retelling and then secretly treasure in my heart.

3. Last month after a lunchtime nap in Central Park, a wasp the size of a golf ball rode on the back of my shirt all the way to my office, and stung me in the spine when I sat down in my chair. This means I managed to walk several blocks in one of the most crowded areas of the city with a large venomous alien life form clinging to me, plainly yellow against my black shirt, and not one person stopped me to let me know. So fuck you, New York. Keep your eyes and hands to yourself, I know what I'm doing.


Yours truly,


Tom


PS. I do kind of like it when you point out that there is money actually hanging out of my pocket.