Monday, 01 August 2005 | New Wimp City

There's a man in Union Square who's got a hairless barrel chest and a shaved head. He struts around wearing no shirt, small black shorts, sneakers, and tube socks, holding his hands in fists by his side. "Welcome to New Wimp City," his sign says. His sign also says that if you pay him, he will do push-ups with you standing on his back. I've never seen him in action; I've only seen him circling his sign, his expression mean and predator-like.

...

Last week a few of my friends spent the night in jail, for trespassing. They climbed through a hole in the fence of a boarded up public swimming pool and then sat on the roof, talking and taking pictures of the empty park below. Just after they left, climbing out the way they climbed in, the graffiti police strolled up to them and (apologetically) escorted them to the station. For the rest of the night, the guys sat on a bench in the holding pen, and the girl sat in a chair outside, handcuffed to the same holding pen. The room was freezing, they said.

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The first evidence I've seen of the new subway bag-searching policy was today, at the Lorimer stop on the L. Police were loitering around the station in clusters; most were leaning against walls on their forearms, talking to each other, and some were standing with their hands clasped in front or behind their bodies, legs apart.

In front of one of the claspers, there was a folding table set up with a giant megaphone sitting on it, no doubt extra powerful among the subway tiles. As I passed by I looked straight ahead, assuming that I'd somehow appear suspicious if I paid too much attention. No one was getting searched at that moment, at least not that I noticed.

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My friends M and N got shot at a week ago. They were walking home, when a black Ford Explorer skidded around the corner and began firing at some guys sitting on a stoop. M and N were exactly between the shooter and the target, and they fell to the sidewalk as soon as they heard the first bang. (M said that, considering the circumstances, it's hard to believe no one got hit.) Once the car was out of sight, M and N hid on a nearby off-ramp and called the cops, before cautiously making their way home.

M told me that the event seemed so unreal that she could almost convince herself that she had imagined it. The only physical evidence available to her was the scrape on her foot that she'd acquired from her sidewalk dive, and that when she and N returned to the scene the next day, N's coffee cup was still laying on the ground.

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During the morning commute, an old bearded man sat next to a woman in her late 30s. The man was trying to persuade the woman to adopt his religion; she seemed interested and gave him encouraging feedback. His stop came before hers. Just before he disappeared through the train doors, he looked at her and solemnly said, "Make the Right Choice."

She slid over and I sat next to her. Less than a minute passed before she noticed my camera bag and asked me with wide eyes, "Are you a photographer?" with the same inflection one would apply to something far more rare and exotic, like a lion tamer, or a felon. When she asked me where I was from, I told her, "I'm from North Carolina. I've lived in New York for about 3 years." I was not claiming to be a New Yorker, but apparently I'd set off an alarm anyway. "You're still from North Carolina! You're not a New Yorker yet! Talk to me in 70 years. Me? I'm a native. Born and raised."

She continued talking, her attitude oscillating between wondrous and emphatic, depending on the subject. She was busy trying to convince me of the suggestive nature of skyscrapers, when I finally reached my stop.