Saliva and the City

Today's lovable New York story comes to you from 149th St...

Where a crazy man in pajamas spit in my face.

When I told this story to my roommate, he suggested I keep it to myself, as it is admitedly a kind of seedy occurance. Maybe he doesn't want people to know that we live in a place where such happenings are commonplace. Unfortunately we do. And I feel like you should hear about it.

I've noticed that when you're feeling your most attractive, most confident, most comfortable in your own skin, life has a way of screwing with you. I'm not sure if it's the cosmos trying to keep you in your place, but as SOON as I'm bordering on the overly confident, I trip, or slip, or say something stupid, or mess something up, just enough to remind me that I am not only human, but terribly, terribly flawed. Yesterday morning is a perfect example.

Wednesday night had been flawLESS. I organized our annual corporate sales dinner for my boss, the Director of Sales, our entire sales division and three of our top-billing television stations at Delmonico's Steakhouse in downtown Manhattan. Party-planning is my favorite. I relish in the perfecting of details and the last minute coming together of unrelated elements into one perfect evening. It was fantastic. The food was good, the drinks were good, everyone was thankful to me for having done such a marvelous job, and I even had the good fortune of being a member of the self-proclaimed "fun table" which caused unnecessary drunken rucous the entire evening. Thursday morning, very hungover and feeling dried out from all of the red wine and radiator heat, I woke up with a smile on my face. I was ready early, and out the door for the office ten minutes ahead of schedule. I stopped at a bodega on the corner for a Gatorade (mucho dehydration in effect) and managed to catch the light coming out just in time to cross the street. The world was on my side.

Once across, I realized that I regretted having switched to my smaller pocketbook, thus forefiting my sunglasses in an effort to save room. It was sunny out there. Then, in my line of vision was an old black man in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, walking toward me with a bicycle. I didn't look at his face, mostly because I don't make eye contact with anyone in this neighborhood. Overt the eyes and avoid interaction at all cost. We passed, I kept my sights on the sidewalk. Suddenly he appeared again, an inch from my face, his face directly in mine, and spit a mouthful of dirty bum saliva into my eyes. Needless to say I was shocked. He spit...in my FACE. Stranger yet, was that he just walked away. He spit on me, and walked away. Didn't even laugh, as though he were proud of himself. It seemed that he hadn't done anything at all out of the ordinary. 'Oh, there's someone I should spit on.' It was amazing. I was shocked and flustered. I took my gloves off and grabbed my antibacterial bottle from my purse. Two women walking behind me ran up to help. One older Dominican woman, one black woman who looked to be going to church. The Dominican woman was rubbing my cheek, telling me I'd be ok. "Did he spit on you?" The church woman said, pulling tissues from her purse. I just nodded, I was too shocked to say anything.

"Well you shoulda kicked the shit outta him. I'd-a kicked the shit outta him." She huffed. Then shouted down the block at him, "He knew not to spit in MY face. Let him come back here and spit in MY FACE!" I dumped nearly the entire bottle of antibacterial into my palm and slathered my face with it. A fleeting thought of a recent account I'd read flashed through my mind. A man with AIDS had been arrested recently for biting and spitting on people in an attempt to infect them with the disease. I shouldn't read so much. I shook my head and gathered my senses. The Dominican woman was speaking.

"WE coulda fight him but she can't," She gestured toward me. "Look at her. There no fight in girl. We are fighters. Not mami." I felt for a moment like I should have been insulted. But I was still too stunned. The church woman nodded in agreement. I was pulling my gloves back on and flattening my hair in an effort to look collected, but I'd been totally deflated. I thanked the women for their help and continued toward the subway. I couldn't make sense of it. Then the church woman shouted after me.

"Say your prayers, baby, and then get on with your day."

I smiled weakly, but I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. I got onto the subway and as the doors closed behind me I dumped another gob of purell into my palm and took another face bath. People were looking at me as though I were deranged. But I didn't look back. Everything seemed a little dirty, and I just wanted to forget it happened.

Half an hour later, I plopped a bottle of eyewash onto my desk. I couldn't wait to defeat Dallas Ryan in the AM story competition. He always has great stories. I assumed everyone would be shocked and horrified by my account. Maybe they would gasp, maybe they would laugh. I opened my eye wash and began to regail my coworkers with my trials. "Gross," was mostly all I got. Jerry reminded me that he'd been puked on three days earlier on the 4 train. And Ryan's morning story was about a 300lb woman and a blind man in a Santa Hat. He won again.

I suppose I haven't been permanently damaged by the day's events. But I have to say I devoted a solid half an hour to washing my eyes that morning. And the rest of the day I didn't feel quite as confident.

After all, the more untouchable we feel, the harder it is to deal with when life spits in your face.