My Guy of 34th Street
Over the course of our lives in the city, New Yorkers can expect, at some point, a sanitation strike, a neighbor who drives us to outrage, and a mentally unstable street guy who yells strange crap at us as we pass by. In most cases, not much good can come from the first two. But the third can be a valuable conduit to hidden truths. While not an obvious source of information, being called an “arrghen fuckweed” every day by Kris Kristofferson’s doppelganger, a guy who wouldn’t be dirtier if he slept naked in a coalmine, can be a window into others’ opinion of us. And who among us really doesn’t care what others think? Be honest.

My guy is a craggy gent, sporting an almost sea-worthy crustiness, who hangs out around E. 34th Street, about two blocks from my office. He’s an outspoken sort, a hybrid of Phil Donahue and Sonny Barger of the Hells Angels, with an angry, machine-gun ineloquence that cuts to the heart of things. No bullshit from this guy, especially when it comes to fellow pedestrians’ fashion choices and attitude. Walk by in a sharp business suit with your head held too high and your manicured paw around a leather attaché case and he’ll tag you a “scumbagyuppieshitfuck.” Sad-sack your way past with a hang-dog expression and a woe-is-me shuffle, and, bam: “jerkity-ragdollfuckloser.” I’d been, variously, “assholefaggotpissheadbitch,” “stupidfuckyuppie,” and “fuckingbitchassmotherfuck,” which, I presume, must have spoken to my wardrobe of casuals from J.Crew and longish hair, or – and I hope this isn’t the case – my halting gait.

In the year or two since I’ve been passing this guy, I noticed there are some outfits he approves of more than others. He seems to like, or at least suffer, polo shirts, especially worn untucked over boot-cut jeans. In business shirts, he only tolerates light blue – dark colored button-downs draw his ire like fireballs from a Roman candle. While jeans seem to be his first choice for pants, he will also allow those in dark dress slacks to pass without regard. He’s got a keen eye for self-loathing, and hates it as much as he hates arrogance. He is a man of balance and economy. He sees through our efforts to impress and occasional indifference to our own dignity and addresses those issues on the spot. Don’t expect polite charity from my guy – he cannot and will not lie to protect feelings.

The real question, then, is Have his comments helped me? In a way they have. As I became been more receptive to my guy’s tacit advice, I began falling further and further under his radar. Now, months later, he barely razzes me at all. Still, while reducing the street-level contact of a volatile misanthrope has been a positive outcome, I’m finding I miss his bile. While others get the best of his verbal blasts, like “dickheadfuckshitbastard,” I barely rate a mild “erumph.” I’ve found myself standing near his corner just to watch him work, noting the people who set him off and comparing his judgment to my own. As it turns out, we’re not so far off. Try to get that kind of insight after a couple of weeks without trash service.