This isn’t about sex.
It’s about talk.
* * *
Okay so in this post I wrote about the way Funny Guy talks to working-class male strangers, usually policemen or doormen, and makes little chummy comments as he walks by: “Too bad about the Giants” (or, today, “Too bad about the Phillies,” but not in New York, duh) or some little manly comment.
I first noticed this, I think, at a street fair in August. Funny Guy said something to one of two policemen watching benignly over a peaceful (though disgusting — the rats must have had a feast that night) scene. They seemed perfectly happy and were talking to one another. As we walked by, Funny Guy turned to them and made some comment about some play in whatever game in whatever sport had been on the previous night. And one of the police said something back, and that was that.
“Why did you say that to them?” I asked.
“It’s such a boring job,” Funny Guy answered — as if to say, hearing comments from passing strangers about sports livens up their afternoon.
* * *
I don’t think I said anything at the time, because the feeling wasn’t strong enough, but the feeling was, They really didn’t seem unhappy. Or bored. I didn’t see that they were dying for companionship or sportstalk; they had one another.
* * *
Well, I noticed this tendency — not just policemen, but also doormen and men at cash registers or floor-walkers (they don’t call them that anymore, do they?!) at Duane Reade etc. — more, as described in the post linked to above, but the large drama of it became clear to me in the marathon last Sunday.
* * *
I had been in the environs of the west side of Central Park with a date a year ago at the very tail-end of the marathon and had noticed how exciting it was, so I suggested to Funny Guy this past Sunday afternoon that we hang out there for a while. He was game.
So we were standing at a barrier with a lot of other people, somewhere around 74th Street I guess, at the point where people are visible on a huge screen as they straggle (or run, but at 6 in the evening, just barely, because these are the slowest of the slow) over the finish line. Next to us was a crowd of about 10 policeman, just hanging out and chatting with one another. It was dark; there was a rock band playing; there were lights and human activity and kids and stuff going on. It was peaceful and pleasant.
It was then that I realized I could feel Funny Guy listing in their direction. He was holding my hand, but there was just the slightest, almost unnoticeable pull to the right, as his body veered toward the police.
And then I understood: Funny Guy can’t resist a policeman. He was going to go over and talk to one of them. It was going to happen. His body wanted to turn all the way to the right, and if we hadn’t been holding hands, it would already have happened. He absolutely had to talk to those guys.
And so, suddenly enlightened with this epiphany, I said to him, “You can’t resist a policeman.”
Funny Guy smiled, but the great genius behind my insight hadn’t hit him. He walked two feet to the right, said something to them, and came back to me. This action took less than a minute.
“What did you say to them?” I asked.
“I said, ‘I heard your sergeant say he’s going to put you in that race next year.’”
“And what did they say?”
“One of them said, ‘Oh, I’m ready! I’d like to run!’”
“And why did you say that?” I asked, knowing the answer already.
“Oh, it’s so boring to be a policeman! They’ve been standing here all day — “
“But Funny Guy, they don’t seem in the least bored! They look like they’re having fun. They’ve got one another to talk to, and their work’s almost over, and it’s peaceful and pleasant here. Nobody’s doing anything violent, and anywhere there’s 10 or 12 of them there! They’re actually having a good time!”
“It’s a long day for them.”
* * *
And so I began to understand what I was up against: Funny Guy absolutely had to talk to those guys. Absolutely had to. He was going to talk to those policemen no matter what. It was gonna happen.
“You can’t resist a policeman,” I said again, hoping the brilliance and genius of my insight would ‘take.’
Funny Guy smiled slightly, but I didn’t see acceptance or acknowledgment register on his face.
* * *
As, after a while, we strolled along Central Park West and soon came upon another, smaller group of police, I noticed and felt again that slight list toward the officers.
“Uh, oh! Policemen, watch out! I can feel it’s about to happen. Your whole body is veering towards them. You’re going to talk to them. ‘Too bad about the Giants!’”
* * *
I had at last made Funny Guy self-conscious. This time he smiled with recognition of the true fact that he couldn’t resist a policeman.
“Why do you think you do it?” I asked.
“Their job is so boring — ” he began again.
“No!” I said with new confidence. “It’s not their need; it’s yours! They’re perfectly happy standing there kibitzing. It’s you who need to talk to them. You absolutely cannot walk by them without — uh oh, more of them up there! Another temptation! Let’s see if we can get by them. ‘Too bad about the Giants!’”
We managed to get by this next group, also, without a Funny-Guy-comment. He seemed not only to have recognized the truth of what I was saying but to have taken it in more deeply.
* * *
It’s not that I thought it was bad to make manly-sportsy small talk with every policeman he passed; it’s that I thought it was odd, an interesting eccentricity with some explanation that Funny Guy was not, himself, aware of.
So I began to hypothesize.
“Why do you think you do that?” I asked again.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I think it’s because — let’s see — you want to let them know you’re friendly. You want to make friendly connections with these guys, to assert and to affirm your friendliness.” I was getting somewhere. “It’s — it’s to show them that you’re not like your father. To make a friendly connection.”
Funny Guy’s father, you see, was a violent man, who would use his body against anyone he thought had offended him in some way. He guarded his personal space belligerently. Funny Guy had told me stories, like the time his father tried to pull a man’s arm out a half-open car window, because of something the guy had done, or seemed to have done, with the car. Or something violent he did with a grocery cart in a super-market, for reasons I can’t remember. And then there was also his road rage…his violence was not just inflicted on family members; strangers got it, too.
* * *
And so Funny Guy, a strong athletic man but a very peaceful, gentle person, grew to manhood wanting above all things not to be like his father.
And so, as I began to see it, the apparent irresistibility of policemen was really a matter of Funny Guy’s definition of his personal space: he wanted to move closer to them, to signal his friendship, to be not-like his father, to be, in a manly way of course, friendly and warm and peaceful and chummy; to affirm his good, peaceful feelings toward them, the men-on-the-street.
* * *
I ran this analysis by Funny Guy, and he actually seemed to accept it. It made sense to him. At least, he didn’t deny or resist it and even sort of nodded agreement.
* * *
And so, when the game ended last night and the Yankees won, I said to Funny Guy (who has now been living in my building for about three months — gosh! it’s been that long!), “Are you going to tell the doorman?”
He got up instantly, opened the door, and went out. A moment later he was back.
“He had the radio on? he knew?”
“Yes.”
Funny Guy was smiling and sat down again; smiling because, I think, the brief exchange with the doorman made him feel good.
* * *
You always notice, there are certain people who are always talking to doormen or policemen or whoever. And now I know one of those people, and — I think — I know why he does it.
* * *
And things continue with Funny Guy in my life. It’s wonderful. Watch for a six-months-anniversary post next week.
* * *