Maltease Me

This whole week I’ve been absolutely tingling at the thought of writing about what happened Tuesday morning. But, as I reread the next few paragraphs it honestly sounds like the whiney ramblings of a homeless person. Which is ultimately an insult to homeless people. Anyways, outside of Starbucks Tuesday morning a stranger (male) approached me, Anna (roommate), and Hudson (dog). His outstretched hand and quickened pace was a clear indication he intended to pet Hudson( I assume, but in this Trumpian climate you never know) without asking. Here’s the thing about Hudson – and me – we don’t like strangers. Anna’s a different story, but I like to think I rock-paper-scissors style oust her welcoming aura with my resting bitch face, or at least I try to.

Anyhow, in lieu of escaping down Columbus Ave in an all out sprint, I used my go-to line…“I’m sorry he’s not friendly” to subdue our imminent voyeur.  It usually works, the subtle power hierarchy gets knocked off kilter (the visible chip on John Doe’s shoulder should have been the first red flag), Hudson doesn’t bite anyone (a win all around), and we all get on with our day. Evidently, the gentleman didn’t pick up what I was quite literally putting down… he kept on a ‘coming.

“I’m sorry, he’s not friendly, sir”… I said to reaffirm the previous statement (listening skills, gentlemen, c’mon). Yes, I really added the sir. “Are you kidding me? I just saw her pet him” said John Doe, referring to Anna, as he continued to enter my airspace. Walking my roommate to the B-train that morning was quickly becoming a Roxane Gay short and I was ready for it. Calm down, crazy, I silently said to myself. As soon as the thought reached my temple, John Doe continued, “I’m a dog guy, and I know how to handle German Shepherds. I wrestled one almost to death when it went after my Maltese years ago. 20-30 seconds was all it took, that dog knew his place after that.” L-O-L. Are you kidding? I snorted, loudly. I couldn’t help but bask in the metaphorical goldmine of his entire statement. It was rich. I almost hoped he would offer to show the scars to bolster the story, but his phone rang and Anna had to get to work. Thank you, universe.

The entire exchange stuck with me for days. I was going to write about it, a short story entitled “this is why I bite.” Why was I so pissed about what happened? Hudson honestly didn’t care about the momentarily caustic exchange, why did I? I just did. I know, this isn’t the psychological headbanger you’ll find on the 15 minutes of news provided by NBC each morning, but I was incensed. I wanted to write a story about how my choice in dog (wolf-like, aloof, furry) was a representation of me and somehow weave a lesson into the tale. Maybe incorporate the old adage of how dog owners and their pets look alike. Whatever. I’m clearly now on a different creative path and that’s that. Sorry, Roxane, hopefully I’ll have other opportunities to make you proud.

Otherwise, truly this week has been lovely. I saw the Broadway show, The Waitress. I went on a date. I played end of summer catch up with so many of my favorite friends, I was buzzing with happiness when Friday night came to a close. I had almost forgotten about Tuesday morning’s Starbucks adjacent misogynistic ménage-a-trois, but my fervor was reignited by yet another interaction with, shocker, a male stranger on the street.

“Pick any flower, little lady, I’ll buy it for you.” John Doe 2.0 said.

“No, thank you, sir, we’re not friendly” I said, gesturing to Hudson. Assuming the repartee was over, I continued to survey the almost dead sunflowers outside my bodega that Javier told me to grab as freebees. “What if I show you my 9 mm, you’d pick a flower then…” said John Doe 2.0. Cue DJ remix sound effect a loud as possibly. WHAT? Hoping he was referring to a handgun of some kind, I had to keep myself from cackling thinking of the potential alternatives. I should have continued my silent flower appraisal, but didn’t miss a beat…“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He started it, but also grow up Brynn. Javier, the flower guy at my corner bodega who pretends he can’t speak English, chuckled. Busted. I KNEW he could speak English. Also, thanks Javi for confirming the absurdity of this interaction. I’m just glad someone else witnessed a fat Cee Lo Green clone threaten to show me his gun over a cash-only flower purchase.

My neighborhood is awesome. I hope these vignettes don’t steer you away from exploring the Upper West Side. Actually, I do, because we don’t need any more interlopers clogging up the already stroller-packed sidewalks. In all seriousness, I’m sure the John Doe’s in these stories are lovely gentlemen with families and dogs (small ones, I’m guessing). But, this is why I bite. Or, at least, this is why I don’t let strangers pet Hudson.

Some say it’s a case of the chicken and the egg, and maybe if I had a different attitude my experience with the world might be different. My response is the same noncommittal half-shrug I give every to every man, eyes averted always scanning the ground before me. What they don’t know is that every day is a negotiation. On the treacherous path down west 82nd street to my morning coffee sometimes it seems I’ve got only my attitude to protect me (and an 80 lb. German Shepherd). Navigating isn’t easy, but I do my best to avoid the shoulder chips and 9 mm’s along the way. And no, you can’t pet my dog.