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May 27, 2006

Intrusions, Recollected in Tranquility

Night gathers in: a tented, cochlear quietude. A holiday has emptied the city. A rain has burnished the roads into shiny otter bodies. The animals sleep: cats curled in Celtic knots; dogs stretched out, gently twitching with dreams. Despite the classic peace, I’m still vibrating from the intrusive clangor of crush-hour. Huddled masses, yearning to be gone, had squeezed in on all sides. With no escape, I took refuge in the subway ads.

Pregnant? We can help! Dial 800-NOT-PREGS.
Anal Warts? Let us do the trick! Dial 900-GET-DOWN.
Torn Earlobe? Not to worry! Dial 900-LOBEJOB.
Hemorrhoids? Don’t sit them out! Call us!
Bad skin? Call Dr. Zitsmore. Convenient Midtown Location.
Lawsuit Fraud? Guess Who Pays? You Do!

Some may shun such ads as intrusive, and ward them off behind The National Enquirer or Vanity Fair. But seasoned New Yorkers are resigned to intrusions, both physical and psychic. Printed on a security-company van is the announcement: “FREE INTRUSION DETECTION�--a bit intrusive in itself. The notion of personal space is relegated to the realm of mythology, or wishful thinking. Subways are the epitome of intrusiveness. You must endure ear-splitting rackets emanating from other people's Ipods. You get pushed and trounced. The average body takes up one-and-a-half subway seats (those negligible dips along the steel bench), so you’re apt to share your allotted indentation with the buttock and thigh of a perfect stranger, or two.

It’s hard even for a reclusive type to avoid intrusion—as its victim and/or perpetrator. My habit of foraging is a case in point. Whenever I needed objets trouves with which to perform bricolage, I’d wait for nightfall, then hunt the streets. Decades ago it was easier; the neighborhood, still industrial, was largely deserted. Curb-clotting dumpsters were filled with surprises, like the contents of an entire building that was renovated or razed: maybe 40 years of office furniture, curling brown ledgers, a lifetime of assiduous ciphers. No harm in appropriating desk drawers in which to build dioramas, but perusing confidential, if defunct, records did seem a bit intrusive.

And before the esplanade was built, I’d comb the landfill along the Hudson River. One listless day, with no one around, I spied a junked electrical box, and tramped over rubble, wildflowers, tractor parts and weathered lumber to get it. Just as I reached for my prize, a deep voice bellowed: “Ma’am! Oh Ma’am!� I swept up the box and kept walking. Doubtless eager for a breather from his guard-shack, the uniformed giant trailed me to the road. “You’re intruding on private property,� he called. “Who, me?� I gasped, the purloined box in hand. He said, “I saw you take that thing from the site.� I babbled: “It looks like garbage to me. Doesn’t it look like garbage to you?� I must have taken the guard off-guard: his accusatory frown turned into one of curiosity. He took the box and examined it. Just a rusty old thing. He said, “This is Battery Park, lady, you can’t just come in here and take things.� I explained, “I make art out of found objects. What do you think? Is this trash, or someone’s property?� Apparently stumped, he handed it back. “Keep it,� he said drily. “Maybe I’ll see it again some day…in a museum.�

Once (eureka) I found a stash of beautiful lacquered sticks in a refuse bin outside a shoji shop in Soho. I gathered as much as I could carry and returned the next night for more. But someone had beat me to it and was already at the furtive browse. Hey! I protested silently. Was he after what I was after? Filled with a proprietary sort of panic, I hoped he was a minimalist, and would take minimally. Then I saw him: a scratch-bearded, wall-eyed, filthy, crazed Dickensian wreck. My greed waned. Maybe he needed the sticks to burn in a trashcan, for warmth. Deferentially I said: “Any good wood?� Steadily unfurling odors, he glared at me and roared, “Wood? What wood?� “Well,� I said, “what are you looking for?� Squinting at me with disdain, he snarled: “Gold, sweetheart! Gold!� And with that I backed away, loath to intrude on his hoard.

Posted by Jane on May 27, 2006 11:42 AM

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