On People Who Suck, As Encountered On My Lunch Break

Of late there has been a lot of to-do about the Occupation of Wall Street by the unemployed masses (or the possibly employed masses, assuming there are some masses who had saved enough vacation days to call out all week). Let me state for the record that I personally work on Wall Street and I did not even know this Occupation was taking place. That doesn't mean this isn't a big deal. I am hardly the person to turn to in search of perspective on national news, a fact that shames me. In fact I never even admit this outside of the internet, and when people do attempt to discuss such matters with me I usually make interested murmuring noises and quietly google on my phone, because it's embarrassing to ask, "Who's Obama?" When it comes to current events, I tend to house my head squarely up my own ass.

So my not knowing about the Occupation does not mean that it doesn't occur. Likewise, my not witnessing brutal police beatings and unsubstantiated arrests is not a litmus test to determine their validity. But the stuff I have seen has been, thus far, fairly low-key. I spend my weekdays at a Wall Street nonprofit, and I have the unique position of sharing space with the suits who have allegedly destroyed America while earning less than their counterparts are collecting on unemployment. The picket lines that I have seen (and they're not always there; sometimes the protesters take a break to eat the $2800 worth of pizza that was donated to them globally) have not booed me or waved their signs in my direction, but today I wore my silver Chucks instead of my red Guccis and that might be why. I find the protest intriguing and my interest is naturally piqued by the prospect of societal upheaval (and people wearing masks) but even when I have gone out searching for action, I've been unable to find much of anything.

Today at lunch I went on a hike toward Century 21, a gigantic downtown department store, and on the way I passed the little park where the protesters have camped out for the past three days. There was a gaggle of them there, holding the cardboard signs I'd seen on news blogs, standing solemn-faced and cross-armed while German tourists snapped their photos. There were TV cameras hoisted on shoulders and some disheveled looking hippies smoking cigarettes. One man was being arrested, his chest against the park sign with his hands behind his back. He was talking over his shoulder to the people behind him. Across the street stood two suits, both middle aged and irredeemably ugly, heckling him. "That's right asshole!" one gloated. "One down, how many more to go?" They high fived, emboldened by the traffic passing between them and their target audience, by the silver bracelets that held his wrists together. Then they presumably took a car service to a restaurant and ordered steak and potatoes garnished with the heads of Labrador puppies, but I can't say for certain because I kept walking.

Century 21, my intended destination, is a perpetual clusterfuck of consumption. It is mobbed by lunch-breaking Wall Streeters running errands, tourists in hot pursuit of a bargain, and almost as many red-aproned employees as the first two groups combined. It's the type of place that makes you exhale upon leaving, in a whoosh of air that starts at the feet and hisses out the face in a slow, full-body deflation, when you didn't even know you were holding your breath. I was in pursuit, if you'd care to know, of a new bra. Century 21 carries a lot of Calvin Klein at prices a person like me, whose net worth is only slightly beneath that of the lady who panhandles on Wall Street (and who I have seen talking on a cell phone), can appreciate. But in order to get into the main department store one must pass the Century 21 shoe store, and passing a shoe store is not something I can do without considerable pain and suffering. So I went in.

Inside were hordes of like-minded women, each wondering desperately which of her children she could sell to pay for the six boxes in her arms. I caught the end of one's conversation, "...But they don't have my size, thank God," she said, and I understood her relief. The walls were lined with specimens and I absorbed them all, caressed them with my fingertips and held them at arms' length, not because I don't need at least twenty new pairs of shoes, but because if I spend any more money on fall footwear before I start on a fall wardrobe, I will have to start going into work naked from the ankles up. So I simply wandered in a wide circle and dodged the masses of shoe-shocked women and contemplated the sick, sick collection of wedges I'm going to amass when I am rich and famous.

As I was passing the stairs, a woman entered the room pulling a large shopping cart and asked, seemingly at random, "Is this the women's shoe section?" The lady standing beside her, examining a pair of silver sandals, did not respond. This might have been because she was a foreign tourist who did not understand the question, or it might have been because the room was crowded and noisy and she did not know she'd been designated the resident expert. It might have even been because the store was lined with pumps and flats and boots covered in sparkles and bows and rhinestones and the question was so incredibly stupid that she'd been struck dumb. Whatever her reason, it pissed the inquirer off. She stomped down the aisle, dragging her cart, shaking her head and muttering, "Learn you some English, lady." And sadly, the irony was lost on both of them.

This is one of those descriptive bits I sometimes do that goes nowhere. I saw a couple assholes on my lunch break and now I've taken up your time to discuss them and ultimately none of this has any real meaning. I only get an hour for lunch and I spent the last half of my break searching downtown for a more dramatic enactment of the protests (I never found one) and picking up my black flats from the cobbler (shoes occupy 80% of my waking thoughts, legit. This is why I don't have time to read the papers). That was it. In the interest of closure I will say that when I walked down Wall Street at the end of the day, the whole street was silent and barricaded and lined with cops. The tourists leaned over the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for the something that was about to happen. A more intrepid reporter might have stuck around to witness the ensuing Occupaton but I wanted to get home before it rained. So I fear I'll have to leave that chapter open until I read the news tomorrow.

But I will disclose that I never bought a bra.