Neckties; Or, Adventures in Vasoconstriction, Part III

Although I learned during week one that they were not mandated by the company dress code, I continued wearing neckties to my new job until week three: mostly because, for yours truly, the image of me in a necktie was as novel a sight as a gorilla in a shopping mall reading Anna Karenina. The novelty has since lost its affect – like similes with gorillas or puns on the word “novel” – and with summer fast approaching (let’s hope Greenland doesn’t start thawing again), only the hipsterest hipster could bear wearing a sweat-slopped business-noose for the sake of ironic self-parody.

The lesser reason that I kept wearing ties was as a social experiment: do people treat necktie-wearers differently? I discovered that the courtesies and hostilities of everyday urban social interaction remain: what changes is who exchanges what.

For example, in my non-work attire, I accidentally happened upon Chevy's: a menswear shop on 86^th Street in Gravesend. The moment I entered, the owner, sitting behind the counter, asked, with a very subtle enmity:

“Can I help you?”

I responded “just browsing!” and began perusing his wares. Much of it was Italian-made, which meant, to my own paranoid, left-wing head, that I could buy something and not fear that it came from a sweatshop.

As I walked to the back of the store, the owner rose and began sneaking quick glances at me, strongly resembling nervous butler with a peasant in his midst. I felt self-conscious and unwelcome. When I approached a rack of neatly-hung jeans, the contempt he held for my class and kind became clear:

“Those jeans cost $135. Is that a problem?”

Such a question can only be asked to humiliate. “No,” I lied, “that’s not a problem,” but I nevertheless considered buying a pair just to best him. I smiled savagely and asked if he carried the jeans in a size 29.

“I don’t,” said the sallow, class-prejudiced, pathetic little fuck.

“That,” said I, Shakespearean, triumphant, “is a problem,” and I left, mouth puckered inward, teeth clenched tighter than a streetfighter’s fist.

Blatant classism is bad enough, but I was more disturbed by how my peers, or those whom I would regard as such, treated me when I wore a tie. In the subway, my fellow countercultural twentysomethings, with their piercings, thrift-store clothing and chunky headphones blasting almost loud enough to drown-out their student loan anxieties, no longer looked at me with an acknowledgement of <DROOG> in their eyes. No matter what your actual job entails (I would consider my line pro-social), no matter how much David Graber or Michel Foucault you’ve read, and no matter that you’ve listened to every song on Sandinista! at least twice, a necktie immediately makes you The Man.

The absolute worst, however, was the socially-engineered, resentful obsequiousness of the very poor; the exaggerated nicities that we assume we should bestow on those of high rank. Having that directed at me was the straw that broke this camel's heart.

Thus lay a mess of neckties on my dresser table, gathering the same dust that all things, splendid and decrepit, generally do.

Welfare, American Style

On my current budget, it would be impractical for me to buy many of the foods that I like to eat, such as fruits and vegetables. I consequently applied for Supplemental Nutritional Assistance, or “food stamps,” as the program once was called (and as everyone still calls it). If Ayn Rand believes that this makes me undeserving of love, so be it.

My nearest benefits center is in Coney Island. The area has a strange still to it this time of year, likely exacerbated by the lingering, spectral presence of Hurricane Sandy. Inside the building, the walls are painted off-white, with a mauve color rising like a cheerful water-stain about three feet off the floor. Triangles of this mauve paint have peeled, exposing the sad concrete walls underneath.

Those seeking benefits are an extraordinarily diverse lot. When glancing at their faces, I can’t help wondering about their respective countries of origin, and which regimes they survived.

She must have survived Mao. He somehow endured Stalin. That shawled woman with the waddling child might have fled Assad…

I have also noticed that a significant number of the workers at the benefits center appear incapable of smiling, empathizing or betraying any other sign of their presumed humanity. Those with Russian or Western-African accents are usually beneficent; it is, unfortunately, my fellow Americans who tend to treat people the worst. This rude, apathetic and, in some cases, abusive treatment is the inevitable result of my country’s individualistic, pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps mindset. Often, when someone in need of assistance points out some procedural injustice in their case, those in the position to help instead respond by repeating themselves, only louder and more slowly: e.g., “YOU NEED TO HAVE AN EMPLOYMENT VERIFICATION FORM.” Vitriol fills their eyes as they speak. You would think they were dealing with an infamous paedophile from a television news story.

Perhaps apathy and suspicion are meant to safeguard against benefits fraud, even if the grounds for these suspicions are largely stereotypical and not reflected in actual fact:

http://www.addictinginfo.org/2012/10/08/center-on-budget-and-policy-priorities-defends-government-assistance-programs-from-gop-scorn/

I requested a fair hearing trial after my initial application for food stamps… er, “Supplemental Nutritional Assistance” was rejected. However, the date on which this was scheduled clashed with a dentist appointment (Medicaid was surprisingly easier to attain: I first assumed that the price of the program would make acceptance a novelty, but then I realized that, as a publicly-funded health care program, it’s probably cheaper than private care…). I asked if I could reschedule the date of my hearing. I could not. What should I do?

“You’ll have to decide which is most important to you,” said the woman at the desk, with a strange smile ticking-up the corners of her mouth.

Rest Ushered

I began working as a theater usher recently. The job requires that I wear a black shirt, black shoes, black trousers and a black tie. I have long wanted to buy a black tie, but the risk of being mistaken for an Avril Lavigne fan was, prior to now, far too great.

On my first day of work, my co-workers were all either new and excited or seasoned and content: always encouraging. The enthusiastic, librarian-voiced veterans strongly suggested that I examine the seating lay-out of my assigned section before the patrons began flooding in. Unfortunately, the pre-show usher meeting ran long, and I did not have time to best determine how the seats were arranged.

The crowd entered in, hurriedly but dignified: the American noblesse and their radical opposites, theater critics with tall foreheads, various other associated individuals. A sagely, older usher noticed the look of apprehension on my face as I was at a loss to direct people to their proper places. She ran over to me and gave me a tip about the seating lay-out: "note the numbers in the corners," she advised. Seats on the left go above a certain number, and seats on the right go below that number. This tip proved extremely helpful. Essentially, she was that first-day-of-work savior who shows newcomers “the ropes," lest first-timers accidentally hang themselves, I guess.

Two of the people I seated were anarchists, judging by their all-black clothing, printed with left-wing slogans. One was wearing an anti-stop-and-frisk pin. I examined their tickets. “Just down and to the left,” said I, quite happy to seat activist-types.

“To the left! That’s our life,” quipped one in response, thereby winning my heart.

Another patron was quite unpleasant. After I rather clumsily directed one woman to her seat, correcting myself twice, this patron put her hand on my shoulder and said, with mock-sympathy: “you’re directionally-challenged, aren’t you.” I laughed it off. However, my corrected directions turned out to be faulty, and she returned to tell me so, sarcastically adding “but you’re doing a great job!”

“It’s my first day,” I apologized, and with eyes downcast, I tried to keep my convivial, customer service smile from becoming a “fuck you” smile. Well, I’m sorry to have offended your middle-class sensibilities, making you walk a little bit more than you’re comfortable with. Do you realize that you went out of your way to walk even more, just to tell me I was wrong? Of course you didn’t.

The performance started. In the unfortunate event of having to deal with this rude patron a second time, I spent the first half of the show thinking up a comeback:

• “Yeah? Directionally-challenged? What a great joke! I hear some people are empathetically-challenged; ever hear of such a thing?”

Alas, wit was risky, and should this haughty gorgon complain, dismissal was the likeliest outcome. Jewish roots intact, evoking guilt was certainly a possibility:

• “That’s really hurtful, but perhaps you’re having a bad day. Are you enjoying the show?”

Happily, that mock-empathetic response eventually began to make sense to me. Maybe she really was having a bad day. The bitter feelings began to dissipate.

During the intermission, a different audience member with kind eyes and an accent I couldn’t place (perhaps somewhere between Italy and Argentina?) told me that she was enjoying the show and asked if I was as well. We conversed for a bit. She reminded me that I was lucky to work at this theater and get paid to see critically-acclaimed, sold-out performances like this one. She was quite right. I spent intermission chatting with a few other pleasant patrons about the show, and eventually, I forgot about the snark attack altogether. When intermission ended and the stage darkened again, I returned to my position and let myself get pulled-in by the wonderful performance. Lucky I am indeed.